Page 4 of Protected By the Single Dad Sheriff

The sheriff follows my gaze, and his mouth quirks slightly. "Those don't look like practical running-away shoes."

"I didn't exactly plan this," I admit. "It was more of an impulse decision. Right before the 'I do' part."

A small face appears in the window of his police cruiser—a little girl with dark hair pulled into a ponytail, watching us. His daughter, I'm guessing. Something about her curious expression makes my chest ache. Children are so wonderfully direct, so unencumbered by the social constraints that have been strangling me for years.

"Do you need medical attention?" the sheriff asks, his gaze assessing me for injuries. "Or are you in any danger?"

"No, nothing like that." I shift my weight, wincing as a new blister makes itself known. "Unless you count my family's wrath when they catch up with me."

His eyes narrow slightly. "Are they looking for you?"

My phone has been vibrating non-stop in my small clutch purse. I pull it out to show him the screen: 47 missed calls. 23 voicemails. 112 text messages. "What do you think?"

He whistles low. "That's quite a search party."

"My father probably has private investigators already on the road." I try to make it sound like a joke, but we both know it isn't one. Senator Howard Rosewood doesn't accept public embarrassment gracefully, especially not from his only daughter. "The Rosewood-Blackwell wedding was supposed to be the social event of the season. Three hundred guests, including two governors and a supreme court justice."

I don't mention the business merger that was supposed to be finalized tomorrow. The real reason my parents were so invested in this match. Sebastian's family owns shipping ports all along the eastern seaboard, a perfect complement to my family's import business. Love wasn't a consideration in the equation.

The sheriff's radio crackles, and he responds with a brief "Ten minutes, Doris" before turning his attention back to me. "Miss Rosewood, is it?"

"Isabella," I correct him automatically. "But everyone calls me Bella."

"Isabella," he repeats, ignoring my preference, and somehow the way he says my full name—like it's worthy of all its syllables—makes me forget to correct him again. "I can't force you to go back to your wedding, but I also can't leave you wandering around town in that dress. People are starting to stare."

I glance around and realize he's right. A small crowd has gathered at a discreet distance, whispering and pointing. A teenage boy is not-so-subtly taking pictures with his phone. Great. Social media evidence of my meltdown is exactly what I need right now.

"I just need somewhere to sit and think," I tell him, trying to sound more in control than I feel. "And maybe a change of clothes. I'll figure out the rest from there."

He stares at me, and I resist the urge to fidget under his gaze. There's something disconcertingly direct about the way he looks at me, like he's seeing past the mascara streaks and wrinkled silk to something underneath.

"Alright," he finally says. "I was about to pick up my younger daughter from her after-school program. You're welcome to ride along, and then we can get you sorted out. Maybe find you some more comfortable shoes."

It's a ridiculous offer. Getting into a police car with a strange man and his child is exactly the kind of impulsive decision my mother has lectured me against my entire life. But then again, I've already blown past all reasonable boundaries today. What's one more questionable choice?

"Thank you," I say, surprising both of us. "That's very kind."

He gestures toward the cruiser. "Just to be clear, this isn't an arrest. You're free to change your mind."

"Are all Cedar Falls sheriffs this accommodating to runaway brides?" I ask, hobbling beside him toward the car.

"You're actually my first," he admits, and there's that ghost of a smile again, deepening the lines around his eyes. "Small town. We improvise."

When we reach the cruiser, he opens the back door for me. The little girl's eyes go as wide as saucers when she sees me up close.

"Emma," the sheriff says, "this is Miss Isabella. She's going to ride with us to pick up your sister."

"Are you a real princess?" Emma asks, staring at my dress with open awe.

The question catches me off guard. I've been called many things today—selfish, ungrateful, hysterical—but "princess" wasn't one of them.

"No," I say gently. "Just a girl in a very uncomfortable dress."

"It's the prettiest dress I've ever seen," she declares with absolute certainty.

I smile at her, my first genuine smile in what feels like days. "Thank you. I like your softball uniform too."

Her face lights up. "I play second base! Do you like softball?"

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