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10

LIAM

I’m on the phone with my mother, running late, and the kid refuses to keep his shoes tied. No sooner do I have them laced up than he pulls one end and they come apart. At least we made progress with pants and socks.

Did I spawn a nudist? I don’t want to know. However, I do want to ask my mother what she did when my brother or sister gave her trouble—she’s always quick to tell me that I was perfect, but this situation is not.

Yet I’m not ready to tell my family about the kid.

Mom muses, “I don’t know whether it was the Roberts or the Robertsons, but one of them hit our car with their golf cart after they left game night. No one will own up to it.”

“Are you asking for my services?” I say in an even tone.

My mother laughs. “No, you keep your gloves to yourself. It’s just now we have a rental. All they had available for the next few weeks was a Mini Cooper. Can you picture your father driving one of those?”

Ordinarily, my mom would have my full attention, but I’m tying the kid’s shoes again and looking for my trainers.

Until he showed up in the lobby, my life was orderly, straightforward, and crumb-free.

I make one more sweep of the closet—the kid rearranged it the other day while I was on the phone with my manager, trying to keep track of dates and responsibilities. When I came back, he had his hands and feet in my size fifteens, lumbering around like some kind of safari animal.

“Do you think you’ll be able to make it home for Dad’s birthday? Your brother and sister will be there.”

“Yeah. Uh, I think so. Let me check the calendar.”

“My big boy, always so busy.”

From the other room, comes a crash followed by a wail.

“Mom, I have to go. I’ll?—”

“Is everything all right? Is that someone crying?” Never misses a trick, that one. Not when Grannie Bell and Aunt Goldie were taking care of my siblings and me when they took their twentieth-anniversary cruise, and certainly not when we decided to trap Santa when we were even younger. In the first instance, we took the runabout boat onto the lake and accidentally ran aground. Mom knew something was up when everyone’s shoes were still soggy a week later. She also caught our fishing net snare on the top of the chimney before it caught fire. Must be where the kid gets his propensity to climb.

“Yes. No. It’s fine. I’ve got it.”

Do I though?

Just then, the app for the building dings, meaning there’s a guest downstairs waiting to be let up. I’m not expecting anyone and doubt it’s a fan—the doormen and welcome desk attendants are good at spotting them and turning them away.

“Mark your calendar for the birthday. Oh, and we’ll be at your next game in LA. Wouldn’t miss that. Hendrix said the locker room there smells like the water at an amusement park ride. Is that true?”

“Oddly specific, but I haven’t noticed.”

The kid’s cry continues and my phone beeps again, indicating the waiting visitor.

Needing to calm the chaos, I say, “Gotta go. We’ll talk soon.”

“Oh, all right. I’ll say goodbye. I miss you, son. I love you and your father does too.”

I don’t hear her hang up before I rush down the hall to find the kid half-buried in books and stacks of boxes askew next to the built-in shelves. Still haven’t unpacked.

“What were you doing? Never mind. Don’t answer that.” I move some of the books, making sure there aren’t any broken limbs or bruises.

The kid is still crying and my phone is still beeping. To make the noise pollution stop, I click to accept the visitor and then go to the kitchen and grab a cookie.

My mother sends them and I usually leave them for the crew at the Ice Palace. As tempting as my mother’s cookies are, I won’t keep in top form by indulging. My diet and fitness regimen are strict and right now, I should be at the gym.

“Are you all right?” I ask, holding the cookie up for the kid to take.

He slows to a sniffle.

“You can have this, but you can’t climb on the furniture or up the walls.”

Not that I have much in here, since I moved in December. Just then, someone knocks on the door.

Gritting my teeth, I say, “Don’t do that again. Do you understand?”

He hesitates and then takes the cookie while I risk leaving him alone long enough to see why someone is at my house this early.

Over my shoulder, I say, “Clean this up and then feed your crab. We have to go soon.” Or ten minutes ago. But if the crab starves to death, I’ll be hearing more crying. I’ll also be cleaning up the books later instead of taking an ice bath because the kid is not going to listen to me.

