Single Dad Needs Nanny: Sheriff Needs a Nanny

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 made a note to tell Nikki about the appointment.

Talk about fresh starts.

Trace was in serious trouble there. He didn’t know whether he’d made the best decision of his life or a very dangerous mistake. Nikki Rhodes threatened everything he stood for: order, discipline and consistency.

Why, oh, why did she have to be exactly what his son needed most right now?

Trace kicked back in his office chair and stared unseeing out at the reception/dispatch area of the small sheriff’s station. Instead of Lydia, his no-nonsense office manager, with a heart as soft as a marshmallow, he envisioned the soft golden beauty of his own personal Attila the Hun.

How had he lost control of his home so fast? His home? Hell, his life. Mornings would never be the same again. Though he admitted to a proud moment when Mickey had taken his first bite of peaches from the spoon. What a sense of accomplishment. They’d grinned at each other, as euphoric as if they’d scored a winning touchdown and then—he cringed to remember this—they’d both turned to Nikki, as if seeking approval of a job well done.

She’d lavished them with praise. Lord.

Where was his self-discipline? Where was his pride?

He’d totally lost control. To a five-foot-five bit of fluff in a tight skirt and ruffles.

Okay, she’d thrown him off with her ultimatum, demanding his participation in feeding Mickey; he just needed to regroup and replan, set a new schedule. He admitted he’d been hesitant about spending time with the boy. But this morning’s impromptu breakfast session proved he had nothing to fear. He could handle his son.

With a little tuition he’d become quite efficient. Then he’d send the distracting Ms. Rhodes on her way. They’d both be happier when she was teaching again.

For all her lack of structure, the woman had kept her promise to help. What had she said? “The benefit of open communication is you don’t have to do everything alone.” He had to admit he’d appreciated her assistance at breakfast. Sure he could handle it, but having someone there—it had been nice.

Another one of her precious gems of advice came to mind. “The good news is once you engage Mickey’s affections it’ll be almost impossible to lose it. Unconditional love is a powerful thing.”

It sounded good. Too good to be true for a man who didn’t know the first thing about love.

Nikki sat in one of her least-favorite places in the whole world: the doctor’s office. One of the unsung joys of being a military brat was the military health service. Every new visit to the doctor brought a new face, and a new person to poke and prod you.

After the breakfast session the other day, she hadn’t been surprised when Trace had insisted on a full checkup for Mickey. The idea that his son might have been suffering in any way drove Trace nuts.

She glanced at the little boy, quietly playing with blocks in his stroller. He was slight, but not noticeably undernourished. He might not have had a varied diet, but he’d had plenty. Still, the checkup couldn’t hurt, and if it put Trace’s mind at ease it might be worth this interminable torture.

“I’m only here for you.” She leaned over Mickey. “And let’s get one thing clear up front. I don’t do needles—uh-uh, nada, no way. If there are shots involved, your daddy is on his own. In fact—” she flipped a block with her finger “—this is the perfect opportunity for father and son to go it alone. Yep, the two of you can bond over tongue depressors.”

Mickey picked up the block to hand to her, but dropped it instead. He gave a small mew and shifted to look over the side of the stroller, then shifted his hopeful gaze to her. He looked so angelic, with his little bow mouth, baby-soft skin and windblown curls.

She handed him the fallen block and earned a smile. She sighed. “Okay, for you I can probably hang tough. But only if your dad asks for help. Otherwise I’m staying put.”

“Daddy.” He grinned.

“That’s right. You and your dad are a team.”

He went back to his blocks, and she returned to flipping leisurely through an entertainment magazine. She and three other women sat in navy short backed chairs. The walls and carpeting were beige on beige. An overflowing toy chest in the corner provided the only splash of brightness in the bland room.

The outside door opened and, like every other woman in the room with a sick child, looking for a distraction, Nikki glanced up. And, like every other woman in the room, her heart quickened at the sight of Trace. His broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped frame neatly filled the opening. His air of authority and control—elements he wore as easily as he did the crisp khaki uniform and gun belt—preceded him into the room. And shot up the temperature of every woman within viewing distance.

