Page 24 of Protected By the Single Dad Sheriff

The reminder of his daughters sobers me instantly. "Right. Breakfast."

We dress quickly—me in yesterday's clothes, Jake in clean jeans and a faded t-shirt that hugs his broad shoulders in a way that makes me want to undress him all over again. Before we leave the bedroom, he pulls me into one last embrace.

"No regrets?" he asks, searching my face.

I shake my head, smiling up at him. "Not a single one."

Downstairs, the girls have indeed gotten out cereal boxes, along with eggs, maple syrup, chocolate chips, and what appears to be every fruit in the refrigerator.

"We're making a special breakfast!" Sophie announces proudly. "Because Miss Isabella is here!"

"That's very thoughtful," Jake says, eyeing the chaos on the counter with good-natured resignation. "How about I handle the stove parts, and you two can be my assistants?"

Emma immediately begins organizing the ingredients while Sophie tugs me toward the table.

"You sit here," she instructs. "Next to Daddy's chair."

I obey, watching the Reynolds family morning routine unfold with a mixture of wonder and longing. Jake moves around the kitchen, cracking eggs one-handed while simultaneously flipping pancakes and answering Sophie's stream-of-consciousness questions. Emma sets the table with precision, placing a fresh wildflower in a small vase by my plate.

"It's a welcome gift," she explains when she catches me admiring it. "Sophie picked it this morning."

"It's beautiful," I tell her. "Thank you both."

Jake brings over plates piled with pancakes, some shaped like lopsided hearts, others dotted with chocolate chips or blueberries.

"Breakfast is served," he announces, taking the seat beside me.

As the girls dig in enthusiastically, Jake's hand finds mine beneath the table, giving it a gentle squeeze. I squeeze back, overwhelmed by the simple joy of this moment—sitting at a kitchen table with maple syrup-sticky children, morning sunshine streaming through windows that need washing, a man who looks at me like I'm some kind of miracle.

I ran away from my wedding less than twenty-four hours ago, fled a life that had been meticulously planned for me since birth. I should be terrified, overwhelmed, regretting my impulsive decision.

Instead, watching Sophie demonstrate how to make a pancake mustache while Jake laughs and Emma pretends to be mortified, I feel like I've finally found my way home.

Epilogue - Jake

The house is quiet when I pull up in the cruiser, but warm light spills from the living room windows, painting rectangles of gold on the front lawn. It's these moments—coming home to my family—that make every difficult day worth it.

I hang my gun belt in the locked cabinet by the door. The sound of the Paw Patrol theme song drifts from the living room, along with Sophie's enthusiastic narration.

"And that's Marshall, James. He's the fire pup. He's clumsy but brave, just like Daddy says you'll be someday."

I pause in the doorway, taking in the scene before me. Isabella is curled up on our oversized couch, her paint-stained maternity overalls testament to a productive day in her studio. Our eighteen-month-old son is propped against her chest, his dark curls wild and untamed like his mother's. Emma, now thirteen and starting to show hints of the young woman she'll become, is sprawled on the floor with her homework spread around her. And Sophie, ten going on thirty, sits cross-legged in front of the TV, taking her big sister duties very seriously.

"Everything okay at the station?" Isabella asks, noticing me first.

Her smile still hits me the same way it did that first night, like sunshine breaking through clouds.

"Just paperwork today," I assure her, crossing to kiss her hello. James immediately reaches for me with grabby hands, his favorite word "Dada" tumbling from his lips.

"Someone missed you," Isabella laughs as I scoop up our son. He immediately grabs my beard with both hands—a habit that should be annoying but somehow never is.

"Dad," Emma looks up from her math homework. "Can you help me with these equations later? Mom tried but she admits she's useless at algebra."

"Hey!" Isabella protests good-naturedly. "I help with English and…Painting!"

It's an old joke between them. Emma had been skeptical of Isabella at first, testing boundaries and watching for any sign that this new woman might try to replace her mother's memory. But Isabella never tried to be Claire. Instead, she carved out her own space in our family, supporting Emma's softball dreams while admitting her own athletic limitations, helping with English homework but deferring to me for math and science.

"Speaking of paintings," I settle onto the couch with James, who's already half-asleep against my shoulder, "how did the gallery showing go?"

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