“Thank you, Asher. You don’t know how much I appreciate this. I’ll call Lyndsey now and give her your information so she knows you’re coming. Oh, and you’ll have to run to my place and get her extra car seat. There is a key hidden in my plant outside the door.”
“Key. Car seat. Kid. Got it.”
“You sure you can handle this?” she asks, still sounding unsure.
“Babe, I’m a cop. I’ve handled worse situations than this.”
She chuckles. “You’re right. You’ll be fine. I’m just being a crazy mom right now.”
“Okay, crazy mom. Go do what you need to do. We’ll see you when you get home.”
“Thanks again, Asher.”
Half an hour later, I arrive at the daycare to pick her up. “Asher!” Lyla squeals as she runs up to me.
I gather her in my arms and hoist her up. Her tiny arms circle my neck, giving me a tight hug. “What’s up, kid? You have a good day?”
“I had a great day. Where’s Mommy?”
“She had to work a little late tonight so I thought we could go for some ice cream. What do you say?”
“I say yes!”
Lyndsey instructs me on how to sign her out while Lyla gathers her lunch box and small backpack. As we head outside, she squeals again with excitement. “I get to ride in your police car?”
Opening the back passenger side door, I bow, extending my hand.
“Your chariot awaits, madam.”
Lyla giggles as she climbs into her seat, strapping herself in. I make sure the belt is secure then close the door. Being that I’m a lieutenant, my car doesn’t have the normal metal barricade so I’m able to have an unobstructed view of my tiny passenger.
Her face is lit with excitement as she gazes out the window. We arrive at Rollin’ Sweets and I help her out of the car, holding her hand as we make our way inside.
“What kind of ice cream do you want?”
“Can I have chocolate with sprinkles?” she asks hopefully.
I chuckle. “Of course you can. You want it in a cup or a cone?”
“Cup.”
I place our orders, then once we get our ice cream we find an empty table near the front so we can look out the window.
Her pretty green eyes, eyes like her mother’s, are dancing with delight as she shoves the chocolate covered spoon in her mouth. Then she kicks her feet under the table as she dives in for another bite.
“Good?” I ask, chuckling.
She nods with enthusiasm.
After a few more bites, she looks at me curiously. “Why do you have all of those drawings on you?”
“They’re called tattoos.”
“They’re very pretty.”
That’s not something I hear every day.
“Thanks, kid.”
