The Fame Game

“I have to talk to Marx,” I say. “I’ll call you back when he’s gone.”

“Call the agent instead. She can help you a lot more than I can.”

He’s right. I’m broke, jobless, and about to become homeless. Willow Duvall is my last hope.

Chapter Six

Willow

Screaming parents cram into the packed gymnasium. I’m the crazy aunt who cups her hands around her mouth, yelling like a madwoman as I cheer for my nephew. He plays youth basketball for his middle school team. After her divorce, my sister followed me out here.

When Savanna has to work, I take Ethan to his games. It’s the one non-negotiable in my life. Even if Brenton-Lake was on fire and we lost all of our clients, I would still sit in the stands at his game. Burke knows not to bother on game nights. I even turn off my cell phone so I can be one hundred percent present for Ethan.

As the buzzer sounds, a group of boys runs over to the bench. They high-five each other, which is so damn cute it brings a smile to my face. The coach bends down with a clipboard and marker in hand as the boys crowd around him.

Another buzzer blares through the gymnasium. Ethan takes a seat on the bench. The coach raises his hand, calling out to the next set of boys who take their places on the court. Ethan glances over his shoulder to look for me, and a smile stretches across his face. He always checks to make sure I’m still here. Poor kid is so used to everyone leaving him. But Aunt Willow will always be there.

I raise my hand and give him a thumbs up. His grin is so wide it reaches up to his deep brown irises. He has my mother’s eyes, one of the few traits he got from my family. With his cropped blond hair and olive skin, he looks like his father’s son. Even the crease in his left cheek is in the same place as his dad. The cheating asshole left my sister to deal with a child alone while pretending he was single. Some men are not father or husband material, and Greg is one of them.

After the game ends, Ethan stuffs his towel into his bag and slings it over his shoulder. He peeks up at me, and I pat the top of his sweaty head.

“Ready to go, Little Man?”

He beams with excitement. “Can we have ice cream when we get home?”

“You’re coming to my house until your mom gets off work.”

“You have ice cream, don’t you? Everyone has ice cream.”

I laugh at his comment. “You’re in luck, kid. I have a gallon of chocolate ice cream with your name on it.”

His eyes light up, and then he lets out a high-pitched squeal that hurts my ear.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, I park in the driveway of my best friend’s house. Harley moved to Philadelphia to marry her childhood friend, and she’s letting me live here until I find something better. Not like I can afford anything better in this city.

Ethan tumbles out of the car, slamming the door behind him as he dribbles a basketball on the pavement.

“Did you see me hit a jump shot, Aunt Willow?”

I lock the car and look for the house key in the darkness. “I saw every second of the game. You were amazing, buddy. Keep it up, and you’ll be as good as Steph Curry someday.”

“Willow,” a man says from a few feet behind me.

I jump, instinctively pushing Ethan behind me.

“Nico Chase,” Ethan mutters in disbelief.

My expression mirrors his as I look at the tall and gorgeous man standing a few feet in front of me. Nico Chase is at my house, of all places. What is he doing here?

“It’s Nico Chase!”

Ethan tugs on my shirt and repeats the same words as if I hadn’t heard him the first time.

I rub a hand down the back of his basketball jersey. “Yeah, I know.”

“This is so cool,” Ethan shouts.

Nico gives Ethan a quick nod. Then, he raises his hand to his face and scratches the corner of his jaw. Unlike the other day, he looks like a movie star with his black hair that’s gelled and styled to perfection. The gray fitted shirt that molds to his muscular arms and broad shoulders makes me drool. I like this shirt. It’s gives me a delightful view of his toned body. I’ve seen it dozens of times on my television, but nothing compares to seeing Nico in person.

“What are you doing here?”

He shoves his hands into his jean pockets and shrugs. “I was a jerk.”

“And you came over here to tell me that?”

“I want to work together.”

“Oh,” I say, somewhat surprised. “What’s with the change of heart?”

He was so rude the other day I considered him a lost cause.