Page 12 of Protected By the Single Dad Sheriff

"Sophie," Jake says sharply, then softens his tone. "We've talked about this. That's not something we say to guests."

"It's okay," I tell him, though my heart aches at the child's matter-of-fact reference to her mother's absence. "Thank you, Sophie. I'd be honored to sit here."

As we settle around the table, I'm struck by how long it's been since I've experienced a family meal this unpretentious. Growingup, dinner was a formal affair, even when it was just the four of us—cloth napkins, multiple courses, conversation restricted to appropriate topics. When I started dating Sebastian, meals became networking opportunities, each restaurant chosen for who might see us there.

This—mismatched plates, slightly lumpy mac and cheese, elbows on the table—feels revolutionary in its ordinariness.

"We hold hands for grace," Emma informs me, extending her small hand toward mine.

I take it, surprised by the lump forming in my throat as Jake takes my other hand to complete the circle. His palm is warm and calloused against mine, the touch sending an unexpected current up my arm.

"Would you like to say grace, Isabella?" he asks, his eyes meeting mine across the table.

I panic slightly. My family wasn't religious. I don't know the right words. "I—"

"It's easy," Sophie assures me. "You just say thank you for the food and the people."

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes. "Thank you for this food and for the kindness of the people around this table. I'm very grateful to be here tonight."

It's simple, probably inadequate, but when I open my eyes, Jake is looking at me with a warmth that makes me feel like I've said exactly the right thing.

"Amen," he adds softly, giving my hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it.

Dinner is a lively affair, with Sophie dominating the conversation through detailed descriptions of her day at school, occasional corrections from Emma, and patient questions fromJake. I find myself laughing more than I have in months, drawn into their family dynamic as if I've known them for years rather than hours.

"Miss Isabella, do you have kids?" Sophie asks suddenly, in the direct way of children.

"Sophie," Jake warns. "Remember what we talked about? Some questions are private."

"It's okay," I assure him again, "No, Sophie, I don't have children."

"Do you want them?" she persists, ignoring her father's pointed look.

The question catches me off guard. "I do," I answer honestly. "Someday. With the right person."

"Like Daddy found Mommy?" she asks.

I glance at Jake, whose expression has grown guarded.

"Yes," I say. "Like that."

"Dad doesn't date," Emma informs me, with the slightly smug knowledge of an older child. "Mrs. Miller says he should, but he says he's too busy."

Jake nearly chokes on his water. "Emma, that's enough about Mrs. Miller's opinions."

I hide my smile, filing away this information despite myself. It's none of my business whether this attractive, kind single father dates. I'm only passing through his life, a temporary disruption that will be forgotten once I figure out my next move.

"Can I show Miss Isabella my rock collection now?" Sophie asks, clearly bored with the adult conversation.

"After you help clear the table," Jake tells her. "Everyone helps with cleanup."

"I'll help too," I say quickly, standing to gather plates.

Jake looks like he might protest, but then thinks better of it. "Thanks."

The moment strikes me again as we work together to clean the kitchen—Jake rinsing dishes, me loading them into the dishwasher, the girls wiping down the table. It's such a simple thing, this cooperative effort, but it fills me with a strange longing for something I've never had.

"Dad," Emma says as we finish, "can we have ice cream now? You promised."

---