Page 9 of Protected By the Single Dad Sheriff

Isabella looks from Sophie's hopeful face to mine, clearly torn between politeness and practical need. "Are you sure? I don't want to disrupt your evening more than I already have."

No, I'm not sure. This crosses every professional and personal boundary I've established since becoming both sheriff and a single father. But there's something about her lost expression that makes it impossible to just drop her off at a bus stop or make her wait forty minutes for a motel room.

"It's just dinner," I say, trying to sound casual. "And maybe a plan for getting you wherever you need to go tomorrow."

Whatever she sees in my face must reassure her, because she finally nods.

"Okay. Thank you. But I insist on helping with dinner."

"Deal," I agree, opening the cruiser door for her. As she slides into the passenger seat this time—I can't keep putting a civilianin the back like a perp—I catch a hint of her perfume. Something expensive and floral, but subtle.

"Can we have ice cream too?" Emma asks as she and Sophie climb into the back.

"One sugar bomb at a time," I tell her, starting the engine. "Let's see how dinner goes first."

As we pull away from the curb, I catch Isabella's reflection in the side mirror. She's gazing out at Cedar Falls' main street with an expression I can't quite decipher—part wonder, part fear, part something that might be hope.

What am I doing? This woman is clearly running from something or someone. The last thing my daughters need is to get attached to a stranger who will disappear from their lives as quickly as she entered.

The last thing I need is the complication of feeling drawn to someone so obviously in transition, so clearly unavailable in every way that matters.

Yet here we are, driving toward my home with a runaway bride in designer jeans riding shotgun and my daughters chattering excitedly in the back seat.

"Home is about five minutes up this road." I tell her as we approach the residential area west of town.

"It's pretty," she says, taking in the tall pines and glimpses of the river through the trees.

"Wait till you see our house," Sophie pipes up. "It has a treehouse that Dad built!"

"And a tire swing," Emma adds. "Dad says it's a safety hazard, but he lets us use it anyway."

Isabella laughs softly. "Sounds like your dad is a man of many talents."

I feel a flush creeping up my neck at the casual compliment. "Jack of all trades, master of none," I mutter, embarrassed.

"I doubt that's true," she says, and when I glance over, she's looking directly at me with those clear green eyes. "Sheriff, father, carpenter... seems like you're managing a lot of roles quite well."

There's no flirtation in her tone, just a simple observation that somehow cuts right through my usual defenses. I've gotten so used to downplaying everything I do, to feeling like I'm barely keeping my head above water with work and parenting. Having someone, even a stranger, acknowledge my efforts is unexpectedly affecting.

"We make it work," I say gruffly, turning onto our gravel driveway.

Our house comes into view. It’s a two-story cabin-style home I've spent the last decade slowly renovating. It's nothing fancy, but with its wide front porch and large windows, it's comfortable and welcoming. The yard is a bit overgrown, toys scattered across the lawn despite my constant reminders to the girls to clean up after themselves.

"It's beautiful," Isabella says, and she sounds like she means it.

"It's home," I reply, parking beside my personal truck.

As we all climb out, I notice Isabella taking in every detail—the wind chimes Claire hung years ago, the mismatched flower pots the girls painted last summer, the half-finished birdhouse on the porch railing.

This is my sanctuary, my private world with my daughters, the place I've kept separated from my professional life andthe complications of the outside world. And I've just invited a beautiful, mysterious, clearly troubled woman right into the heart of it.

"Come on," I say, fishing my keys from my pocket. "Let's get that mac and cheese started."

Chapter 4 - Isabella

The moment I step into Sheriff Reynolds' home, I feel it… That sense of a space being truly lived in, truly loved. It's nothing like the sterile perfection of my parents' Boston mansion or the meticulously curated apartment Sebastian and I were supposed to share after the wedding. This place has soul.

Toys are scattered across a worn but comfortable-looking living room. Colorful artwork—clearly created by small hands—adorns the refrigerator. A bookshelf overflows with an eclectic mix of crime novels, children's picture books, and what appear to be carpentry manuals. Everything about this house tells the story of the family that inhabits it.

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