NIKKI was ready for Trace when he got home at seven that evening. She sat alone at the dining-room table, her purse in front of her, along with a small cooler of food. The elusive Russ was playing with Mickey in his room down the hall.
She’d covered dinner and a sitter; she didn’t want Trace to have any wiggle room to get out of going shopping. Mickey was as sweet as could be, and a good baby, but he expected to be held all the time. Nikki literally couldn’t get anything done. And without a car seat or stroller, she remained housebound.
It might be unfair to expect Trace to shop after a twelve-hour day, but expecting her to care for a baby without the proper equipment was equally unreasonable.
He walked in the door and over to the dish to drop in his keys. He glanced around, then looked at her.
“What’s up? Are you going someplace? Hey, I’m sorry I’m late.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck in a weary gesture. “Time just disappears. Is Carmichael sleeping?”
“No. I hired Russ to watch him tonight. Carmichael needs some things. You and I are going shopping.”
“Not tonight.” Dark brows lowered in a frown. “I’m tired and I’m hungry. We’ll go tomorrow.”
“We’re going tonight,” she insisted. “I’ve only been here two days, and I already know not to trust the promise of tomorrow.”
His scowl darkened, but he couldn’t deny the allegation. “I thought I made it clear how I feel about being manipulated.”
“Then don’t force it on me.” She patted the cooler and recited the list of items Carmichael required. “I’ve packed you dinner. Believe me, I wouldn’t ask you to go out if I didn’t really need these things to care for him properly. I’m tired, too, but we need to go tonight. How did you even get Carmichael home without a car seat?”
He looked pained. “There was one. It was too small, so I took it down to the station to have on hand in case of an emergency.” He sighed. “Do I have time for a shower and change of clothes?”
Relieved to have his co-operation, she grinned. “If you hurry.”
“Do you want a modular unit for a playpen, or will the portable crib work?” Trace asked as they stood in the baby aisle of the superstore.
“Oh, do they have modular units here?” Nikki stepped back to view the merchandise better. “Where? Does it list the dimensions?”
“I don’t see them here. A friend has one. I can find out where he got it, or order it online, but you’d have to wait.”
She took in their two carts, swollen with large boxes. It contained a fortune. “Oh, yeah, we don’t have to get everything tonight. I wasn’t thinking of the expense.”
“Let me worry about the expense.” Injured pride added bite to his response. “I’d rather finish it tonight. I can afford whatever is needed for my son.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean to imply you couldn’t.” Maybe she could use that pride to motivate him on an emotional level. “Thank you for coming out tonight. I’ve really been stuck these past couple of days. Carmichael is a good baby but—”
“He wants to be held,” Trace finished, and she met his gaze in a moment of shared understanding. “I know.”
“Let’s go to the toys. He needs to become engaged in activities that hold his attention. Russ brought over some of his niece’s blocks. He says Carmichael will play with them for an hour or more.”
“Huh?” Trace made a show of turning toward the toys. “Let’s get us some blocks.”
She laughed, and quickly caught up to him. “When are you going to pick up the rest of his stuff?”
He looked blank. “What do you mean?”
“His stuff. For his room. Toys, stuffed animals, wall hangings. Things with color and form to inspire his mind—that stuff.”
“Oh. There wasn’t any of that in what my father-in-law brought.”
“So M—Carmichael has no stuff? That’s kind of sad.” Shocked and saddened by the revelation, Nikki spoke without thinking, but regretted her lack of forethought when she saw the humor fade from his face. She tried to save the moment. “But, hey, that means you get to choose his stuff.”
“Me?” A shadow passed over his features. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“It’s easy,” she encouraged him. “What did you have in your room as a kid?”
“Here are the blocks.” Pushing into the toy aisle, he made a point of studying the displays. Finally he said, “My room looked pretty much like Carmichael’s, except with a bed instead of a crib.”
“Oh, Trace,” she whispered. “You’re breaking my heart.”
He glanced at her and his eyes softened. “No need,” he assured her. “You don’t miss what you never knew.”
Caught by his compelling jade gaze, she moved closer. “You have a chance to give him something you never had.”
He nodded, and then moved his gaze down to his side. “You’re touching me, Ms. Rhodes.”