How unfair was it that the best-looking man in a fifty-mile radius had to be her boss? Not only did that put him both professionally and contractually off-limits, but the man was as disconnected from commitment as it was possible to be.

She sighed, and resigned herself to being his friend. At least he was finally here, and they could get this appointment over with.

The clock over the receptionist’s head read two-fifteen exactly. The perky blonde hopped to her feet, her bright smile aimed at Trace. “Sheriff Oliver? The doctor is ready to see Carmichael.”

Wasn’t that convenient? Nikki met Trace’s gaze and slowly stood. The flash of panic, so unlike him, revealed a vulnerability she couldn’t ignore. “Do you want me to go in with you?”

“Yes, please.” He took control of the stroller and followed the nurse to an examination room.

Trace quickly expressed his concerns to Dr. Wilcox, sparing himself not at all.

An older man, with a ring of graying hair and wire-rimmed glasses, the doctor listened intently, nodding occasionally.

“Well, let’s see what the real damage is.” Dr. Wilcox smiled at Mickey, who scowled back at the man. With good reason. The doctor asked Nikki to strip the baby, and the poking and prodding began.

For a usually docile child, Mickey certainly made his displeasure known, twisting and turning so Nikki almost lost her grip on the boy.

“Here, let me have him.” Trace stepped forward to trade places with her. He easily held the boy in place, but Mickey’s distress only increased. He lifted his little arms toward Trace. “Daddy.”

Trace’s jaw clenched, but he stayed tough.

Thankfully, the doctor soon ended the exam. “Okay, you can dress him.” He picked up his chart. “Do you know what inoculations he’s had?”

Nikki stepped forward to dress Mickey.

Trace reached in his pocket. ‘I went by my in-laws’ place this morning and found a few things. This is a list of the immunizations he’s had. I also called his pediatrician there, and asked for a copy of his file to be sent to you.”

“Thanks. That’ll be helpful.” Dr. Wilcox looked over his glasses to scan the list Trace handed him. “And this looks current.” He sat back and folded his arms over a barrel-size chest. “You can calm your concerns. Mickey is in good shape. The muscles in his legs are underdeveloped, which is consistent with your theory that he’s been held a lot, but his bones are strong and there are no signs of malnutrition.”

Nikki met Trace’s gaze, and in that moment felt a sense of connection in their relief and gratitude at the doctor’s news. Bouncing Mickey in her arms, she shot Trace a reassuring smile and let the tension drain away.

“Continue feeding him solids, and encourage him to use his muscles. I’ll do the blood work and read through his records when they come in, then I’ll give you a call. Basically, I don’t expect I’ll need to see him before his eighteen-month check-up.”

“Thanks, Dr. Wilcox, that’s good news.”

“He’s a precious gift, Sheriff,” the doctor said seriously. “Treasure him accordingly.”

Trace’s cool gaze ran over Mickey, once again strapped in his stroller. “Right.”

Nikki watched the exchange with little satisfaction. She’d so hoped something good would finally come from a visit to the doctor’s office.

After a week of make do trips to the corner mini-market, Nikki finally dragged Trace to the grocery store on Saturday afternoon.

Pushing Mickey in one of the store carts, Nikki rolled over the threshold, and they both sighed at the rush of cold air.

“That’s much better, isn’t it?” She tweaked the boy’s nose.

“Neeki.” He grinned and made a grab for her nose, missing by a good eight inches.

She leaned closer and wiggled her nose. “Not going to get me,” she challenged, and quickly pulled back when he tried again.

Mickey giggled, but next to her Trace frowned. “You’re taunting a one-year-old?”

She simply smiled. “Oh, we’ve played this game before. He’ll get me a couple of times before we’re through.”

Trace grunted. He looked at the aisles surrounding them, the people wandering nearby. “Let’s get this done. I suggest we split up and meet at the register in twenty minutes.”

