Page 3 of Blindside Sinner

Her eyes are pale blue. The microthreaded eyebrows and luxurious fake lashes match the clothes—i.e., expensive. I’m impressed that they’ve survived the woman’s fierce drinking pace.

Whoever she is, she looks put together and beautiful even while she’s ten drinks deep, whereas I look like a raccoon after half a beer. Life ain’t fair, indeed.

“Not only do I have to work with him, “ she adds, “I’m practically babysitting the S.O.B.”

I frown. “He’s an adult, right?”

“Exactly!” she crows. “A grown-ass man—a professional athlete, no less—who needs to be babysat because he can’t keep his shit off the front page ofTheSeattlegoddamnPost! It’s ridiculous. And he’s annoying. God, is he annoying. All he cares about is hockey.”

“He’s a hockey player. Got it.”

“He’sthehockey player.” She buries her face in her hands again. “I don’t want to have to be around him all the time.”

“So hire someone else to watch him.” When she stares blankly at me, I shrug. “If he’s as big an asshole as you say he is, he’s going to screw up again regardless of who’s keeping track of him. Why put yourself through the hassle of having it be you? Hire someone else to watch him and move on with your life. Pass the buck like a hot potato.”

She snorts. “Any chance you know someone masochistic enough to babysit a six-foot-three manchild?”

“How much are you paying?” I joke.

“Six figures.”

I swear I nearly swallow my tongue. The fork in my hand clatters to the counter. She’s joking. Right? No one makes six figures babysitting.

“Six figures to be a glorifiedbabysitter?”

Dreams of a salary that large flit through my head. I could pay off my debt to the Bloodhound and get current on all my bills. I could put money in savings again. Hell, I could go to art school if I wanted.

Six figures sure as hell sounds like a dream come true…

… which is exactly why I know it’ll never happen for me.

“Part babysitter, part assistant,” she explains. “It includes room and board in his house and any necessities required for the job, too.”

“Would your ideal babysitter have to be, uh… ‘nice’ to the hockey player?” I am using nice as a euphemism for sexual favors, but fortunately, she doesn’t make me elaborate.

She shakes her head. “The exact opposite. Contractually obligated to keep it in his or her pants.”

A job where I wouldn’t have to kiss a single square inch of ass cheek—wouldn’t that be the dream? “Sign me up.”

The drunk woman suddenly doesn’t look as trashed anymore. On the contrary, she’s staring at me, clear-eyed and skeptical, like she isn’t sure if I’m the answer to her prayers or another problem about to bite her in the rear.

“Are you actually offering?”

I shrug nonchalantly, although the voice in my head is blaring like an alarm saying,It’s a trap—it’s a trap—it’s a trap!“Why not?”

Another voice in my head wars with the first.Six figures—six figures—six figures.

“Do you have any experience?”

“I’m a server. I deal with entitled people all day.”

She snorts before she finishes the water. “Do you like hockey?”

“I’d rather watch paint dry.”

“So you aren’t a puck bunny?”

“Is that, like, a groupie or something?” I shudder. “Definitely not.”

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