So she was. Both arms were wrapped around his strong arm. Muscles flexed under her fingers as he carefully stepped away.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Yeah.” Reaching for a box of blocks, he changed the subject. Relieved, she followed his lead. For such a tough character he showed vulnerability at the oddest moments. It was clear to her that he needed Mickey as much as Mickey needed him.
She blinked away weak tears. She’d have to stay strong if she meant to help them find each other.
Back at the house, she checked on Mickey while Trace and Russ unloaded everything from the SUV. After Russ took off, she asked Trace, “How did the other nannies make do without this gear?”
He shrugged. “They weren’t around long.”
“It was the rules, right? You probably scared them away with all your rules,” she teased. But she was serious, too. “I prefer to work in an environment with open communication, more give and take.”
“Give and take?” He said the words as if he’d never put them together in the same sentence before.
“Yes. You’re the employer and I’m the employee, but we discuss things and come to a consensus of what’s best for the baby.”
“A consensus?” It wasn’t a question but a low voiced challenge.
“Right. You’ve made it clear you’d prefer to let the baby sleep in the morning while you escape to the sheriff’s station. That’s your side, and of course we could do that. But then there’s my side.”
“You have a side?”
“I do. I’m so glad you’re getting into the spirit of things,” she said through a smile, her tone carefully soft and easy; it was an attitude she maintained as she continued. “My side is I feel so strongly about your spending time with Carmichael that it’s a deal-breaker for me. Either keep to the schedule we agreed on and have breakfast with him in the mornings, or you can find yourself another nanny.”
The silence that followed screamed through the living room. Nikki dug her fingernails into the flesh of her palms to keep from squirming under his ferocious stare.
“I don’t react well to threats, Ms. Rhodes.”
“You know, I’m not really surprised to hear that.” No understatement there. She lifted her chin and informed him, “I feel the same way about being blown off.”
“Ms. Rhodes—” Ice encrusted her name.
“Mr. Oliver?” She gave chill as good as she got. He needed to know she was serious about this. “Think of it as the terms of my employment. And it’s non-negotiable.”
“It’s a bluff. You said yourself you care about Carmichael.”
“Which is why this is so important. I won’t stand by and watch him decline further for lack of a steady influence in his life.”
“You—”
“Stop.” She held up a hand, palm out. “We’ve already established I won’t be here for more than a few months. He needs the person who is going to be here that first day of school, when he learns to drive, and the day he turns eighteen. That, Mr. Oliver, is you.”
Unable to dispute the truth, he stood silently glowering.
“Morning sessions with your son are the perfect opportunity to get to know each other better. Show him some attention and he’ll love you unconditionally. It’s pretty hard to mess that up.”
“But what if I do? Mess it up?” he asked, with a concern that revealed a raw vulnerability his gruff attitude had concealed.
Her heart was wrung at the evidence of his fear of failing his son. She could think of no other reason why such a strong willed and private man would open himself to her. More than ever she renewed her vow to help father and son connect.
“I’ll help you.”
“The first thing you need to do is take off your shirt.” Nikki opened a jar of baby food, poured the peaches into a bowl and set it on the table next to where Mickey sat sleepyeyed in his highchair at the end of the table.
Out of near identical green eyes, Trace sent her a candid stare. “Must we go over the rules again, Ms. Rhodes?”
“Please. You have a one-track mind. I was thinking of your cleaning bill, not your manly form. You can take it off now or change it later. First lesson in feeding your child: babies are not neat.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Trace stripped off his khaki shirt and draped it over the back of the couch.
“Hey, I’m here to help.” Nikki admired the snug fit of pristine white cotton stretched over wide shoulders when he returned to the dining area. She shook her head silently mourning the T-shirt’s pending desecration. Oh, well, neat and tidy was an ongoing battle when you had kids.
“You take that side—” she waved Trace to a seat close to the highchair “—and I’ll sit over here.” They settled across from each other at the table on either side of Mickey.
“Okay, go ahead and give him a bite. Second lesson is never leave the baby unattended with the food, or you’ll be cleaning the whole kitchen.”
Trace took the bowl of puréed peaches, dipped the baby spoon in it and held it out to Mickey.
Mickey looked from the spoon to Trace, to her. He did not open his mouth.
“Move it closer,” she encouraged Trace. “That’s good,” she said, when the spoon reached within an inch of Mickey’s little mouth. “Sometimes you really have to shovel it in, but I’d rather he came to the food this first time between you.”