Nikki sized him up. Cool and confident in jeans and a blue knit shirt, he clearly didn’t want to be here. But it was more than the chore that had him off-stride. The man defined the term loner. In the week she’d been at the house she hadn’t taken a single message for him. She knew he’d kept Mickey’s existence to himself. Other than the doctor’s appointment, this was his first public appearance with his son in the community.

Well, he needed to suck it up—because, in the way of small towns everywhere, everyone would soon know his business.

“You’re out of almost everything, so we won’t be out of here in twenty minutes. And you ducked out of breakfast yesterday, so you have Mickey-time to make up and this is the perfect opportunity. If we split up, he goes with you.”

Trace shrugged. “Fine.”

His easy compliance didn’t fool Nikki. He was never comfortable handling Mickey alone. No one would know it, watching the two together. Though always gentle, always patient, Trace’s need for control kept him from letting his feelings show, or he’d have already earned Mickey’s love.

“Okay, then. He’s going to want things he can’t have, and touch everything within reach, so be firm and keep to the middle of the aisle.”

“Really, Ms. Rhodes, I think I can handle a one-year-old in a store.”

She lifted a skeptical brow. “That’s what you said about feeding him the first time.”

He planted his hands on his hips and met her stare for stare. “My point exactly.”

Nikki cocked her head and considered him. Peach-stained T-shirt aside, she allowed that he’d persevered until Mickey ate the whole bowl. Since then he’d mastered the art of feeding the child without wearing half the food.

“You’re right.” But before Nikki stepped back and let him have the cart she needed to issue another warning. “There’s one more thing—”

“Ms. Rhodes.” He cut her off. “I can take it from here.”

“But you should know—”

“We’ll be fine.” He took the list she held in her hand and tore it in two. “Meet you at the registers in twenty minutes.”

Nikki shook her head and walked over to snag a new cart. Oh, well. She’d only meant to warn him that a man alone with a child in a grocery store was a total chick magnet. Actually, that was true anytime, anywhere, but in a grocery store it rose to the level of speed-dating. Or so a single dad had once told her.

But then maybe that was what Trace needed. To meet a few eligible ladies. He’d been a widower for nearly fourteen months. And he had Mickey to think about.

He was a smart man. He probably knew exactly what trolling the store with Mickey would bring.

The two of them deserved some happiness after the past year of hardship. She turned down the juice aisle. So why did the thought of another woman in their lives sting Nikki in the heart?

Five minutes later she saw Trace and Mickey start to roll past her row, but when Trace spied her he made a quick turn. He stopped next to her and without a word transferred the items in her cart to his, before stepping aside and waving her into the driver’s seat.

She moved into position in front of Mickey, and assessed Trace out of the corner of her eye.

He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at her. “That was just mean.”

“What?” She tried not to laugh at his disgruntled expression.

“Don’t play innocent. It doesn’t become you.”

She grinned. “I did try to warn you.”

“Yeah, well, next time I’m likely to be eaten alive by piranhas, make me listen.”

She rounded the corner into the meat section. He selected steaks, while she picked up some chicken and pork chops. Moving on to the dairy section, she dared to broach the topic of his love life.

“So you’re not interested in finding someone new to spend time with?”

He went still. “No.”

She waited for more, but it became clear nothing further would follow. She pushed. “It’s too soon? You must have really loved your wife.”

He avoided her gaze by reaching for a block of cheddar cheese. “What I felt for my wife doesn’t matter now. I need to focus on raising my son.”

“Of course. But you shouldn’t deny yourself a fulfilling relationship. A partner would be a benefit to Mickey, too.”

“And why is it you’re not married, Ms. Rhodes?” Those amazing green eyes swept the length of her and back up. Heat flooded her cheeks. Those eyes exerted the most astonishing effect on her. As if he saw clear to her soul.

“I’ve had offers.” But none worth giving up her freedom for.

