Single Dad Needs Nanny: Sheriff Needs a Nanny. Alison Roberts
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He gave a sharp nod, as if agreeing with the assessment.
She should stop, she knew it, but something drove her on. She wanted to know more about him, and these odd moments of exposure offered an opening she couldn’t resist.
“You want to know what I really see? From little things you’ve said, I get the feeling your marriage had begun to falter. But it kills you that you weren’t able to protect your wife, to somehow keep her safe from the perils of the world that stole her life. Having a child wasn’t your idea, and you don’t love Mickey, but he’s your son, so you’ll do right by him and protect him no matter what.”
“You can stop now.” With an explosion of muscle he pushed to his feet and began to pace. “How can you know all that?” he demanded, his tone cold enough to frost the July night. “Have you been snooping through my things?”
“No. Of course not.” Offended, and hurt by the accusation, she recoiled in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest. “You know I’d never invade your privacy in such a way.”
“What I know is you’re talking about things that are none of your business.” He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I never talk about my wife. How could you have heard anything to make your deductions?”
She rubbed her arms, unprepared for his fierceness. “You’re right. We should stop this.”
She glanced at Mickey, to see how he was reacting to the sudden tension. Thankfully he’d fallen asleep, his little head resting on his arm stretched out over the tray. “I should take Mickey in.”
“No.” Trace reclaimed his seat, scraped the chair closer and propped both elbows on the table. “Answer the question.”
This had gone too far. He was upset. She’d wanted to learn more about him, maybe rile him a little, but not to this extent. “Trace, I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want an apology. I want an answer.”
“I really think we should end this.”
“Nikki.”
“Okay. It’s not what you say, but what you don’t say. You never talk about your wife except in relation to Mickey. And then you don’t call her your wife; it’s always ‘Mickey’s mother’ or sometimes her name.”
“I’m a private man. I don’t talk about myself. That doesn’t mean anything.”
“No, but people who have lost a loved one generally do talk about them. It’s a way to keep them with us even though they’re gone. It’s okay, you know,” she said softly. “You don’t have to pretend to feelings you don’t have.”
He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Don’t tell me what to feel.”
“And don’t yell at me because you don’t like what you’re hearing. I’m right, aren’t I? Or close enough to count. Otherwise you’d be laughing off my comments as so much fluff.”
“I think it’s time you left.”
“You say you don’t do emotions. Wrong. You seethe with emotions. You just don’t want to deal with them, so you bury them deep down inside. You didn’t love your wife—big deal. It happens. You feel guilty for her death. Not your fault. Get over it.”
“Good night, Ms. Rhodes.”
Chin up, her heart heavy, she reached for the dishes to carry them inside. “I’ll come back for Mickey.”
“Leave the dishes. Leave him. Just go.”
Oh, she’d go. But not before putting in a fighting shot for Mickey.
“Emotions aren’t something you’re good at or not. It’s just what you feel. How you act on those feelings is what makes the difference. If you can’t find a way to open your heart to this sweet boy, he’s the one who will suffer.”
He made no response, but his eyes had changed from ice crystals to smoldering emerald heat. Good, let him brood.
Fighting off tears, she swept through the French doors to the kitchen, moving quickly toward the back door and the safety of her own rooms.
She stopped midflight, making a sudden decision to escape to the comfort of her sister’s company. Let him work for it if he needed her in the middle of the night. Still, she should tell him. She was, as it were, on the clock.
He stood exactly as she’d left him, his stare focused on the dirty dishes littering the table.
She remained on the threshold. “I’m going to spend the night at my sister’s. You can reach me there if you need me.”
He didn’t move, didn’t even look at her. “I won’t.”
Why did the words cut her to the core? “Of course not. You don’t need anyone.”
Turning on her heels, she left him to his lonely existence.
Chapter Nine
TRACE pulled the SUV into his driveway, then reached for the large bag stuffed with sub sandwiches, fruits and salads. He felt foolish, planning a surprise outing, but now he’d moved into the execution phase he settled into action mode. The agenda for the evening flashed through his head.
Pick up food: check.
Fill cooler with ice, sodas and juice: check.
Pack blanket to sit on: check.
Persuade Nikki to accompany him and
Mickey to the park: pending.
Apologize for being a jackass: two days overdue.
In those two days Nikki had barely spoken to him. She came after he fed Mickey in the morning, and left as soon as Trace got home in the evening.
He missed her.
Missed her cheerful morning chatter and her pretty smile as she wished him a good day. Missed her company at the dinner table where she kept Mickey occupied while Trace ate. Missed the way she listened to him talk about his day and how her eyes lit up when they laughed over the crazy things people did.
He hadn’t realized how easily she’d slipped past his guard until she wasn’t around anymore. He wanted his friend back.
He owed her the apology. Two of the things he admired most about her were her blunt honesty and her insightfulness. How irrational of him to get angry with her when she turned those qualities on him.
She’d been right, and her dead-on accuracy had put him on the defensive. He’d felt exposed, and raw with emotions he couldn’t identify. Guilt, fear, inadequacy, anger and more, until his pride had exploded, causing him to send her away.
Time helped him see the discussion more clearly, helped him see she’d been trying to help him.
Using his key, he let himself in the house. A quietness lay over the empty rooms, yet the place smelled great, of chocolate and vanilla, as if she’d baked. Anticipation built. If she were in the mood to bake, his chances had just gone up. He set the bag on the dining table and went in search of his fam—
He cut the renegade thought short. Nikki wasn’t family. Yeah, he wanted to kiss her again, touch her, hold her, make her his. But it wouldn’t happen, couldn’t happen. Mickey liked her, and Trace needed her for Mickey too much to risk messing it up by getting cozy with her. Pending apology case in point.
No, it was best they stay friends.
Now, if his libido got on board, he might just make that work. When he reached the hall, he heard murmurs coming from Mickey’s room.
He stepped to the doorway and looked in. Nikki stood over Mickey at the changing table. She’d obviously just changed him, and they were having a deep conversation about