Instead of going for the bite of peaches, the boy pushed away, leaning his head on the back of the highchair.
Huh? Nikki glanced over at Trace, to find him watching her with a “what now?” expression.
“Maybe he doesn’t like peaches?” he offered.
“No. A lot of baby food is orange. Carrots, sweet potatoes, apricots—they make a whole guessing game of it at baby showers. I suppose if he didn’t like one of those your mother-in-law may have catered to him and not fed him any orange foods. Did they leave a list of his preferences?”
“No. She wasn’t in any shape to put anything like that together, and my father-in-law was too overwhelmed to think beyond dropping the baby off.”
“Of course. That’s understandable.”
“There was nothing but formula and cereal in his diaper bag. There may have been some food in the refrigerator at my in-laws I could have picked up when I got his stuff last weekend, but I didn’t think to look.”
“She was still feeding him formula?”
“Yeah.” He angled his head to the right. “There are several cans in the cupboard.”
“If she still had him on formula maybe she hadn’t even started him on baby food yet. Basic rule of thumb is formula for the first year, adding baby cereal at three or four months, and moving to baby food and other solids around seven to nine months.”
Trace’s jaw clenched and his eyebrows lowered in a grim scowl. Anger and shame flashed in his eyes, and she knew he blamed himself at this further evidence of his mother-in-law’s smothering influence.
“Listen, those are just parameters. Like my sister says, there are as many theories as there are doctors. Mickey isn’t suffering from malnutrition.”
To distract him further, she scooted the empty bottle of peaches toward him. “There’s baby food in the cupboard. Someone must have tried to feed him something more than cereal.”
“That would be nanny number two. I arrived home one night at dinnertime. There was puke-green food all over him, all over her, all over the dining room. He was crying, she was screaming, and trying to force the spoon down his throat. I fired her on the spot.”
Nikki chewed her bottom lip as she studied his stern expression. He’d obviously been appalled by the scene he’d walked in on. “That sounds very unpleasant.”
“It was out of control.”
Ah. The worst of all sins.
“Yes, well. I don’t condone force-feeding, but you best prepare yourself. Feeding babies can be a chaotic experience. Most kids are naturally suspicious of any change in their diets. Some will easily try new things, but some need to have the food presented to them several times, and occasionally in different forms, before they take to it.”
He frowned, as if it hurt to think about it, then he squared those truly impressive shoulders. “As I don’t plan on lowering myself to Carmichael’s level, I’m sure we’ll manage just fine.”
Oh, how the mighty would fall.
“A positive attitude is exactly the ticket,” she assured him, figuring some things just needed to be experienced. “A smile helps, too. You know what they say—never let them see you sweat.”
Trace lifted one dark brow. “We’re talking about a baby here.”
“Right.” She looked down at her own white blouse and slid back in her chair. “Just remember they sense fear.”
Trace grunted a nonverbal reply. Getting a good dollop on the end of the spoon, he presented the bite to Mickey once again. The boy wanted no part of it. He turned his head to the left, and when his father followed with the spoon he whipped his head to the right.
“Ack!” With a squawk of frustration, Mickey pushed Trace’s hand away. A splatter of peaches flew through the air to land smack in the middle of Trace’s chest. He glumly surveyed his formerly crisp white T-shirt.
“Good thing you took off your uniform shirt,” she pointed out, hoping to direct him to the positive view. She got a grunt for her efforts.
His focus on the boy, Trace persevered, and finally got a good portion of the peaches into Mickey’s mouth.
A tiny red tongue immediately pushed the food back out, then the baby blew a raspberry, spraying Trace with bright orange polka dots.
Nikki bit back a grin as father and son faced off, with identical frowns of stubborn resolve.
“You’re the bigger man here,” she reminded Trace, then giggled when they both turned those frowns her way. “You’re not going to give up, are you?” she challenged.
“No.” He narrowed his eyes at her, but she saw reluctant humor in the green depths before he turned his attention back to Mickey. “Okay, kid, no more spitting. Peaches are good, so open wide.”
Before digging in for another bite, Trace licked a smear of peaches from where it had landed on his right thumb.
Mickey’s eyes brightened, then he mimicked his father by licking his fist where he’d wiped the fruit from his mouth.
“Mmm, mmm.” Nikki hummed yummy sounds and smiled encouragingly.