The reason that may be the case and how I’ve possibly overlooked it for nearly a month makes me cringe inside. I should make him a doctor’s appointment. I am so underequipped for this—I can’t even manage to get us out of the house on time.

When I get to the door, I spot my sneakers under the kid’s coat. He’s supposed to hang it up. My aggravation grows when a light knock comes again.

I tear it open and bellow, “What?”

A woman in a fitted dark green jacket over denim jeans stands outside the door. She wears ankle boots and dangly gold earrings. Her hair is freshly styled and her face is familiar. She greets me with a confident posture and a grin that’s full of playful flare.

Then I meet a pair of brown eyes splashed with amber. They sparkle and her smile deepens, revealing a dimple on her cheek. “Good morning. I’m Jessica Fuller, your new personal assistant, at your service.”

“What are you doing here, Witch?”

Her smile vanishes and the sparkle in her eyes dims. “What did you call me?”

“You’re the wedding witch from the bakery.”

She rocks back on her heels and lets out an exhale. “Oh, that was just Monday. No big deal. I’m back in the saddle, as they say.” Her voice is far too chipper for this early hour.

My eyes slide across her, but she doesn’t flinch.

“Let’s pretend the wedding dress thing didn’t happen. I was going to show up today dressed like a 1960s secretary. But the overall look was less Mad Men and more Old Mona—Grandma Dolly took a typist class in junior college. She still had her interview outfit. Oh, and Ella, Jack’s wife, has a maid uniform from her days working as a housekeeper at his resort that I could wear. Such a Cinderella story.” She sighs.

I hardly follow what she’s saying and am about to interject that she can leave now, but by some force of nature, she continues to speak.

“Back to Grandma Dolly’s wardrobe. She’s filled out a lot in recent years. The woman doesn’t throw anything away though. If I land a role, even a job as a 1970s disco queen, she’s got me covered.”

I envision a fitted gold jumpsuit and for some reason, seeing this woman in that is strangely intriguing.

I ask, “What are you doing here?”

She smiles with her full, peachy lips and then says, “As mentioned, I’m your new assistant.”

“No.” I slam the door.

I expect to hear her walking away. Instead, the loft is quiet. Too quiet. I tell myself the kid is just busy eating his cookie. He’s not tearing apart the furniture nor did he choke on an M&M. Wait. He’s not allergic, is he? I dash into the other room and find him holding the cookie and just staring at it.

Brushing my hand down my face, I say, “We’ve got to go.”

He doesn’t move. I need to sweat until the tightness in my chest and the rest of my muscles goes away, my thoughts still, and my life is like it was before.

Simple. Orderly. Focused.

With a grunt, I point at the kid and then the door. He slowly gets up and walks across the room toward the door. At least he hasn’t tried to make a break for it yet.

Oh good. Now I have a new thing to worry about.

The missing sneakers are on my feet and I open the door. Jessica Fuller, I think she said her name was, is still standing there.

“Excuse me, Mr. Ellis, I’m here from the Knights as your new assistant.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes. Are we playing some kind of repeating game? Is this like telephone—you know, like kids play in grade school?”

Before I can answer, she bounces on her toes and starts waving her arms wildly at the kid.

He brightens and then makes a motion with his hands.

Not this again.

I take the kid’s little, sticky hand in mine. “There will be none of that. Leave,” I order the witch bride.

She bounces along beside me as I take long strides down the hall. Probably too long for the kid because he stumbles.

“I’ll come with you. Just tell me what you need help with and I’ll do it. Within reason. Like, I won’t pluck your back hairs, not that I’m suggesting you have any. Nor will I lie, cheat, or steal.” She goes abruptly quiet, then says, “He can’t leave without shoes.”

“What do you mean?”

She points to the kid’s feet.

I tip my head toward the ceiling and let out what probably sounds like a growl.

His hand slides out of mine.

Her eyes widen.

I say, “Come on, let’s get your shoes.”

I expect defiance or at least noncompliance.

