Alison Roberts - Single Dad Needs Nanny - Sheriff Needs a Nanny

“I just can’t call him Carmichael. I promise it’s not meant to be disrespectful, or a control issue. Sure, Carmichael is a fine, distinguished name. But to me it’s also cold and hard. And with all the changes in his life Mickey needs warmth and love and acceptance more than anything else. I’d constantly feel like I was scolding him.”

Nikki got a first-hand lesson in Trace’s interrogation technique as he sat back and ran a laser-sharp gaze over her. His intense regard seemed to see straight to her soul. He assessed, categorized and made conclusions—all without saying a word. Or changing expression. She was ready to spill her deepest, darkest secrets, and she had no idea what he was thinking at all.

He finally broke the connection to focus on mopping up his son’s face.

Free to breathe again, she anxiously waited for his response. She hoped they could settle the issue amicably between them, because she really couldn’t promise to call the baby Carmichael. In all honesty it probably wasn’t harmful to the boy at this stage, but he’d responded to Mickey when he hadn’t to the more formal name. That spoke volumes to her.

“Leslie Trace.”

“What?” Nikki stared at her employer’s stoic profile. Of everything he could have said, that made no sense to her. And when he turned to face her and flashed that dimple-popping grin she completely forgot what they were talking about.

“The name my mom used when I was in trouble.” Humor and understanding had replaced the censure. Evidently she’d hit the right mark, tapping into the universal connection of childhood memories.

“Leslie, huh? That had to hurt.”

The humor disappeared. “Throw in extra for being a military brat. When my mom had gone, I told my dad I wanted to be Trace. He had no problem with that.”

“Rough. How old were you when your mom died?”

“I didn’t say she died. But she might as well have. I was ten when she left my dad and me.”

“Extra rough. You and your dad must be close?”

“He died before I married Donna. But we weren’t really close. Dad wasn’t what you’d call demonstrative.”

“That must be where you got it.” As soon as the words escaped her mouth she knew she’d blown the moment.

Raw emotion flashed in his eyes before he shut down all signs of feeling. He rose to his feet and pushed in his chair in two short, controlled motions.

“Yeah, that’s where I get it from.” He glanced at Mickey before turning away. “I need to change.”

“Trace.” She jumped to her feet, but he was already gone. Slowly sinking into the seat, she met Mickey’s confused frown. “Yeah, I know. I blew it.”

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.”