“Mmm,” the boy repeated, and swiped his tongue over his hand again.
“Look.” She grabbed Trace’s arm and shook it in excitement. “Mickey’s copying you. He likes it. Give him another bite.”
Trace glanced up from where her hand rested on his arm. The heated stare he turned on her made her catch her breath. “No touching.”
She snatched her hand away. “Seriously? You’re in the middle of feeding your son!”
His gaze rolled over her, sensual as a caress, and so intense her skin tingled as if from actual contact.
He turned back to Mickey, feeding him another bite of fruit. “So? You’ve heard the statistics. The average man thinks about sex every so many seconds. If we aren’t actually having sex, we’re thinking about it.”
Stunned nearly speechless, she leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “You dawg. And yet I’m the one who has to follow all the rules?”
The corner of his mouth twitched, but he came at her from a completely different direction.
“And, Ms. Rhodes? His name is Carmichael.” He turned a reproachful stare on her, and she knew she’d slipped up more than once.
She grimaced. “I’m sorry.”
She bit her lip, then decided to come clean. Truthfully, deception never came easily to her. Too often her mouth worked before her brain, and honesty just made life simpler.
“I just can’t call him Carmichael. I promise it’s not meant to be disrespectful, or a control issue. Sure, Carmichael is a fine, distinguished name. But to me it’s also cold and hard. And with all the changes in his life Mickey needs warmth and love and acceptance more than anything else. I’d constantly feel like I was scolding him.”
Nikki got a first-hand lesson in Trace’s interrogation technique as he sat back and ran a laser-sharp gaze over her. His intense regard seemed to see straight to her soul. He assessed, categorized and made conclusions—all without saying a word. Or changing expression. She was ready to spill her deepest, darkest secrets, and she had no idea what he was thinking at all.
He finally broke the connection to focus on mopping up his son’s face.
Free to breathe again, she anxiously waited for his response. She hoped they could settle the issue amicably between them, because she really couldn’t promise to call the baby Carmichael. In all honesty it probably wasn’t harmful to the boy at this stage, but he’d responded to Mickey when he hadn’t to the more formal name. That spoke volumes to her.
“Leslie Trace.”
“What?” Nikki stared at her employer’s stoic profile. Of everything he could have said, that made no sense to her. And when he turned to face her and flashed that dimple-popping grin she completely forgot what they were talking about.
“The name my mom used when I was in trouble.” Humor and understanding had replaced the censure. Evidently she’d hit the right mark, tapping into the universal connection of childhood memories.
“Leslie, huh? That had to hurt.”
The humor disappeared. “Throw in extra for being a military brat. When my mom had gone, I told my dad I wanted to be Trace. He had no problem with that.”
“Rough. How old were you when your mom died?”
“I didn’t say she died. But she might as well have. I was ten when she left my dad and me.”
“Extra rough. You and your dad must be close?”
“He died before I married Donna. But we weren’t really close. Dad wasn’t what you’d call demonstrative.”
“That must be where you got it.” As soon as the words escaped her mouth she knew she’d blown the moment.
Raw emotion flashed in his eyes before he shut down all signs of feeling. He rose to his feet and pushed in his chair in two short, controlled motions.
“Yeah, that’s where I get it from.” He glanced at Mickey before turning away. “I need to change.”
“Trace.” She jumped to her feet, but he was already gone. Slowly sinking into the seat, she met Mickey’s confused frown. “Yeah, I know. I blew it.”
TRACE stared at the report on his desk as he waited on hold for the receptionist to make his appointment with the pediatrician. Finding out he didn’t know the slightest thing about his son’s health had struck Trace hard this morning. He’d depended on Fran to take care of Mickey and actually felt righteous about the decision. Fran and Owen had just lost their only daughter; they needed something—someone—to fill the void in their hearts and lives. Who better than their infant grandson?
How easy to convince himself the couple had been better suited to handle the newborn than an overworked homicide cop, with uncertain hours and no experience with living, breathing kids.
Sure, he’d made the effort to visit and provided monetary support. And, yeah, he’d made the move to Paradise Pines with the intent to take custody. But what it all boiled down to was he’d abandoned his son to a woman sick at heart over the loss of her own child.
He had no doubt Mickey had been loved and coddled. To within an inch of his life.
