Single Dad Needs Nanny: Sheriff Needs a Nanny. Alison Roberts

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      She gave him an arch stare. “I am a woman, and I help shape young minds as a living. I can’t believe you don’t see the value of learning over play.”

      “Statistics show kids in team sports are more socially adept and less likely to get involved in drugs, alcohol and gangs. I see the value in that.”

      “Yes, but we already have a sports park. We don’t have a museum.” Already seeing the argument forming on his lips, she cut herself short. “Never mind. We have to work together. It’s best we accept we’re on opposite sides of this issue.”

      “Good idea. Too bad the whole town can’t agree to disagree. I see this getting ugly before it’s over.”

      “Keeping the peace.” She grinned at him. “That’s why you get the big bucks.”

      “Ha, ha. The big bucks came from my dad’s life-insurance policy. And I inherited my wife’s trust fund that she got from her maternal grandmother. I didn’t want any of it.”

      Wow. The emotional outburst was so unlike him she stumbled for a response. “It must have helped, though, to allow you to make the move to Paradise Pines and to buy this place.”

      His fist tightened around his glass. “I can afford to provide a home for my son.”

      Okay, that hadn’t been the right thing at all. Stupid, in fact, with his pride all wrapped up with his loss.

      “That’s not what I meant. I’m just saying that money isn’t intended to replace the people we’ve lost but to help us adjust to life without them. My mother insisted on life-insurance policies for both her and my dad. Without it neither my sister nor I would have been able to complete college.”

      “That’s different.”

      “Why? Because we were college-age girls alone in the world instead of a big he-man like you?” She shook her finger at him. “Not only is that sexist, it’s disrespectful to the dead. People get peace of mind in life and in passing to know the ones they love will be taken care of when they’re gone. I’m sure you’ve already considered what arrangements you’re going to make for Mickey.”

      He drew a circle on the table in the condensation dripping off his glass of iced tea, conveniently avoiding eye contact. “I already moved his mother’s trust fund into his name.”

      Of course he had. “See? I bet she’d be pleased with the gesture.”

      “Yeah.” Mickey dropped his sippy cup and Trace bent to retrieve it. When he settled back in his seat, tension showed in the tight line of his shoulders. “How is it you can read me so well?”

      “I listen,” she said lightly, offsetting the near accusation with an airy response. “My mom always said it was a gift. I have a talent for hearing people. She felt it would help me to be a good teacher. And you’re not so hard to read.” Her bluntness got the better of her. “You’re an honorable man, who puts duty above all else.”

      He gave a sharp nod, as if agreeing with the assessment.

      She should stop, she knew it, but something drove her on. She wanted to know more about him, and these odd moments of exposure offered an opening she couldn’t resist.

      “You want to know what I really see? From little things you’ve said, I get the feeling your marriage had begun to falter. But it kills you that you weren’t able to protect your wife, to somehow keep her safe from the perils of the world that stole her life. Having a child wasn’t your idea, and you don’t love Mickey, but he’s your son, so you’ll do right by him and protect him no matter what.”

      “You can stop now.” With an explosion of muscle he pushed to his feet and began to pace. “How can you know all that?” he demanded, his tone cold enough to frost the July night. “Have you been snooping through my things?”

      “No. Of course not.” Offended, and hurt by the accusation, she recoiled in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest. “You know I’d never invade your privacy in such a way.”

      “What I know is you’re talking about things that are none of your business.” He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I never talk about my wife. How could you have heard anything to make your deductions?”

      She rubbed her arms, unprepared for his fierceness. “You’re right. We should stop this.”

      She glanced at Mickey, to see how he was reacting to the sudden tension. Thankfully he’d fallen asleep, his little head resting on his arm stretched out over the tray. “I should take Mickey in.”

      “No.” Trace reclaimed his seat, scraped the chair closer and propped both elbows on the table. “Answer the question.”

      This had gone too far. He was upset. She’d wanted to learn more about him, maybe rile him a little, but not to this extent. “Trace, I’m sorry.”

      “I don’t want an apology. I want an answer.”

      “I really think we should end this.”

      “Nikki.”

      “Okay. It’s not what you say, but what you don’t say. You never talk about your wife except in relation to Mickey. And then you don’t call her your wife; it’s always ‘Mickey’s mother’ or sometimes her name.”

      “I’m a private man. I don’t talk about myself. That doesn’t mean anything.”

      “No, but people who have lost a loved one generally do talk about them. It’s a way to keep them with us even though they’re gone. It’s okay, you know,” she said softly. “You don’t have to pretend to feelings you don’t have.”

      He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest.

      “Don’t tell me what to feel.”

      “And don’t yell at me because you don’t like what you’re hearing. I’m right, aren’t I? Or close enough to count. Otherwise you’d be laughing off my comments as so much fluff.”

      “I think it’s time you left.”

      “You say you don’t do emotions. Wrong. You seethe with emotions. You just don’t want to deal with them, so you bury them deep down inside. You didn’t love your wife—big deal. It happens. You feel guilty for her death. Not your fault. Get over it.”

      “Good night, Ms. Rhodes.”

      Chin up, her heart heavy, she reached for the dishes to carry them inside. “I’ll come back for Mickey.”

      “Leave the dishes. Leave him. Just go.”

      Oh, she’d go. But not before putting in a fighting shot for Mickey.

      “Emotions aren’t something you’re good at or not. It’s just what you feel. How you act on those feelings is what makes the difference. If you can’t find a way to open your heart to this sweet boy, he’s the one who will suffer.”

      He made no response, but his eyes had changed from ice crystals to smoldering emerald heat. Good, let him brood.

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