Single Dad Needs Nanny: Sheriff Needs a Nanny

“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?