“But I asked you, Rita,” I tell her with a smile. “And I’d be nothing without fans like you.” I wave my hand. “Get on over here.”
She snatches up her phone, comes out from around the desk, and holds it out, but can’t quite angle it right. I take it from her to get a better reach and put my arm around her shoulder. She’s practically vibrating with excitement as I snap the picture. “There you go.”
Beside me, Jeremy smiles and gives a nod, approving my behavior. I’m not putting on an act here. I love my fans and take all the time in the world for them. She shuffles back to her chair, and her face is glowing as she hands over a pen and clipboard.
“If you could just fill these out. Mr. Sanders will be with you in a moment. You can have a seat over there.”
As I walk toward the small waiting room, toys in one corner, muffled voices reach my ears. I drop down into a plastic chair, and spot a young boy staring at me. He’s tugging on his mother’s dress with one hand and pointing to me with another.
“That’s him, that’s Liam Dalton,” the boy says repeatedly. I’m not great with ages—heck I can never remember my nieces’ and nephews’ birthdays—but I’d say he’s around four or five.
Looking a little frazzled and rushed, his mother drops to her knees and says something to her son, something quiet and private—something that sounds like she doesn’t want to bother me, and that they’re in a big hurry—but her little boy is so excited, I don’t think he’s listening. My gaze drops to take in her perfect, heart-shaped backside as she aims it my way. I should look away. I want to look away. Damned if I can help myself, though. You didn’t miss the part where I said I was a man-whore, right?
I quickly pull myself together and cleanse my wayward thoughts. She’s here with her son for Christ’s sake, not to get ogled by me, and I shouldn’t be taking pleasure in the way her dress hugs her curves. I’m about to stand and ask if they’d like a picture, when the mom turns to me, a wobbly, apologetic smile on her face.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she says, and stands, sweeping her hand down a summery blue dress, the fabric splattered with big, white daisies. My gaze tracks the motion of her hands, going lower and lower until I reach long slender calves. Sexy and adorable. There’s a combination I don’t see every day. “My son Gavin would like to say hello, if that’s okay?”
“Of course, it’s okay,” I say and jump up, but my fast reaction seems to startle her. She stumbles back a bit, and my stomach clenches at her skittish reaction. Shit, I know I’m a big guy, and can be overbearing, but I didn’t mean to scare her. I slow my pace, and when I reach the child, I go down on one knee, facing her son at eye level.
“Do you watch hockey, Gavin?”
He nods emphatically and I smile at him. “I watch it with Holden. Mom doesn’t like it.”
His mom’s face is twisted, apologetic once again when I glance up. “That’s okay, not everyone likes hockey.” I resist the urge to ask him if Holden is his father. Then again, he would have called him Dad, right, and am I really thinking about hitting on this woman as she stands here with her child? Jesus, fuck, I am. Now that we’ve all established that I’m a grade-A asshole, I ask, “What’s your favorite team?”
“Seattle Shooters,” he says and makes a motion like he’s taking a shot.
I laugh at that. “Atta boy,” I say and ruffle his hair. “Who’s your favorite player?”
“Cole Cannon,” he answers without missing a beat.
His mother sucks in a tight breath. “Sorry,” she says, but I laugh it off.
“Don’t be sorry.” I glance up at her, take in her big blue eyes and the way she’s wrestling her hair back into a big clip. Dog hair clings to her dress, at least I think it’s dog hair, and with a face free of makeup, her blonde hair all over the place, nothing about the woman screams composed or poised, which somehow intrigues me all the more. Strange, I know. But Jesus, she’s absolutely gorgeous. I tear my gaze away, despite the fact that I’d like to take all the time in the world to admire her, figure out why she’s so agitated, and focus in on her son. “I wouldn’t want anything but honesty from you, Gavin.” I take my hat off and put it on his head. “A little big, but it’s yours if you’d like it.”
He takes it off, looks at the Shooters emblem, and turns to his mother. “Mommy, can I have it, please?”
“I don’t think we should take it,” she says, and I’m not sure what it is, but my stomach tightens again, that strange protective feeling I had earlier once again careening through my blood as I note the uncertainty in her eyes. “He’s not supposed to take things from strangers,” she clarifies.
“Oh, sorry. I never thought of that.” I smile at Gavin. “How about this.” I hold my hand out for a shake and he puts his small palm in mine. “I’m Liam Dalton, and you are…”
“Gavin Peterson.”
“Well, Gavin, now that we’re friends, would you like my hat?”
He nods and his mother lets loose a small laugh that curls around me. I lift my head to find her smiling. “Thanks,” she says. “I’m sure he’ll never take it off.”
Gavin puts his hat back on. “Are you here to get a big brother too?” he asks, and my heart squeezes a bit.
“No, but I’m here to be a big brother.”
Blue eyes go wide as he stares up at me. “Can you be my big brother?”
“Gavin,” his mom says quickly. “We can’t ask things
