Happily Letter After(14)

I started to slow down as I counted the addresses.

220.

218.





216.


Birdie’s house was only three more away.

When I came right upon hers, my heart started to beat so fast. I slowed my walking speed and tried to get a look inside the windows. But it was about ten steps up to the front door from the sidewalk, and I couldn’t really see much from down here. Disappointment came over me. A few steps after passing the staircase that led up to Birdie’s front door, I forced myself to stop staring like I’d been casing the place for a potential robbery. As I looked down, something shiny caught my eye out of my peripheral vision, sitting on the bottom step of the stairs.

Is that?

No . . . it couldn’t be.

I looked around—no one seemed to be paying any attention. So I backed up and bent down to take a closer look.

My eyes widened.

Oh my God.

A silver hair barrette was lying on the bottom step, the kind a little girl would wear to clip back her hair when her father sucked at making braids. And . . . it had a silver butterfly on it.

Butterflies.

Birdie.

There was no doubt that the two went together.

Without thinking, I picked it up.

Only . . . what the hell was I going to do with it once it was in my hand?

I supposed putting it somewhere safer would be the right thing to do. The pretty little clip could just blow away out here on the last step. Or, at the very least, someone could step on it and break it.

It didn’t look like anyone was home in the Maxwell house anyway. I could just leave it at her front door.

Yeah . . . that was a good idea.

The fact that I might get a better look inside the windows from up at the top of the stairs was just a coincidence. I was doing the right thing, after all, making sure Birdie’s little barrette didn’t get broken. She could be attached to this thing, for all I knew. Glancing around again, I noticed there was also a door underneath the main staircase, a few steps down from ground level. Maybe the Maxwells lived in the basement apartment? Though my gut didn’t think they did.

So I took a deep breath and started up the brownstone stairs. My knees wobbled a bit as I climbed to the top one. God, I really was nervous.

From the sidewalk, I hadn’t realized how tall the front doors were—the double set of ornate glass doors had to be at least ten feet, maybe more. Looking to my left, I could see right into the front window, which gave me a partial view of a big living room. A man’s suit jacket was lying over the top of a chair across from the sofa, and I wondered if it belonged to Sebastian. I stood there staring for a long moment, trying to pick up any small details I could see—the titles of the books on the bookshelf, the photos inside the frames on the mantel—until suddenly the curtain moved.

Someone was home!

I felt all the color drain from my face.

Oh my God.

I need to get the hell out of here!

Panicking now, I looked for a place to leave the hair clip. Finding nowhere suitable, I balanced it on the top of the doorknob, thinking someone would either see it or, if they didn’t, it would fall to the floor when the door opened and snag their attention.

Then I started to haul ass back down the stairs. My heart was pounding so fast, it felt like I was running from the scene of a crime instead of doing a good deed returning a little girl’s favorite hair clip.

I made it only a few steps when I heard a clanking sound from behind me—the sound of a lock opening. Freaking out, I kept going . . . until a deep voice stopped me in my tracks.

“Hey. You. What are you doing?”

Oh. My. God.

I closed my eyes. That voice. Of course, I’d only heard Sebastian Maxwell speak briefly at the carousel, yet I was 100 percent positive it was him. That deep, rich, sexy baritone rasp totally went with the rest of the package.

When I didn’t respond, he snapped again. The second time louder.

“I said, where are you running to?”

I took a deep breath, realizing I was going to have to face the consequences of my actions, and slowly turned around.

Jesus Christ. Sebastian was even better up close. It looked like he’d just gotten out of the shower. His hair was wet and slicked back, and he had on a simple white T-shirt and gray joggers. Standing so close, I became mesmerized by the color of his green eyes—they were so unusual, not hazel or the green color that most people have, which resembles jade or moss, but the bright color of a brilliant emerald, and the areas surrounding his pupils were filled with flecks of gold.

“You’re late,” he barked.

“Uh . . .”

“The bell isn’t working. I have to fix it this weekend. So you’re going to have to knock a little harder and be on time if you want this job. I have to leave for work in five minutes.”

“Job?”

“You are the dog trainer, aren’t you?”

His beautiful eyes were boring into me, and it made me more than a little nervous. In the moment, I felt like he could see straight through me and was going to think that I was some sort of a crazed stalker of his ten-year-old daughter. I mean, I was, of course, but there was no way I wanted him to think that. So I panicked.

“Umm. Yes. Sorry I’m late. Umm. Traffic.”

What the hell am I doing?

He motioned toward the house. “Well, hurry up. Let’s go. I don’t have all day. I’ll introduce you, and then you’re on your own. Have him back in an hour. The babysitter will be here by then, and she’ll take him when you return. Whatever commands need to be learned for homework, teach them to Magdalene. She’s here more than I am anyway.”