Page 22 of Tell Me Lies

She tilts her head to the side, and her eyebrows slowly rise. “Logan Sterns, that was the worst dad joke I think I’ve ever heard,” she deadpans. “Also so, so overused.”

“Dad jokes are all I’ve got.” I shrug and relax, putting my arm on the back of the sleigh behind Amelia so my fingertips are behind Maci. I don’t miss the way she tenses when she realizes how close my hand is to her back.

“Well, maybe you should buy yourself a book of better ones,” she whispers, giving me a playful look.

“You know how Tom Cruise does his own stunts?” I ask her nonchalantly.

“Yes. Why?”

“I come up with my own jokes.” I wink. “Because I’m a dad. And it’s what I do.”

She fights a laugh and instead calls me a, “Loser,” under her breath just before it’s time for us to get off the ride.

Our sleigh has barely stopped, and Amelia is already cheering and talking about the reindeer, unable to contain her excitement.

“Look at that one, Daddy! He’s hairy!” Amelia squeals as the deer eats the grain from her tiny palm. She scrunches her face up. “Buddy, that tickles!”

“I can’t wait for her to wash her hands,” Logan utters, giving the deer a questionable look as its slimy tongue laps Amelia’s hand. “Gross. I mean, is this sanitary?”

“Oh, would you cut it out?” I sass, taking the cup and holding it out for another deer that walks up. “Your hockey gear probably has more germs than these guys.”

“Maybe, but I wash my shit. And I wash my ass and my balls too,” he grumbles. “This dude washes nothing.” He tips his head forward at the deer. “I don’t think he’s brushed his teeth before either.”

“He’s a reindeer, Daddy!” Amelia gives him a dirty look. “Of course, Santa brushes his teeth.”

“I don’t think he does a good job then,” he says, and when she gives him another look, he holds his hands up. “I meant … his smile is beautiful. And he is … a very attractive deer. Best-looking one I’ve ever seen, hands down.”

“Yes, he is,” she says proudly, scratching the deer’s head.

I shake my head at him and laugh before I scoop Amelia up and put her on my side. “What do you say, girlfriend? Let’s go wash our hands before your dad has heart failure, and then we can find the next thing.”

“Yes, on the handwashing. And time for a shitty cookie,” Logan says, patting his stomach. “I love me some shitty cookies.”

“Two quarters in my jar!” Amelia points at him, holding up two little fingers. “You said this many bad words.”

When he looks at me to defend him, I raise a brow. “You heard the girl. Two quarters to pay up for your potty mouth.”

“I feel extremely ganged up on today.”

He mopes before heading toward the sink, and Amelia and I follow close behind, both giggling.

I set her down and wash my hands as Logan washes his own before helping her with hers. Though, like always, she says she can do it all by herself. I don’t know much about kids, but for Logan’s sake, hopefully, that’s a three-year-old phase that doesn’t last long. Right now, she isveryindependent.

I lift her up again, and she rests one hand on my shoulder, the other on my collarbone. It’s only been a few weeks, but I’m attached to this kid. There’s just something about her I can’t put my finger on. And I’ll admit, it’s been strangely comforting, hanging out with her dad too.

The past few days, I’ve even managed to write five thousand words. Compared to my old writing goals, that’s nothing. I know I could have written more, but I forced myself to go to sleep so that I’d be rested for Amelia in the morning.

I’ve found inspiration in an unlikely place. I haven’t told Holly yet that I’ve been writing because I’m afraid the streak won’t last. But if it does, I really could release a book by spring.

Ahockeybook.

And I could do it while continuing to nanny for Logan Sterns because I can’t see myself leaving these guys in a month. So, if I can balance both, at least for a while, I want to do that.

Eventually, Logan will find someone he wants to be with romantically. And who knows? Maybe that person will take over caring for Amelia. But for now, he needs me. So, I plan to tell him on this trip that I’m not going anywhere. Not yet anyway.

He looks at the map, leading us to the bakery with the cookies. They might not be the best gingerbread cookies, but Iknow Amelia is going to love decorating her own—something I recall doing as a kid.

“Here we are,” he says, stopping in front of the small building. “The home of the shitty cookies.” He keeps his voice low enough for his daughter not to hear—I’m sure out of fear he’ll have to put more money in her jar.

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