Single Dad Needs Nanny: Sheriff Needs a Nanny. Alison Roberts
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white blouse and slid back in her chair. “Just remember they sense fear.”
Trace grunted a nonverbal reply. Getting a good dollop on the end of the spoon, he presented the bite to Mickey once again. The boy wanted no part of it. He turned his head to the left, and when his father followed with the spoon he whipped his head to the right.
“Ack!” With a squawk of frustration, Mickey pushed Trace’s hand away. A splatter of peaches flew through the air to land smack in the middle of Trace’s chest. He glumly surveyed his formerly crisp white T-shirt.
“Good thing you took off your uniform shirt,” she pointed out, hoping to direct him to the positive view. She got a grunt for her efforts.
His focus on the boy, Trace persevered, and finally got a good portion of the peaches into Mickey’s mouth.
A tiny red tongue immediately pushed the food back out, then the baby blew a raspberry, spraying Trace with bright orange polka dots.
Nikki bit back a grin as father and son faced off, with identical frowns of stubborn resolve.
“You’re the bigger man here,” she reminded Trace, then giggled when they both turned those frowns her way. “You’re not going to give up, are you?” she challenged.
“No.” He narrowed his eyes at her, but she saw reluctant humor in the green depths before he turned his attention back to Mickey. “Okay, kid, no more spitting. Peaches are good, so open wide.”
Before digging in for another bite, Trace licked a smear of peaches from where it had landed on his right thumb.
Mickey’s eyes brightened, then he mimicked his father by licking his fist where he’d wiped the fruit from his mouth.
“Mmm, mmm.” Nikki hummed yummy sounds and smiled encouragingly.
“Mmm,” the boy repeated, and swiped his tongue over his hand again.
“Look.” She grabbed Trace’s arm and shook it in excitement. “Mickey’s copying you. He likes it. Give him another bite.”
Trace glanced up from where her hand rested on his arm. The heated stare he turned on her made her catch her breath. “No touching.”
She snatched her hand away. “Seriously? You’re in the middle of feeding your son!”
His gaze rolled over her, sensual as a caress, and so intense her skin tingled as if from actual contact.
He turned back to Mickey, feeding him another bite of fruit. “So? You’ve heard the statistics. The average man thinks about sex every so many seconds. If we aren’t actually having sex, we’re thinking about it.”
Stunned nearly speechless, she leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “You dawg. And yet I’m the one who has to follow all the rules?”
The corner of his mouth twitched, but he came at her from a completely different direction.
“And, Ms. Rhodes? His name is Carmichael.” He turned a reproachful stare on her, and she knew she’d slipped up more than once.
She grimaced. “I’m sorry.”
She bit her lip, then decided to come clean. Truthfully, deception never came easily to her. Too often her mouth worked before her brain, and honesty just made life simpler.
“I just can’t call him Carmichael. I promise it’s not meant to be disrespectful, or a control issue. Sure, Carmichael is a fine, distinguished name. But to me it’s also cold and hard. And with all the changes in his life Mickey needs warmth and love and acceptance more than anything else. I’d constantly feel like I was scolding him.”
Nikki got a first-hand lesson in Trace’s interrogation technique as he sat back and ran a laser-sharp gaze over her. His intense regard seemed to see straight to her soul. He assessed, categorized and made conclusions—all without saying a word. Or changing expression. She was ready to spill her deepest, darkest secrets, and she had no idea what he was thinking at all.
He finally broke the connection to focus on mopping up his son’s face.
Free to breathe again, she anxiously waited for his response. She hoped they could settle the issue amicably between them, because she really couldn’t promise to call the baby Carmichael. In all honesty it probably wasn’t harmful to the boy at this stage, but he’d responded to Mickey when he hadn’t to the more formal name. That spoke volumes to her.
“Leslie Trace.”
“What?” Nikki stared at her employer’s stoic profile. Of everything he could have said, that made no sense to her. And when he turned to face her and flashed that dimple-popping grin she completely forgot what they were talking about.
“The name my mom used when I was in trouble.” Humor and understanding had replaced the censure. Evidently she’d hit the right mark, tapping into the universal connection of childhood memories.
“Leslie, huh? That had to hurt.”
The humor disappeared. “Throw in extra for being a military brat. When my mom had gone, I told my dad I wanted to be Trace. He had no problem with that.”
“Rough. How old were you when your mom died?”
“I didn’t say she died. But she might as well have. I was ten when she left my dad and me.”
“Extra rough. You and your dad must be close?”
“He died before I married Donna. But we weren’t really close. Dad wasn’t what you’d call demonstrative.”
“That must be where you got it.” As soon as the words escaped her mouth she knew she’d blown the moment.
Raw emotion flashed in his eyes before he shut down all signs of feeling. He rose to his feet and pushed in his chair in two short, controlled motions.
“Yeah, that’s where I get it from.” He glanced at Mickey before turning away. “I need to change.”
“Trace.” She jumped to her feet, but he was already gone. Slowly sinking into the seat, she met Mickey’s confused frown. “Yeah, I know. I blew it.”
Chapter Five
TRACE stared at the report on his desk as he waited on hold for the receptionist to make his appointment with the pediatrician. Finding out he didn’t know the slightest thing about his son’s health had struck Trace hard this morning. He’d depended on Fran to take care of Mickey and actually felt righteous about the decision. Fran and Owen had just lost their only daughter; they needed something—someone—to fill the void in their hearts and lives. Who better than their infant grandson?
How easy to convince himself the couple had been better suited to handle the newborn than an overworked homicide cop, with uncertain hours and no experience with living, breathing kids.
Sure, he’d made the effort to visit and provided monetary support. And, yeah, he’d made the move to Paradise Pines with the intent to take custody. But what it all boiled down to was he’d abandoned his son to a woman sick at heart over the loss of her own child.
He had no doubt Mickey had been loved and coddled. To within an inch of his life.
In retrospect he saw it so clearly. Fran had always had the baby in her arms or seated right next to her. Always insisted on feeding Mickey his bottle because it disturbed him to have anyone else do it.
She’d smothered his son with love to the point she’d stunted his development.
The return of the receptionist pulled his distracted attention from the report and his sorry history as a father. He quickly confirmed the appointment for Thursday at two and disconnected. Right. A microcosm of tension eased from the weight on his shoulders. He couldn’t undo the past, but he could make sure they started out fresh, started out right.
He