“Carmichael is still sleeping,” he told her. “And I got a call from Dispatch so I have to go.” He grabbed his keys from the bowl on the counter and headed back to the door.
Oh, my, he did look fine in his uniform.
He wore it with an easy air of command that made the olive-green pants and khaki short-sleeved shirt—accessorized with holster and gun—downright sexy. The confidence and authority he projected made her nerves tingle.
She told herself it was in annoyance for his desertion even as she caught herself staring.
He met her gaze. “I’ll show you your rooms tonight.”
“Wait.” She stepped into his path. “What about the time you’re going to spend with Carmichael?”
“It’ll have to be tonight.” He walked around her. “I’ll try to check in during the day. I left my numbers by the phone if there’s an emergency.”
The door closed behind him and Nikki found herself alone in the quiet house. That so had not gone how she’d expected.
That night, Nikki followed Trace Oliver’s broad- shouldered, slim-hipped saunter to the garage behind his house. She eyed his chiseled profile, waiting for the right moment to address her concerns. She’d had all day to plot her course of action. She’d try to catch him in a good mood, but if that failed she’d have to risk the fallout. Mickey had needs and she meant to see them met.
“These will be your rooms.” Trace opened the door and gestured her inside.
Head held high, she squeezed past him, inhaling soap, mint and man, an intoxicating combination. It was enough to distract her from her surroundings—until the wheels of her suitcase bumped up against the threshold and stopped. With a small tug, she proceeded into the room.
He’d been polite but distant since arriving home. Mickey was sleeping, so Trace was taking the opportunity to show her where she’d be staying.
The garage had been converted into a studio apartment. A large living area included a small kitchen in the far right corner. A full bath occupied the far left corner, with a closet dividing the two. Like the main house, the furnishings here were modern, simplistic, in dark gray and burgundy.
Yeah, a few feminine touches might bring it up to the level of an impersonal hotel room. Not a problem. She needed to clear out of her sister’s place anyway. The infusion of her things would brighten this space, bring a warmth and hominess to the small suite.
She moved deeper into the room and caught her reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door. Intent on fostering the professional relationship they’d agreed upon—and he’d outlined it in excruciating detail—she’d dressed in a pencil-slim skirt that ended two inches above her knees and a fitted vest both in black. For herself, she’d paired the severe clothing with a romantic white cotton shirt, ruffled at the scooped neck and capped sleeves. Black sandals completed the outfit.
Catching sight of his reflection behind her, she felt a punch to the gut. He looked as good now as he had this morning—better, actually. Being a little rumpled made him appear more approachable.
Not wanting to be caught staring, she quickly diverted her attention back to the room.
“This is really very nice. Is there wood for the fireplace?” Oh, great save. Like she needed a fire in late June.
“By the shed outside, to the left. But you probably won’t be here long enough to use it.”
“What do you mean?” Miffed, Nikki tried and failed to keep the bite out of the question. “I’m playing by the rules.” She gestured to her uniform of black and white.
His intense gaze rolled over her until his eyes met hers. “Right. But we both know this is a temporary arrangement at best.”
“Why do you say that?” she demanded. “I assure you I truly care about Mickey, and I’m committed to staying until—”
Whoa. She cut herself off as her mind caught up with her mouth. She couldn’t tell him she intended staying until father and son bonded. Already she knew he’d take her interference as well as a cat took to water: with a whole lot of resistance and no discernible gratitude for the effort involved. He only accepted her presence now because Mickey liked her. That was where she needed to channel her efforts.
“Until what, Ms. Rhodes? He starts school? Can stay home alone? Begins to drive? You won’t be here through the end of the year, let alone any of those milestones.”
And there was a fine sample of opposition. Leaving her suitcase against the wall, she plopped into a soft gray armchair, planted her elbows on the arms, and got to the heart of the matter.
“Why did you hire me if you’re ready to push me out the door?”
He surprised her when he gave up his position of power to sit across from her. “First of all, because you’re a teacher, not a nanny. You’re going to go back to teaching the first chance you get. It’s obvious when you talk about it that you love your job. Second, I can see you do care about Carmichael. More important, he likes you. But let’s not kid ourselves. You’re a meddler, Ms. Rhodes. You can’t help yourself. And I can’t tolerate being manipulated. I have a high-pressure, high-exposure job. I need to know my child is being cared for to my specifications, and to find peace when I walk through my door at the end of my shift.”
Okay, she gave him points for insightfulness and, yeah, she understood the whole peace-in-his-own-home thing. Her mother had always wanted peace. Nikki considered it overrated. Give her loud and loving every time. Laughter wasn’t a quiet commodity.
As for meddling—he was right. She couldn’t deny it. But the man had serious emotional issues. She intended to help him and Mickey find a connection. If he preferred for her to be up-front about it, she could do up-front.
“I prefer to think of it as caring about people.” Earnest in her concern, she leaned forward. “I care about Carmichael. You didn’t even stop to check on him this evening. So, yeah, I’m going to meddle. He needs you, so what’s it going to take to get you to stand steady for him?”
Trace’s dark brows slammed together. “You’re out of line.”
“Blame yourself.” Nikki waved his irritation aside. “You hired me to take care of Carmichael. To me that means more than changing diapers and heating bottles. His emotional welfare is as important as his physical welfare. Why are you so afraid of emotion?”
He surprised her with an immediate response.
“I’m not afraid of emotion, Ms. Rhodes, I’m just not very good at it.”
Nikki blinked at the unexpected reply. How sad if that was true. The total lack of feeling in his expression revealed he believed it.
“And it’s easier to back away than try?” she guessed.
“I’ve tried.” A shadow of pain came and went in his level gaze. The flash of vulnerability convinced her of his claim more than the stoic words. “That’s how I know I’m no good at it.”
She could tell it had cost him. Still, she had to press. For him and for Mickey. “Well, it’s time to try again. Can I be frank with you? Mickey’s development is stunted. You know I have a master’s in Child Development. He’s behind in speech, in walking, in his motor skills.”
His eyes narrowed to slits. “You’re saying my child is slow?”
“No. He’s smart, and actually quick to catch on to new things. But he just sits, and he always wants to be held.”
“His grandmother was very protective of him,” he said slowly, his mind obviously at work. “Whenever I visited she held him all the time. I thought it was because she was afraid I would take him away. She must have coddled him to the extent he did little for himself.”
“It’s sad, isn’t