“Just wondering why you turned her down if she’s attractive.” His eyes widened. “She was ugly, wasn’t she? That’s why she wanted you.”

“She wasn’t ugly,” he gritted out. “She was real pretty. She was . . . short. Nice.” He tried to remember the woman’s features. He remembered her hair, her smile . . . and the way her tits moved when she shifted. