Devin laughed. “She thinks Santa works like the Catholic Church. Go murder someone, and Saint Pete still opens the pearly gates. Cut off a girl’s hair and still get gifts from Santa!”
I had to wipe tears from my eyes. “Maybe I should write back and tell her to sing three ‘Jingle Bells’ and two ‘Silent Nights.’”
We both had a good laugh, then Devin sighed. “God, that Suzie is a real piece of work, saying that to Birdie. I bet her mom is a real bitch, too.”
“I know, right? What a little evil brat. I wish I were really Santa. I’d fill her stocking with coal this year and bring her nothing.”
“And poor Birdie’s dad. That guy can’t catch a break. Dead wife, no taste in footwear, burst pipe.” Devin’s eyes went wide, and she held up her finger. The only thing missing from the picture standing before me was the bubble over her head with a light bulb. “I have an idea!”
I chuckled. “You don’t say . . .”
“Let’s go to Central Park on Saturday and stake out the carousel for Birdie and her dad. You’ll get to see Birdie’s expression if she notices the black horse, and I’ll finally get to check out her dad. I just know he’s going to be hot.”
“We can’t do that!”
“Why not?”
“Because . . . it’s . . . I don’t know. Creepy.”
Devin leaned against my desk. “Ummm. Did you or did you not make me go with you to follow that guy Blake you went out with a few times home from work? The one who kept getting texts from someone named Lilly, and he told you it was his mother.”
“It wasn’t his mother! He was freaking married!”
“My point exactly. Sometimes being a creeper is necessary.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. Following a child just feels icky.”
“So pretend you aren’t following Birdie. You’re following her hot dad, like me!”
“I almost want to do it just to prove you wrong about her father.” I pictured a guy sort of like my dad looked at the time my mom died. Yet for some reason, Devin thought he was going to be a supermodel.
She knocked her knuckles on my desk. “Prove me wrong, then. I’ll be over at nine so we can get to the park by nine thirty. How long can dance class be? Forty-five minutes? An hour at most?”
“I don’t know . . .”
Devin walked to my door and stopped. “See you tomorrow morning. And if you don’t answer your door, I’m going all by myself.”
“I cannot believe we are doing this.”
Devin and I took the C train to Columbus Circle and stopped at Starbucks before walking over to the carousel. My partner in crime came dressed for surveillance, wearing head-to-toe black, dark sunglasses, and a wool cap . . . in July. We were lucky it was New York or she might look like the weirdo she is. I, on the other hand, had on jeans and an Aerosmith T-shirt. Because . . . you know . . . Steven Tyler and those lips. I didn’t even care he was probably pushing seventy. I’d still suck on those babies.
We took a seat on a bench located to the right of the carousel—not directly in front of it but where we could still see everyone who walked in and out. As we got into position, I started to feel really bad about what we were about to do—invade little Birdie’s privacy.
“Maybe we shouldn’t do this.”
Devin put her hand on my shoulder and applied pressure—just in case I tried to get up. “We’re doing this. Don’t even try to make a run for it.”
I slouched back onto the bench. “Fine.”
We sat for the better part of an hour, sipping coffee, gossiping about work, and looking around for a little girl and her dad. When I caught the time on my phone, I said, “It’s after eleven. I don’t think they’re coming.”
“Let’s give it until eleven thirty.”
I rolled my eyes. But screw it, we were in this far—I might as well go along with the rest of the ride. Otherwise, Devin would never let me hear the end of it. At eleven thirty on the dot, I stood. “Let’s go, Lacey.”
“Who?”
“Cagney & Lacey. It was a show my mom used to watch when I was little. It had two women detectives.”
“Well, which one was hotter? Maybe I don’t want to be Lacey.”
I laughed. “You can be whichever one you want to be.”
I turned to throw out my coffee cup in the basket next to the bench and was just about to start to leave when I spotted a little girl and a man who had just turned into the entrance of the park. They were pretty far off, but I thought it could be Birdie. “Oh my God. Sit! Sit! I think that’s them.”
The two of us planted our asses back on the bench at the same exact time. Devin leaned forward and squinted. “Are you sure?”
I grabbed her arm and pulled her to sit back. “Don’t be so obvious.”
We watched, while completely failing at looking casual, as the man and the little girl moved closer. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, and had on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. He was holding the hand of the little girl. And she had on . . . a bodysuit and tutu. It was definitely Birdie!
“Oh my God. It’s them!”
Neither of us said a word as the father and daughter approached the carousel. When they got close enough so I could finally see their faces, I gasped. “Oh my God. He’s . . .”
Devin grabbed my hand. “I call dibs. I want to have his babies.”
I couldn’t believe my eyes. While I was expecting a modern version of my dad twenty years ago, the man standing before me was anything but. For the record, my dad is awesome, and he’s not too shabby-looking. But this man . . . was . . . drop. Dead. Gorgeous. Wow. Just . . . yeah. Wow.
Sebastian Maxwell had dark hair, bone structure to die for, and full, beautiful lips. I’d joked how Devin thought the guy was a supermodel, but this man could actually be a supermodel. He had that longish, messy hair—the kind that he could drag a hand through, and it would look like he’d been both thoroughly fucked and just finished a photo shoot. Yeah, that was him. I was absolutely, positively speechless.
I’d been so preoccupied with ogling her father that I almost forgot the real reason I’d agreed to come—to see Birdie’s reaction when she found the black horse. It took almost all my willpower, but somehow I managed to refocus my attention on the sweet little girl. The two of them gave the ticket collector their tickets, and I watched as they walked through the gate and toward the carousel. They made it about a quarter of a way around when Birdie pointed to a white horse and smiled. Her father lifted her into the air, climbed up onto the carousel, and swung her over the horse to plant her into the saddle.
Shit. She hadn’t even passed the black horse to notice.
I felt deflated.
Though I got a boost to my morale . . . or something . . . when Birdie’s dad bent to buckle his daughter onto the ride.
What an ass. I was a little jealous of the denim that hugged the curve of that tight derriere.
Sebastian hopped onto the horse next to his daughter, and the two of them proceeded to laugh as they waited for the ride to begin. Birdie giggled at her dad pretending to fall off his horse, and she petted the mane of her own plastic ride.