Fix Her Up (Hot & Hammered #1)(45)

“Travis Ford?” The spell he’d effortlessly wrapped around her was broken when the father of the birthday boy shouldered past her with an outstretched hand, holding it out to Travis. “No one told me the local legend was invited.”

“I wasn’t,” Travis answered, shaking the man’s hand but still looking at Georgie. “My girlfriend here is the entertainment and I’ve never gotten a chance to watch her perform. Mind if I . . . ?”

“Of course.” The father swung open the gate. “Come on in. We’ll get you a beer.”

Travis sent her a wink. “Perfect. Thank you.”

Georgie watched with a mouth poised to catch flies as Travis waltzed into a children’s birthday party, parting the crowd of parents like a pop star through a packed arena. Just like when Travis walked through town, the reaction to his presence was mixed. Men either greeted him with man-crush vibes—overdoing the handshake and widening their stance, as if preparing to bro down over some baseball talk—or edged toward their wives and tried not to look insecure. A couple of the women pretended he didn’t exist, probably not wanting to give Travis the satisfaction of knowing he could sell a million copies of ESPN The Magazine’s Body Issue. And yet another contingency of women did their smiling, head-tilting best to dazzle him.

And then there was Georgie, standing in the middle of the yard with her trap wide open, watching Travis smoothly make himself at home. She was blown back to reality when a little girl tugged on her polyester sleeve. “Can we do the bubble party now?”

“Yes!”

A trio of kids behind her started cheering.

“Everyone get their best bubble-catching hands ready! I’ll just go fire up my nifty bubble factory . . .”

Five minutes later, Georgie was racing from one end of the backyard to the other, a bubble maker held high above her head and leaving a trail of translucent bubbles behind her. Ten five-year-olds laughed and followed along, although one of them dropped out to dance to the Kidz Bop song that blared from the radio. There was always one.

“Okay,” Georgie gasped, planting her hands on her knees. “Who wants to get their face painted? I can do dragons or ballet slippers—”

“My mom says it’ll leave a rash and I can’t do it!”

A little girl with curly red hair stuck out her lower lip. “I don’t want a rash.”

“Me either,” said a boy, edging away from the pack.

Well used to the domino effect, Georgie smiled and knelt, getting down on their level. “How about I test the paint on your hands, so you can see it won’t give you a rash.”

“Test it on my mom!”

“Don’t test it on my mom. My dad says she’s too sensitive!”

Georgie sent an amused look over at the observing parents, her breath catching when she noticed Travis watching her with an unreadable expression, arms crossed over his chest. “Um. How about I paint one of the adults’ whole face? Would that make you feel less scared?”

As she’d known they would be, all the children were in unanimous agreement. “Yeah!”

Before she could think better of it, Georgie waved at Travis. “Mr. Ford would love to be our volunteer. Everyone say hello to Mr. Ford.”

A chorus of greetings filled the backyard, mingling with Travis’s low chuckle.

He set down his beer and swaggered his way over to the grass. Earlier, Georgie had set up a face-painting station, complete with card table and stool. Travis eyed the child-sized stool now with a dubious look. “You don’t expect me to sit on that, do you?”

Georgie blinked. “But you must. It’s the face-painting stool.”

“Right.” He scratched his jaw and Georgie’s belly flipped at the rasping sound, knowing exactly how that stubble felt rubbing in the crook of her neck. Travis caught her eye as he sat, lips twisting as if he could read her thoughts. “You’ve got me where you want me.” How dare he make sitting on a kiddie stool look cool? “Do I get to pick my design?”

She gestured to the riveted group of children. “We should really let the birthday boy pick.”

Travis’s mouth twitched. “Sounds dangerous.”

Never in her life had she worked a party where the parents stopped talking and paid such close attention. You could hear a pin drop in the backyard. Inviting Travis up to have his face painted was a bad idea. Terrible. She could feel her every action being scrutinized. Why did Travis have to pick now to reveal his playful side?

Attempting to disguise her nerves, Georgie turned to the birthday boy. “Carter? What do you think? Should we give him a butterfly? Or maybe a Minion—”

“A dog!”

Travis sighed. “I’ve been typecast.”

Georgie bit back a laugh. “A dog it is.”

Trying her best to ignore Travis’s eyes, which seemed to be hooked on her every movement, Georgie dipped the paintbrush into the black paint, intending to start with his nose. The brush hovered for long seconds, refusing to move, despite what her brain commanded it to do. Probably because of his warm breath on her wrist. And the way his knee rested against hers, those big baseball player hands at the ready. As if they were going to pull her down on his lap if given the slightest encouragement. Or was she imagining that? It was totally possible Travis was suffering through this while she had a full hormonal breakdown.