It was, without question, the worst thing that could have happened. This game of theirs—the push and pull, the breaking of barriers—was just that. A game. Playing, she’d called it. Pushing this way. Playing a little. Nowhere in that was there any hint of permanence. Nowhere in there did she promise anything more.

Fortunately, there were other issues he could focus on. None of them were more pressing than the desire that was taking over both his body and his reason, but he could pretend.

He had to.

“He told me he was going to the bar this morning,” Harrison said.

“He goes to bars before noon?”

“Morning, noon, and night.” He nodded. “I warned you that Parks men are no good. But he wasn’t wearing that when he left this morning. In fact…”

He’d thought it was odd at the time, but his father had left the house wearing the exact same pair of overalls he’d had on yesterday. The man might dress like a farmer left out too long in the sun, but he was pretty fastidious about cleanliness. All those years in police uniform would do that to a man.

“What is it?” Sophie asked.

Harrison shook his head, hoping to corral his thoughts into order. Bubbles, Sophie, his dad, red pants—it was a lot to take in.

“Nothing. I just…” He frowned. “He has been going to the bar a lot lately. More than usual. But not even he can nurse a drink for ten hours every day, and what’s he even doing in Spokane? He never leaves Deer Park unless he has no other choice.”

A sound almost like a squeak left Sophie’s mouth. “It is a date! A secret date he doesn’t want you to know about.”

He grunted to indicate how ridiculous he considered that idea.

She ignored it, latching on to the theme with an enthusiasm not even Bubbles could rival. “Do you think he met her online? Do you think they’re Facebook friends? Ooh, do you think he Tinders?”

“Sophie Vasquez, if you know what’s good for you, you will never refer to my dad and Tinder in the same sentence again.”

She giggled. “What? Everyone has needs.”

“Yes, and my father suppresses them the way all isolated, bad-tempered men do.”

“Is that what you do?” she asked.

He didn’t know how to answer her. It was the sort of question that would, a few weeks ago, have caused him to break down and turn off, storming away from the conversation. Now, however…

“Let’s just get the stupid red cotton-candy yarn,” he muttered.