Page 13 of Protected By the Single Dad Sheriff

Jake glances at the clock. "One scoop, then homework check, then bed."

The girls cheer, and Sophie immediately grabs my hand. "You'll have ice cream too, right? Dad bought chocolate and vanilla and strawberry because we can never agree."

"I'd love some," I tell her, allowing myself to be pulled toward the freezer. "I'm partial to chocolate."

"That's my favorite too!" Sophie exclaims, as if we've discovered we're long-lost soulmates.

Jake catches my eye over her head, an apologetic smile playing around his lips.

"She attaches quickly," he says quietly as he reaches past me for the ice cream. "Don't feel obligated."

"I don't," I assure him, meaning it. "This is the most normal I've felt in... maybe ever."

Something shifts in his expression—surprise, perhaps, or understanding. Before he can respond, Sophie is tugging me toward the stairs.

"Ice cream in my room while I show you my collection!" she declares.

"Nice try," Jake calls after her. "Ice cream at the table, then you can give Miss Isabella the tour."

Sophie sighs dramatically but returns to the table, where Jake is scooping ice cream into colorful plastic bowls. I watch him with his daughters—the easy affection, the clear boundaries, the gentle authority. He's a good father. The realization shouldn't surprise me, but it does deepen my already growing admiration for him.

After ice cream, true to her word, Sophie leads me on a tour of the upstairs, proudly showing me her rock collection, her stuffed animals, and the "secret" hideout under her bed. Emma joins us, eager to display her softball trophies and collection of nature books.

Their room is exactly what a children's room should be—colorful, slightly messy, filled with evidence of their personalities and interests. It stands in sharp contrast to my own childhood bedroom, which was decorated by a professional in pale pink and white, with furniture too delicate to actually use with any enthusiasm.

"And this is Dad's room," Sophie announces, pushing open a door at the end of the hall before I can stop her.

"Sophie, I don't think—" I begin, but I've already glimpsed the interior.

A large, simply furnished room with a patchwork quilt on the unmade bed, a stack of books on the nightstand, and framed children's artwork on the walls. It's deeply personal, and I feel like an intruder.

"Sophie," Jake's voice comes from behind us, making me jump. "We don't show people Dad's room without asking. Remember our conversation about privacy?"

Sophie's face falls. "Sorry, Daddy."

"It's okay," he says, ruffling her hair. "Just remember for next time."

"I'm sorry too," I tell him, embarrassed. "I should have stopped her."

He shakes his head. "Not your fault. She's a force of nature." He checks his watch. "Alright, girls. Bedtime routine starts now. Teeth, pajamas, one story."

"But Miss Isabella hasn't seen the treehouse!" Sophie protests.

"Another time," he says firmly. "It's dark outside now anyway."

Another time. Yes, I hope so.

"Can Miss Isabella read our bedtime story?" Emma asks, surprising me with her request.

Jake looks at me questioningly. "Only if she wants to. She's had a long day."

"I'd love to," I say, touched by the invitation into this sacred family ritual.

Twenty minutes later, I find myself perched on the edge of Sophie's bed, a well-worn copy of "Where the Wild Things Are" in my hands, two pajama-clad girls watching me with rapt attention as I read about Max's wild rumpus. Jake leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, a soft expression on his face as he watches us.

When I finish the story, Sophie is already half-asleep, her eyelids heavy. "Will you be here tomorrow?" she mumbles as Jake tucks her blanket around her.

I glance at him, unsure how to answer. "I'm not sure yet, sweetheart."

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