Single Dad Needs Nanny: Sheriff Needs a Nanny. Alison Roberts
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“As long as Mickey’s taken care of, I’m fine with it.”
Hot after a trip into town running errands, Nikki let herself into the house. Her little refrigerator didn’t have a freezer, so she’d stashed some ice cream bars in Trace’s.
“Knock, knock,” she called, to announce her presence.
No answer. And a pungent smell hung in the air.
She knew they were home; she’d seen his SUV in the drive. On a whim, she grabbed a second bar and went in search of her guys.
She stopped, her heart flinching at the errant thought. Her guys. For now, but not for the long haul. The end of her two months was approaching. Trace no longer avoided his son. She really needed to give thought to saving herself from deeper heartache.
Maybe she’d be better off starting to distance herself from them. It was her day off; she had no real reason to see them.
The infectious sound of Mickey’s giggle floated down the hall, stealing her willpower. She followed the sound to his room.
She stepped through the door to his room to find Mickey standing in his crib, throwing toys on the floor.
“If you keep tossing those out, you’re not going to have anything to play with,” Trace said over his shoulder, his attention on what he was doing. “I’m not coming over there again.”
And, oh my, what Trace was doing. Here was the explanation for the smell. Paint. Light blue and bold primary colors, all on the wall facing the crib.
Trace was painting Mickey’s room.
The blue was a background for a wall-filling mural of Mickey Mouse and friends. Mickey stood, arms crossed, cocky in a leather jacket, scarf and flying goggles, while his Disney buddies formed a posse behind him, each character wielding sports gear. Donald Duck cocked a bat over his shoulder, Goofy twirled a basketball on one finger, while Minnie simpered over a tennis racket.
“Oh, my God,” Nikki breathed, awed by the authentic quality of the drawing. Even half-finished, the colors popped and the characters brought life to the formerly dull room. “This is fabulous.”
Trace turned at the sound of her voice. “Hey,” he said, his vivid green eyes rolling over her from toenails to hair band, reminding her she’d been in his arms only days before. Then he blinked and stepped back to survey his work. “It’s not turning out too bad.”
“Not too bad? It wonderful. Did you draw this free-hand? Since this morning?”
“Yeah, I doodle a lot. It passed the time on stakeouts and such over the years.”
“This is more than doodling.” She walked closer, studying the details. “This is art. You’re very talented.”
“I’ve never done anything this big before. So, you like it?”
“I love it. Mickey is going to love it.” She handed him the second ice cream cone. “What made you choose Disney?”
Paint-stained fingers tore the paper off the treat. He nodded toward Mickey, who stood in his crib looking down at his toys. “I thought of sports themes, but I didn’t want to pigeonhole him so young. This seemed like a good choice.”
“It’s perfect.” She tossed her ice cream stick in the trash. “I’d love to see your sketches sometime.”
He threw back his head and laughed. He looked relaxed and happy. Not a look he wore very often. “You did not just say that.”
Replaying her words, she flushed, but couldn’t regret her come-hither comment. It was the truth—in fact and in suggestive inplication. Even if she did need to keep her hands to herself.
“Probably against the rules, huh?”
“Big-time.”
“But I really want to see them.”
“Maybe some other time.” He tossed his own ice cream stick. “I need to finish this.”
“I guess you do.” She watched as he went back to brushing color on the wall. Who knew he had this creative side? Proof of a sensitive side she’d long guessed he kept well hidden.
“Whew. The paint fumes are pretty strong in here. Is it safe for Mickey?”
“Yeah. I got the kind that’s safe for kids and pregnant women.”
“Good.” She should have known. He was always careful with the details. She bent to pick up the dropped toys and return them to the crib. “Here you go, baby. Can I help?” she asked Trace.
“It’s your day off. You should be out having fun.”
“That’s later—a barbecue at Amanda’s. I can give you an hour.”
“I won’t turn it down. Can you wield a hammer?”
“With the best of them. My dad was a do-it-yourselfer and I liked to help.”
“Great. There’s a shelf and a mobile that need to go up.”
“I’m your woman.”
He sent her an ach glance out of vivid green eyes, but only nodded to the boxes piled on the dressing table. “Thanks.”
“It’ll be fun.” She gathered hammer and nails from the garage and got to work. The mobile went up first, with Mickey watching every move she made.
“Looks good,” Trace said. “Your dad taught you well.”
“He did. I was a real daddy’s girl.”
“From what you’ve told me your family was close?”
“Yeah.” She carefully marked her level points. “When you move around a lot you have to count on each other. Dad always found time to spend with us, or allowed us to be with him. He was great.”
“You said your mom controlled the family. You two probably crossed swords a lot.”
“Not when I was younger and we were traveling around. She was strict, yeah. We weren’t allowed to join team sports or spend the night at friends’ houses. Amanda and I learned to rely on each other and we grew very close. Mom—” Nikki swallowed around a sudden lump in her throat. She started over. “I realize now she was trying to protect us from being hurt, from making friends and having to leave them behind.”
“Good intentions can sometimes have disastrous results,” he sympathized.
“She did mean well.” Anger, loss, and guilt had Nikki spinning to confront him, her defense of her mom quick and sharp. “Don’t make assumptions about something you know nothing about.”
He slowly turned, until Mickey’s mouse ears framed his head, but it was the compassion in his eyes that she reacted to.
“She was a wonderful mom. Just because your mother abandoned you, don’t be making judgments on mine. She did what she did because she loved us!”
“Nikki.” He set the paint pallet aside to come to her. He cupped the side of her face, gently running his thumb over her cheek, wiping away a tear. “I’m sorry. Of course she loved you.”
His understanding only made her feel worse, because she’d believed the same for the last years of her mom’s life.
“No, I’m sorry—so sorry. I should never have said that about your mother. We did fight,” she admitted around a strangled breath. “My mother and me. Once I turned eighteen and got to college I found a freedom I’d never known, and suddenly I blamed her for every restriction she ever enforced throughout my childhood.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s a normal rite of childhood to rebel at some point.”
“But I understand now. I just needed more time with her. But she died instead.”
“You said it yourself,