Page 3 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
Outside, the Arizona sun hits my face like freedom. Riley steers me toward her dusty sedan, muttering about my life choices.
“It was supposed to be a peaceful protest,” I insist as we buckle up. “Mrs. Hartley just couldn’t handle being called out on her land grab.”
Riley shoots me a look. “One day, Jaz, your mouth’s going to get you in real trouble.”
Maybe. But as the station disappears in the rearview, I can’t stop thinking about the quiet, infuriating, unexpectedly magnetic sheriff with the scar above his eye — and the hockey stick on his seat.
Asher Vaughn.
New in town.
Already under my skin.
Chapter two
Chapter 1
Chapter three
Asher
I don’t actually hate pancakes.
I just hate how many of them an eleven-year-old can eat when he’s on a kick.
Brick’s standing at the table inhaling another syrup-soaked stack like he’s training for a carb-loading championship. I spear one for myself — mostly because coffee alone doesn’t qualify as parenting — and glance at the clock.
“Brick!” I call as he runs back up the stairs. “Two more minutes or I’m leaving without you!”
Empty threat. He’s only been at Golden Heights Middle for five days. I’m not about to toss him to the wolves just yet. But if I don’t light a fire under him, we’ll both be late … him to school, me to roll call.
I drain the rest of my coffee, scanning the cluttered table: empty cereal box, hockey tape, a half-finished math worksheet. I really do need to find a babysitter. Between learning a new joband helping Brick settle, I’m stretched thinner than the syrup on his sticky plate.
“Coming!” floats down from upstairs.
I holster my patience, check the gear on my duty belt, and shrug into my jacket. “Sirens are going on if you’re not down here in thirty seconds!”
That gets the familiar thud-thud-thud of sneakers on stairs. Brick appears in a red flannel over a T-shirt, hair still damp from the shower, backpack slung haphazardly.
“You wouldn’t,” he says.
“Try me.” I grin and grab my keys. “Nothing says ‘make friends fast’ like a dad who’s sheriff and proud of it.”
“Dad.” His groan is pure preteen. “I’mtryingto make friends.”
“Then don’t be late.” We head to the cruiser and climb in, heat rolling off the desert pavement.
“Seat belt.”
Click.
I pull out of the driveway. “So… first week. Anyone cool?”
He shrugs, eyes on the window. Classic Brick: gentle, cautious, taking it all in. “Met a kid yesterday. Chris. He traded me a KitKat.”
“Big move,” I say. “Sharing chocolate? That’s friendship level two.”
He snorts despite himself.