In retrospect he saw it so clearly. Fran had always had the baby in her arms or seated right next to her. Always insisted on feeding Mickey his bottle because it disturbed him to have anyone else do it.
She’d smothered his son with love to the point she’d stunted his development.
The return of the receptionist pulled his distracted attention from the report and his sorry history as a father. He quickly confirmed the appointment for Thursday at two and disconnected. Right. A microcosm of tension eased from the weight on his shoulders. He couldn’t undo the past, but he could make sure they started out fresh, started out right.
He made a note to tell Nikki about the appointment.
Talk about fresh starts.
Trace was in serious trouble there. He didn’t know whether he’d made the best decision of his life or a very dangerous mistake. Nikki Rhodes threatened everything he stood for: order, discipline and consistency.
Why, oh, why did she have to be exactly what his son needed most right now?
Trace kicked back in his office chair and stared unseeing out at the reception/dispatch area of the small sheriff’s station. Instead of Lydia, his no-nonsense office manager, with a heart as soft as a marshmallow, he envisioned the soft golden beauty of his own personal Attila the Hun.
How had he lost control of his home so fast? His home? Hell, his life. Mornings would never be the same again. Though he admitted to a proud moment when Mickey had taken his first bite of peaches from the spoon. What a sense of accomplishment. They’d grinned at each other, as euphoric as if they’d scored a winning touchdown and then—he cringed to remember this—they’d both turned to Nikki, as if seeking approval of a job well done.
She’d lavished them with praise. Lord.
Where was his self-discipline? Where was his pride?
He’d totally lost control. To a five-foot-five bit of fluff in a tight skirt and ruffles.
Okay, she’d thrown him off with her ultimatum, demanding his participation in feeding Mickey; he just needed to regroup and replan, set a new schedule. He admitted he’d been hesitant about spending time with the boy. But this morning’s impromptu breakfast session proved he had nothing to fear. He could handle his son.
With a little tuition he’d become quite efficient. Then he’d send the distracting Ms. Rhodes on her way. They’d both be happier when she was teaching again.
For all her lack of structure, the woman had kept her promise to help. What had she said? “The benefit of open communication is you don’t have to do everything alone.” He had to admit he’d appreciated her assistance at breakfast. Sure he could handle it, but having someone there—it had been nice.
Another one of her precious gems of advice came to mind. “The good news is once you engage Mickey’s affections it’ll be almost impossible to lose it. Unconditional love is a powerful thing.”
It sounded good. Too good to be true for a man who didn’t know the first thing about love.
Nikki sat in one of her least-favorite places in the whole world: the doctor’s office. One of the unsung joys of being a military brat was the military health service. Every new visit to the doctor brought a new face, and a new person to poke and prod you.
After the breakfast session the other day, she hadn’t been surprised when Trace had insisted on a full checkup for Mickey. The idea that his son might have been suffering in any way drove Trace nuts.
She glanced at the little boy, quietly playing with blocks in his stroller. He was slight, but not noticeably undernourished. He might not have had a varied diet, but he’d had plenty. Still, the checkup couldn’t hurt, and if it put Trace’s mind at ease it might be worth this interminable torture.
“I’m only here for you.” She leaned over Mickey. “And let’s get one thing clear up front. I don’t do needles—uh-uh, nada, no way. If there are shots involved, your daddy is on his own. In fact—” she flipped a block with her finger “—this is the perfect opportunity for father and son to go it alone. Yep, the two of you can bond over tongue depressors.”
Mickey picked up the block to hand to her, but dropped it instead. He gave a small mew and shifted to look over the side of the stroller, then shifted his hopeful gaze to her. He looked so angelic, with his little bow mouth, baby-soft skin and windblown curls.
She handed him the fallen block and earned a smile. She sighed. “Okay, for you I can probably hang tough. But only if your dad asks for help. Otherwise I’m staying put.”
“Daddy.” He grinned.
“That’s right. You and your dad are a team.”
He went back to his blocks, and she returned to flipping leisurely through an entertainment magazine. She and three other women sat in navy short backed chairs. The walls and carpeting were beige on beige. An overflowing toy chest in the corner provided the only splash of brightness in the bland room.
The outside door opened and, like every other woman in the room with a sick child, looking for a distraction, Nikki glanced up. And, like every other woman in the room, her heart quickened at the sight of Trace. His broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped frame neatly filled the opening. His air of authority and control—elements he wore as easily as he did the crisp khaki uniform and gun belt—preceded him into the room. And shot up the temperature of every woman within viewing distance.