However, she makes a gesture with her hands. I watch carefully, cautious, perplexed. She repeats the motion with two fists facing down and then taps them side by side. To my surprise, the kid hurries down the hall.

We return the way we came and she follows, keeping close so that I can’t shut the door behind me quickly enough to keep her out.

Spinning in a slow circle, she exclaims, “Wow. What a lovely loft you have. So much open space and light ...” Then she whispers almost to herself, “And so little furniture. Oh, but?—”

The kid digs around in the rubble of my books for his shoes.

“What happened here?”

“A kid happened.”

She makes a sort of tickling, scratching motion at her sides while saying, “Was someone playing little monkey? That’s not safe.”

The corner of the kid’s lip twitches. He holds up the cookie, which was on the floor well beyond the five-second rule, and passes it to her.

Once more, while moving around her hands, she says, “Thank you for the cookie. Is this why you were climbing on the shelves?”

I respond, “No, I gave it to him so he would stop crying.”

Her brow furrows and in a low voice, sans hand motions, she says, “You can’t use food that way. It’s not healthy for a variety of reasons.”

I incline my head. “I’ll handle my household, thank you very much.”

“Speaking of, how can I help today?” she asks with that peachy smile.

“By leaving.”

Her face falls. “Cara said you need help.”

The kid toddles over and stands next to her as if confirming that fact.

“I don’t need help.”

“At least let me put your books on the shelves.”

She crouches down at the same time as I start to gather the books.

We bump into each other and my left hand grazes hers.

A whoosh rushes through me that I promptly dismiss … or try to, but it sizzles there, on my skin, like an ice burn.

“I said I can do this.”

“Okay, well, do you have any appointments you need to be made, um, errands run, emails answered? I can manage your schedule, set up meetings, answer calls, and of course any other household tasks. Do you have a dog to walk? Do you need an oil change? I do. Not me, I mean my car.”

I scowl as I shove The Art of War back on the shelf. I reread it every year. As captain, I should get each of the guys on the team a copy and require them to write an essay.

“The stoics. I wouldn’t have expected anything less. No self-help guidebooks. Ooh, The Bible. That’s my favorite one. Best read ever. Ten out of ten recommend.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” I mutter.

She makes a gesture at the kid who is now eating the cookie. I pray we don’t pay for that later with him barfing. The floor was clean until he came along.

The kid smiles slightly in response.

I ask, “What did you do?”

She winks at me.

That little motion of her brown eye lifts her dimple and sends another whoosh through me. I push the couch across the room so the kid can’t use it to climb again.

“Rearranging things? Sparse décor. I can help decorate.”

“I don’t have much.” I prefer to keep things minimal because stuff requires attention, cleaning, and maintenance. Just like people. Can’t let anything distract me from hockey.

“We have that in common,” she says under her breath.

“Recently moved in. Haven’t unpacked,” I say.

“I can help.” Man, is she persistent.

“I said I don’t want your help.”

She taps the air with her finger. “Technically, you said you don’t want help. Not my help specifically. Since we don’t know each other yet, you don’t know how very helpful I can be. I’m the most helpful helper that has ever helped.”

“So you’re a professional personal assistant?”

Pink dusts her round cheeks. “Um, no. Not exactly. But I did help run a six-figure home business, before taxes.”

“I don’t want to know what that means. You can leave now. Don’t come back.” The words are harsh but final.

She nods slowly and starts toward the door. The kid hurries after her, nearly tripping over his own feet.

My gaze follows her and despite the sway to her stride and unfailing smile, onboarding another person into my life is too much at the moment. Simple is better and leaves less room for mistakes to be made.

Pausing with her hand on the doorknob, she says, “If you change your mind, please let Cara know. I’m really good at cleaning, organizing, and a variety of other things, including but not limited to making sure your socks match.”

The woman exits. She’s one big bomb of happiness that I just can’t handle.

Her gaze drops to my ankles.

The space between my eyebrows pinches and I look down. Sure enough, one of my socks has stripes and the other is solid.