“I’m sure you have,” he acknowledged. “Yet you remain single. It’s not a bad thing to know your own strengths and failings.”

“True.” And pretty deep. Had he gotten all that by looking into her eyes? Was her need for independence a strength or a failing?

Disconcerted, she turned down the next aisle and found herself facing an assortment of dog food.

Trace, following on her heels, asked, “Do we now have a pet I don’t know about?”

She cleared her throat and continued down the lane. “Don’t be silly.”

“I don’t know,” he mused with wry humor, “you’ve wrought such change in my household anything is possible. I can easily see you thinking Mickey needs a companion, followed by a trip to the pound.”

“I’d never do such a thing,” she denied, her chin in the air. “Not without discussing it with you first.”

He laughed outright. “Thanks for the concession.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who’d be walking the dog in the middle of the night.”

“I see how it is.”

She grinned. “We’ll just put the puppy discussion on hold for now.”

“Agreed. Mickey takes all my attention.”

“Hello! Hello, Sheriff Oliver. It’s Mavis Day, from the Historical Society.” A tiny woman with a helmet of blue-gray hair in a bright pink shirt rolled up beside them. A white miniature poodle rode in the child’s seat in a purple handbag.

“Of course. Mrs. Day,” Trace greeted the woman. “How are you?”

“Suffering from the heat, like most of the population. My Pebbles just can’t take these high temperatures. Just the thing to spend a bit of time in the cool of the grocery.”

“We take our relief where we find it,” he assured the woman with a polite smile. “No law against that.”

“No law!” Mavis twittered. “Aren’t you funny?”

“I make the occasional effort.” He turned to introduce Nikki but stopped, and she saw his hesitation. It shouldn’t, but that pause hurt.

Because he had his reasons, she smiled and prepared to move on. “Don’t worry about me, obviously Mrs. Day has something to talk to you about. I’ll be at the baby food.”

He frowned.

“Oh, no, dear, you don’t have to run off.” Mrs. Day waved a wrinkled hand adorned by a truly impressive diamond. “I just wanted to thank you, Sheriff Oliver, for suggesting the pot-luck dinner for the community meeting next Wednesday. Such a thoughtful way of getting people involved in community affairs. But I didn’t mean to disturb your time with your new lady-friend and her beautiful daughter.”

Oh, my, a double whammy. Nikki sneaked a peak at Trace, noted his narrowed eyes and the hard line of his mouth, but before he could correct the woman, Mrs. Day ran right on.

“I can’t wait to tell the ladies at the Historical Society. I will admit I enjoy sharing happy gossip.”

Trace turned sideways, so his profile faced the woman, before rolling his eyes. Nikki took that to mean Mrs. Day enjoyed sharing gossip of any kind. The accompanying impatience in his glance revealed his displeasure at being the topic of gossip at all.

“I’ll tell you straight, we in the society have been worried about you. Many of us are or have been widows, and we know how hard it is to move on, to rejoin the dating pool. But it’s been over a year—”

“Mrs. Day,” Trace cut in, his voice a strangled growl.

“It’s okay, Sheriff,” she prattled on, patting his hand where it rested on the handlebar of the shopping cart. “It’s important to accept that life goes on. There comes a time when you have to make a move, or miss your chance at future happiness.”

A tickle in Nikki’s gut forewarned her this conversation could not end well. Mrs. Day couldn’t know the good Sheriff as well as she thought to make that pronouncement.

Mrs. Day nodded sagely. “If I hadn’t grabbed him up, the Widow Thompson would have snagged my Mike. He’s a good man. He does like those smelly cigars, but he steps out to smoke them. Does his farting out there, too.” She turned to Nikki. “As you know, dear, a woman appreciates small considerations like that.”

Nikki met Trace’s stunned and appalled glance, and knew hers was equally bug-eyed. She bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud. The outrageous statement defied any other reaction.

“Mrs. Day, you have the wrong impression. This is my son, Carmichael, and his nanny, Nikki Rhodes.”

