Page 10 of Protected By the Single Dad Sheriff

"Sorry about the mess," the sheriff says, quickly gathering up a pile of laundry from the couch. "Didn't exactly plan for company today."

"It's perfect," I tell him honestly. "Please don't apologize."

Sophie immediately grabs my hand. "Want to see my room? I have a stuffed animal collection and a special rock that looks like a heart."

"Sophie," her father warns, "let Miss Isabella breathe. She's our guest, not your show-and-tell project."

"It's really okay," I assure him, secretly delighted by the child's enthusiasm. "I'd love to see your room, Sophie. Maybe after dinner?"

This compromise seems to satisfy everyone. Sophie nods solemnly, and Sheriff Reynolds gives me a grateful look as he moves toward the kitchen.

"Girls, homework while I start dinner," he directs, opening the refrigerator. "Emma, help your sister with her reading sheet, please."

"But Dad," Emma protests, "Miss Isabella is way more interesting than homework."

I laugh, touched by the compliment. "Homework is important. Besides, I promised your dad I'd help with dinner." I turn to him. "I meant that, by the way. I'm not a great cook, but I can follow directions."

He looks momentarily caught off guard, as if he's not used to having help in the kitchen. "Uh, sure. You can grate the cheese if you want."

I roll up my sleeves, oddly eager for this simple domestic task. After months of fittings and tastings and endless discussions about floral arrangements, there's something deeply appealing about doing something as straightforward as grating cheese for a family meal.

The sheriff moves and gathers all the ingredients while giving occasional guidance to the girls, who have settled at the dining table with their backpacks. I notice how his eyes constantly flick toward them, checking, reassuring himself of their presence.

"Block of cheddar's in the fridge," he tells me, nodding toward an ancient-looking box grater on the counter. "And there's some parmesan in there too, if you can find it."

I open the refrigerator, eventually locating both kinds of cheese, and set to work at the counter beside him.

"I'm realizing I don't know your first name," I say as I begin grating. "Unless it's actually 'Sheriff.'"

The corner of his mouth quirks up. "Jake. Jake Reynolds."

"Jake," I repeat, testing the name. It suits him—straightforward, unpretentious, strong.

"And I know you go by Bella, but I like Isabella," he says, not looking up from the pasta he's measuring. "It suits you."

Sebastian always called me Bells, slightly nasal and clipped. My father uses "Isabella" only when he's disappointed in me, which is often.

"Thank you," I say softly, focusing on the cheese to hide my flushed cheeks. "For everything. Not many people would take in a stranger like this."

"Cedar Falls is a small town," he replies, as if that explains everything. "We look out for people in need."

"Is that why you became sheriff?" I ask, genuinely curious about this man who seems so naturally protective.

He considers this while filling a pot with water. "Partly. My dad was sheriff before me. It was sort of expected, I guess."

I recognize that tone—the weight of family legacy, of predetermined paths. "I understand that feeling."

He glances at me, something knowing in his expression. "I figured you might."

"Daddy wanted to be a forest ranger," Sophie pipes up from the table, apparently eavesdropping. "He told us so."

Jake's ears redden slightly. "Focus on your worksheet, Soph."

"Is that true?" I ask, moving on to the parmesan.

He shrugs, looking slightly embarrassed. "Kid's dream. I like being outdoors and working with my hands. But the sheriff's department was a better fit, especially after..." He trails off, eyes darting toward his daughters.

"I think it's admirable," I say. "Following your own path, even if it wasn't your first choice."

---