Page 23 of Hat Trick Holidate

I stand up. “I just moved here a couple of weeks ago, but maybe you can introduce me to her at a game.”

“Okay. Is Jolie here? My mom said she might come here to school.”

“She’s not here. Her dad is still deciding on schools.”

With that, a friend yells his name at the end of the court where I haveAround the Worldset up. And Cannon proves that he may be the best six-year-old basketball player in Atlanta. He dribbles like a miniature Steph Curry and shoots with every ounce of strength and finesse, sinking the ball into the basket.

When the after-school program comes to an end, a parent catches me asking if I could spend some one-on-one time with their son. The parents are executives at acable news company headquartered in Atlanta. She tells me that he’s withdrawn at home and sometimes refuses to eat.

I promise to make a connection with their son and hopefully have some answers for what they can do.

Unfortunately, while I was talking to her, Cannon was picked up, and I didn’t get to meet his mom.

Sucking in the crisp,cool air, I exhale slowly. It’s only a babysitting gig. Yeah, right. It’s a babysitting gig with the guy who ruined me for every other man who has come since. Which hasn’t been many, but every time I got to the point with a man to have sex, I knew before it began that it would be subpar to Bryce Wynward.

I walk into the high rise and give the doorman my name. “Emmaline Rustavelli.”

“Good. Good, Mr. Wynward is expecting you.” The potbellied man reminds me of Santa Claus without the beard. He waves his card in front of the elevator that says penthouse. When he gets in, he inserts a key, pushes the button, and says, “It will only stop at the penthouse. The doors open up into his house. Have a good time.” He winks and suddenly, I’m staring at the long hallway of Bryce Wynward’s house.

Do I walk down the hall? That seems creepy. I wouldn’t like someone walking in on me.

“Please, Jolie, eat. Your sitter is at the door.”

I follow the voice that lingers through the air. “Hello? I’m here. Not a stalker or…” That’s when I see him. Almost all of him. He’s wearing shorts, and the rest is all glistening skin. My breath catches. Lord.

“Hey, thanks for coming.”

Words aren’t formulating in my head. He’s freaking gorgeous. All I do is smile.

“What’s in the bag?” he asks.

“I brought ingredients to make cookies. Sorry, I was going to bake them before I came, but I didn’t have time. I had to buy bathroom fixtures, do some unpacking, and work.” I force myself to look in the bag so that I can catch my breath and stop rambling. “Hi, Jolie.”

His adorable daughter gives me a scant smile.

Bryce gestures with his hand for me to follow him into a grand living room fit for a king, not necessarily a child. It seems cold and impersonal. Men think all they need is stainless steel and glass.

“Jolie won’t eat, and I don’t know what to do.” He runs his fingers through his thick, blond hair, then he leans against the archway and whispers, “And she still hasn’t said a word to me. She screamed, cried, and threw a fit, but no actual words.”

His expression falls, and I’m seeing the soft side of star center. One who wants this little girl to love him.

“I’ll see what I can do. You better get dressed, or you’ll be late for your date,” I say with a hint of playfulness.

With an ever-so-slight uptick of his lips, he says, “It’s a charity event that one of my brand partners is putting on. I wouldn’t go, but it’s raising money for children with autism.”

Jesus, he’s the whole package. Sure, he’s a manwhore, but who the hell cares? Just give me more of it. No. Shakethat thought. You’re Emmaline, not Rusti. But damn, Rusti was fun that one weekend.

“That’s a good cause. Get ready, and I’ll see what Jolie wants to do.”

We step into the kitchen to find Jolie sitting at the table with white rice, a baked chicken breast, and steamed broccoli. No wonder she won’t eat. It’s flavorless. I turn my back to Jolie and ask Bryce, “Is it okay if I add a few ingredients to this meal and maybe she’ll eat it.”

“Her mom told me she loves baked chicken and broccoli.”

If I were a mom, I would have my kid creating food instead of being served. “Well, her mom lied,” I chuckle. “Very few kids eat broccoli at five years old. It’s a texture thing.”

He shrugs as he turns, leaving me alone with Jolie, but he calls over his shoulder, “Do whatever you want. It can’t hurt.”

“Jolie, I’m going to hang out with you tonight while your dad is working. Have you ever heard of re-imagining?”

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