Single Dad Needs Nanny: Sheriff Needs a Nanny

How funny was that? A free spirit falling for a control freak. Not exactly a match made in heaven.

“You’re right,” she whispered. “Life will never be the same again.”

“Sit down,” Trace invited the next evening. He set his plate of spaghetti on the table and pulled out a chair. “You can tell me what you’ve been wanting to talk to me about.”

“Oh.” Suddenly nervous about her news, Nikki decided it might be better to catch him later, when he was fresher and not just home from a long day at work. “You’re tired. We can talk about it tomorrow.”

Her nerves must have shown, because he nailed her with a stare. “We’ve already put it off several times. You’ve mellowed me out with spaghetti and meatballs, one of my all-time favorites. The timing doesn’t get much better than this.”

Uh-oh. She was in real trouble if he started reading her mind.

Summoning a reassuring smile, she jumped into the deep end. “The day after the town meeting the community center received news that their pre-school teacher was quitting. Without notice. They asked me if I’d be interested in the job.”

He stabbed a meatball, delivered the bite to his mouth, and chewed, assessing her all the while. Finally he pointed his fork at her. “You have a job.”

“Yes, and I explained to them that Mickey would be my first priority. They have no problem with me bringing him to the classes.”

Sitting back, he crossed his arms over his wide chest. “One child’s not enough for you?”

Okay this was good. He was resistant but willing to talk. She’d expected less; she’d expected an outright decree to stay home with the baby. Not that he was a chauvinist, but he was a control freak. And a bit of a traditionalist. Funny, she actually liked that about him.

“I love Mickey. You know that. And this isn’t babysitting; that’s separate. These would be actual pre-kindergarten classes, two sessions a day, three days a week. Monday, Wednesday and Friday, nine to eleven and one to three, except there’s no afternoon session on Fridays.”

“So it’s only fifteen hours a week?”

“That’s not bad, right? I told them I was looking for something full-time.” He scowled at the reminder. “And they said that wasn’t a problem, they’d take me for as long as they could have me.”

“It sounds like you really want to do this.”

“I do.” A true grin surfaced. Maybe he wouldn’t object after all. “They were desperate, so I agreed to do a test session. I taught the afternoon class today. It reminded me how much I really love teaching.”

“You miss it a lot?” He dug into his spaghetti again.

The question made her stop and think. Wow, surprisingly, the answer was she hadn’t missed teaching as much as she’d thought she would. She’d enjoyed getting back in the classroom, but taking care of Mickey, sharing time with Trace, brought her a satisfaction that more than equaled what she got from teaching. Unsettled by the revelation, she refocused her attention.

“Yes,” she admitted. “These kids were younger than I’m used to, so that presented some challenges, but they’re so eager to learn. They absorb knowledge like little sponges.”

“So you had fun?” He took a sip of milk.

“I did. If you don’t mind, I’d like to take the job. Mickey would be with me most of the time, but now he’s started walking, if he gets antsy they said he could go over to the daily care center with other toddlers and play there. It’s just across the hall.”

“Okay.” He nodded. “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.