How unfair was it that the best-looking man in a fifty-mile radius had to be her boss? Not only did that put him both professionally and contractually off-limits, but the man was as disconnected from commitment as it was possible to be.
She sighed, and resigned herself to being his friend. At least he was finally here, and they could get this appointment over with.
The clock over the receptionist’s head read two-fifteen exactly. The perky blonde hopped to her feet, her bright smile aimed at Trace. “Sheriff Oliver? The doctor is ready to see Carmichael.”
Wasn’t that convenient? Nikki met Trace’s gaze and slowly stood. The flash of panic, so unlike him, revealed a vulnerability she couldn’t ignore. “Do you want me to go in with you?”
“Yes, please.” He took control of the stroller and followed the nurse to an examination room.
Trace quickly expressed his concerns to Dr. Wilcox, sparing himself not at all.
An older man, with a ring of graying hair and wire-rimmed glasses, the doctor listened intently, nodding occasionally.
“Well, let’s see what the real damage is.” Dr. Wilcox smiled at Mickey, who scowled back at the man. With good reason. The doctor asked Nikki to strip the baby, and the poking and prodding began.
For a usually docile child, Mickey certainly made his displeasure known, twisting and turning so Nikki almost lost her grip on the boy.
“Here, let me have him.” Trace stepped forward to trade places with her. He easily held the boy in place, but Mickey’s distress only increased. He lifted his little arms toward Trace. “Daddy.”
Trace’s jaw clenched, but he stayed tough.
Thankfully, the doctor soon ended the exam. “Okay, you can dress him.” He picked up his chart. “Do you know what inoculations he’s had?”
Nikki stepped forward to dress Mickey.
Trace reached in his pocket. ‘I went by my in-laws’ place this morning and found a few things. This is a list of the immunizations he’s had. I also called his pediatrician there, and asked for a copy of his file to be sent to you.”
“Thanks. That’ll be helpful.” Dr. Wilcox looked over his glasses to scan the list Trace handed him. “And this looks current.” He sat back and folded his arms over a barrel-size chest. “You can calm your concerns. Mickey is in good shape. The muscles in his legs are underdeveloped, which is consistent with your theory that he’s been held a lot, but his bones are strong and there are no signs of malnutrition.”
Nikki met Trace’s gaze, and in that moment felt a sense of connection in their relief and gratitude at the doctor’s news. Bouncing Mickey in her arms, she shot Trace a reassuring smile and let the tension drain away.
“Continue feeding him solids, and encourage him to use his muscles. I’ll do the blood work and read through his records when they come in, then I’ll give you a call. Basically, I don’t expect I’ll need to see him before his eighteen-month check-up.”
“Thanks, Dr. Wilcox, that’s good news.”
“He’s a precious gift, Sheriff,” the doctor said seriously. “Treasure him accordingly.”
Trace’s cool gaze ran over Mickey, once again strapped in his stroller. “Right.”
Nikki watched the exchange with little satisfaction. She’d so hoped something good would finally come from a visit to the doctor’s office.
After a week of make do trips to the corner mini-market, Nikki finally dragged Trace to the grocery store on Saturday afternoon.
Pushing Mickey in one of the store carts, Nikki rolled over the threshold, and they both sighed at the rush of cold air.
“That’s much better, isn’t it?” She tweaked the boy’s nose.
“Neeki.” He grinned and made a grab for her nose, missing by a good eight inches.
She leaned closer and wiggled her nose. “Not going to get me,” she challenged, and quickly pulled back when he tried again.
Mickey giggled, but next to her Trace frowned. “You’re taunting a one-year-old?”
She simply smiled. “Oh, we’ve played this game before. He’ll get me a couple of times before we’re through.”
Trace grunted. He looked at the aisles surrounding them, the people wandering nearby. “Let’s get this done. I suggest we split up and meet at the register in twenty minutes.”
Nikki sized him up. Cool and confident in jeans and a blue knit shirt, he clearly didn’t want to be here. But it was more than the chore that had him off-stride. The man defined the term loner. In the week she’d been at the house she hadn’t taken a single message for him. She knew he’d kept Mickey’s existence to himself. Other than the doctor’s appointment, this was his first public appearance with his son in the community.
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