Nikki liked the sound of her name on his lips. He continued to be formal with her. Though she called him Trace, and had asked him to call her by her first name, it was always Ms. Rhodes. She suspected he used the formality to foster distance between them.

“Oh.” The woman blinked, and then smiled, waving her diamond again. “Your son. Of course. He’s a charmer already. These lovely curls fooled me for a moment. And don’t worry about the relationship thing. It’ll happen. I have a feeling about you two.”

This time Nikki didn’t dare look at Trace at all. He seemed speechless. To add to the ridiculousness of the moment the poodle now popped up from the purple purse and yipped. Twice.

Mickey jumped, giggled then clapped.

“Shh, Pebbles.” Mrs. Day quieted the dog as she glanced worriedly over her shoulder. “Mr. Wilson will hear you.” She sent Trace a brazen grin. “I won’t keep you any longer. I have to keep moving. Mr. Wilson and Pebbles have a love-hate relationship. She loves the cool air in here, and he hates the fact she’s a dog. Oh, there’s Millie. Did you hear her mother broke her leg? She was washing windows and fell off a stepladder. Her ma likes to have a cold cocktail on these hot afternoons. I hope she had more sense than to drink before climbing a ladder.”

Mrs. Day tucked Pebbles back into her purple habitat and maneuvered her cart around Nikki’s.

“I’ll just go offer my commiserations.”

“Take Pebbles home, Mrs. Day.” Trace issued the warning in his official voice. “I wouldn’t want to have to run you in because Pebbles and Mr. Wilson got into an altercation.”

The woman waved away his advice. “You are so funny.”

He watched Mrs. Day trot on to her next victim, then turned to Nikki with a lifted brow. “She thinks I’m joking.”

Nope, Mrs. Day didn’t know him well at all. Trace didn’t joke about the law or keeping order.

“Lighten up, Sheriff,” Nikki said. “You don’t always have to chase the rules.”

Chapter Six

TRACE tossed his keys on the counter and glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall: twelve-thirty in the morning. He headed straight through the house to Nikki’s rooms to collect Mickey.

The whole town was buzzing about his business. Asking after his son—or, worse, his daughter. Wanting to know about his nanny service. Offering to set him up with their daughter, sister, niece and, in one unforgettable case, an ex-wife.

He just wanted it to end. Had never wanted it to start. But that had been unrealistic, and the hurt expression on Nikki’s face when he’d failed to introduce her to Mrs. Day still haunted him.

He owed her an apology. It wasn’t her fault his privacy was being torn to shreds. She deserved better from him.

He knocked once, and then again. After a few minutes Nikki opened the door. Hair mussed, dressed in shorts and tank top, displaying lots of silky soft skin. There’d been a couple of nights when he’d had to pick Mickey up from here, but this was the latest he’d been. He’d obviously woken her.

“Hey,” she said around a yawn, and stepped back. “You’re late.”

“Yeah. Sorry to ruin your day off.”

“Couldn’t be helped,” she said easily. “Mickey was a big hit at my sister’s baby birthing class.”

He preferred not to imagine that scene. “I’ll bet.”

Backlit by the dim room, she looked sleepy, tousled and oh-so-soft. With a fierceness he’d never known, he longed to sweep her up, carry her to the couch and surround himself in her softness. He wanted nothing more than to purge the horrors of the night in the tenderness of her arms.

“Come in.” She stepped back, and he moved past her to get Mickey from the playpen beside the couch. After hours of working at an accident, the sweet scent of her skin nearly drove him to his knees.

“The doctor called today. I gave him your cell number.”

“Yeah, I talked to him.”

“What did he have to say?” She crossed her arms over her chest.

Trace shook his head. It was too dangerous for him to be here. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

He lifted the slight weight of his son into his arms. Mickey opened his eyes, focused on Trace, smiled and snuggled into his shoulder and went back to sleep.

The trust of the gesture weighed heavy on a night when he’d witnessed senseless death. How was he supposed to keep his child safe in a world out of control?