Page 7 of Protected By the Single Dad Sheriff

Tomorrow. The word hangs in the air, reminding me that I have no idea what her plans are beyond the next few hours. Not that it's any of my business. My job is to ensure she's safe, not to insert myself into her personal crisis.

"Let me know if you need anything else," I tell her, suddenly feeling awkward in my uniform. "We can wait in the car."

"Actually," Libby interjects, "I just got in a new shipment of those comic books Emma likes. They're on the display by the register if you all want to look while I help Miss Rosewood."

Emma's eyes light up. "Dad, can we?"

I hesitate, looking at Isabella. "If that's okay with you?"

"Of course," she says quickly. "I won't be long."

I nod, grateful for the distraction for the girls. As we follow everyone inside, I send a quick text to Doris at the station: *Still with the bride. Taking her to get clothes, then will assess next steps. Call if any emergencies.*

The response comes immediately: *Roger that. Town's quiet. Mrs. Laura called again about her cat. Told her to check the pantry.*

I smile despite myself, pocketing my phone as Sophie tugs me toward a display of stuffed animals while Emma makes a beeline for the comics. Libby leads Isabella to the back of the store, already pulling items from various racks.

"Dad, look!" Sophie holds up a plush wolf. "He looks like the ones in the woods behind our house."

"Very realistic," I agree, checking the price tag and wincing. Twenty-five dollars for something she'll likely forget about in a week. "Maybe for your birthday, Soph."

Her lower lip juts out in a practiced pout. "But that's forever away."

"Three months," I correct her. "Not forever."

"Feels like forever," she sighs dramatically, reluctantly returning the wolf to its shelf.

I ruffle her hair, glancing toward the back of the store where Isabella has disappeared into a changing room with an armful of clothes. My daughters aren't the only ones who've been immediately drawn to her.

There's something magnetic about her presence—the combination of vulnerability and fierce determination in those green eyes. The way she speaks directly and honestly, even about her own complicated situation.

Or maybe I'm just out of practice at interacting with women who aren't grieving widows, concerned teachers, or my female deputies.

"Sheriff?" Libby approaches, lowering her voice. "Your, um, friend mentioned she doesn't have a place to stay tonight."

"She's not my—" I stop myself, realizing how defensive I sound. "We just met. She needed assistance."

Libby gives me a look that says she doesn't quite believe me. "Well, in any case, I suggested the Cedar Inn, but they're booked solid this weekend with that fishing tournament. The closest vacancy is in Millfield, about forty minutes from here."

Great. Another complication. "Thanks for letting me know."

"She seems... nice," Libby adds.

"I wouldn't know," I reply, more curtly than intended. "Like I said, we just met."

Libby holds up her hands in surrender. "Just making conversation. It's not every day we get a runaway bride in designer couture shopping for jeans and sensible shoes."

Before I can respond, there's a commotion from the changing area. Isabella emerges in dark jeans, a simple green t-shirt that exactly matches her eyes, and flat sandals. The transformation is startling—from fairytale princess to casual beauty in an instant. She's pulled her hair into a messy ponytail, and without the elaborate gown, I can better appreciate the natural grace in her movements.

My daughters notice immediately.

"You look like a normal person now!" Sophie exclaims with characteristic bluntness.

"Sophie," I warn, but Isabella just laughs.

"Thank you, I think," she replies, smoothing her hands over the jeans. "It feels good to be in normal clothes again."

"What about your wedding dress?" Emma asks, practical as always.

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