Single Dad Needs Nanny: Sheriff Needs a Nanny

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 him keeping his hands to himself.

“Now, listen, mister, just because I have to lean over you to change your diapers does not mean you get to pull my hair.” She poked him in the belly. “You keep your hands to yourself, buster.”

Imagining his own hand fisted in her curls, holding her captive for his mouth, made Trace a little jealous of his kid. He didn’t blame Mickey for using any opportunity to get his hands on those soft and lustrous tresses.

“Hey,” Trace said, not wanting to startle her.

She turned to glance at him over her shoulder. For a moment her features lit up at the sight of him, and then she remembered her irritation and her expression closed up.

“Hello,” she responded softly.

Another good sign. A man knew where he stood with Nikki. When she had a mad on she was all cold tones and go-to-hell glances—after she’d told you what a dork you were being.

Donna had locked herself away and sulked, and half the time he hadn’t even known why. Was it any wonder he’d given up trying?

“Daddy, Daddy.” Mickey’s legs twisted and bucked as he tried to sit up, and Nikki fought to finish the changing job.

Trace moved closer, hoping the boy would settle down if he could see him.

“Hold still, you little octopus.” She deftly pushed little legs into tiny blue jeans and pulled them up over his butt. “There, all done.” She threw up her hands, as if finished tying off a steer.

Mickey rolled into a seated position and grinned at Trace. His little arms popped into the air—a bid for Trace to pick him up. Trace hesitated only a moment before lifting Mickey. The boy immediately wrapped little arms around Trace’s neck and laid his head on Trace’s shoulder. Trace patted his back.

“Is he sleepy?”

“No. He’s just happy to see you.”

“Oh. Good.” He jiggled the baby, as he’d seen her do. “I was wondering if you had plans tonight?”

She eyed him warily. “I can watch Mickey.”

“Actually, we’d like you to join us on an outing to the park.”

“You’re taking Mickey to the park?” A hopeful note mingled with surprise.

“Yeah.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “I have a picnic meal and everything.”

“Hmm.” She considered him, and then left the room. He followed her down the hall and to the dining room table, where she peeked into the picnic bag. “Sandwiches, apples and grapes, pasta salad.” She turned her head and swept him with a speculative glance. “A nice assortment of goodies, but you’re missing dessert.”

Moving to the counter next to the stove, she picked up a foil-covered platter. Bringing it to him, she lifted the corner to reveal chocolate-chip cookies. “Perhaps these will work?”

Her playfulness drew him forward. But he stopped short of reaching for her as he wanted to. Instead he bent to smell the cookies.

Looking up at her, he grinned. “Perfect.”

Nikki leaned back on her hands and sighed. It didn’t get much better than this: a mild summer evening, a soft place on the grass, and a view of father and son feeding ducks at the edge of the pond.

Trace handed Mickey some breadcrumbs and the boy threw them into the water, where five colorful ducks fought over the soggy meal. Mickey giggled and clapped and the whole process repeated.

She had their meal spread over the red gingham tablecloth Trace had included. They could have sat at a picnic table, but Trace wanted the full picnic experience. And Mickey had more freedom to move around on the ground.

“Dinner’s ready,” she called out.

Trace waved, and a moment later joined her on the makeshift blanket. “This looks great.”

“You put it together. I just laid it out.”

“Yeah, all my favorites.” He settled Mickey between them and put a bib on him.

“Let’s give him a few grapes to start out, and I’ll feed him after we’ve eaten.”

“Good idea.” He took a big bite of ham and turkey sandwich.

She went for the pasta salad and some apple slices and watched him eat. She owed him an apology, and it was going to take more than the chocolate-chip cookies to salvage her conscience.

She didn’t know where the conversation had gone so wrong the other night, but she knew it was her fault. Her bluntness landed her in awkward moments. When would she learn the virtue of tact?

Trace deserved his privacy, to grieve in his own way, to make peace with himself, or not, in his own time.

“I’m sorry.” The apology came out strong and crisp, the sincerity clearly evident.

But it didn’t come from her.

Trace met her gaze over the napkin he used to wipe his mouth. “You were trying to help and I jumped all over you. It was uncalled for, and I hope you can forgive me.”