Page 11 of Protected By the Single Dad Sheriff

I wonder what he sees when he looks at me—a spoiled rich girl running from responsibility or someone trying to find her authentic self beneath years of familial expectation?

"Dad!" Emma calls out. "Sophie's not doing her work. She's drawing you and Miss Isabella."

Sophie quickly tries to cover her paper, shooting her sister a betrayed look. "Tattletale!"

"Let me see," Jake says, wiping his hands on a dish towel and crossing to the table. He examines the drawing and smiles. "That's pretty good, Soph. But you still need to finish your reading first."

"What does it look like?" I ask, curious.

Sophie holds up the paper proudly. It's a typical child's drawing—stick figures with disproportionate features—but unmistakably depicts a tall man in what must be a sheriff's uniform standing beside a woman with red hair. We're holding hands. My face heats.

"It's very nice," I manage, catching Jake's equally embarrassed expression.

"Kids and their imaginations," he mutters, returning to the stove where the water has begun to boil.

An awkward silence falls as he adds pasta to the pot and I finish with the cheese. I can’t help but be aware of his presence beside me—the way he moves, the faint scent of pine and something uniquely him, the occasional brush of his arm against mine in the confined kitchen space.

"So," he finally says, keeping his voice low enough that the girls can't hear. "Do you want to talk about it? What happened today?"

I consider deflecting, changing the subject. But something about his direct gaze makes me want to be honest.

"I couldn't go through with it," I say simply. "Standing there in the church, everyone watching, my mother hissing last-minute instructions about how to hold my bouquet..." I shake my head at the memory. "I suddenly couldn't breathe. Couldn't take another step. And I realized I was about to make a promise I didn't intend to keep."

He nods, not rushing to fill the silence.

"Sebastian, my fiancé, he's not a bad person," I continue, surprising myself with my candor. "He's just... not the right person. Not for me. And I'm not the right person for him either, though he doesn't see that yet."

"How long were you together?" Jake asks, stirring the pasta.

"Two years. But it never felt..." I search for the right word. "Real. It was more like we were playing roles in some elaborate production my parents were directing."

"And you decided to go off-script."

I smile at his phrasing. "Very off-script. My understudy was not prepared."

This earns me a low chuckle. "What will you do now?" he asks.

The question I've been avoiding since I fled the church. "I'm not sure," I admit. "I have some savings, separate from my family. Not a lot, but enough to figure things out. I just need to..." I trail off, unsure how to articulate what I need.

"Breathe?" he suggests.

"Yes," I say, grateful for his understanding. "Exactly that."

He nods, reaching for the colander. "Well, Cedar Falls has good air. Lots of trees. Good place for breathing."

Is he suggesting I stay? The thought is simultaneously terrifying and tempting. I've never lived anywhere but Boston, never been more than a few hours from my family's influence.

"I've never done anything like this before," I confess. "Just... run. Without a plan."

"Sometimes plans are overrated," he says, draining the pasta. "Sometimes you just need to trust your instincts."

My instincts led me here—to this kitchen, this man, these children. To this moment of quiet domesticity that feels more genuine than anything in my recent memory.

"Dinner's ready," Jake announces, his voice lifting to reach the girls. "Emma, clear your homework. Sophie, wash your hands."

The family dinner's routine unfolds around me. Emma setting mismatched plates on the table, Sophie carrying napkins, Jake transferring the bubbling mac and cheese to a serving dish. I stand awkwardly, unsure of my role in this tableau.

"You can sit here," Sophie declares, patting the chair beside hers. "It's Mommy's chair, but she's in heaven now, so she won't mind."

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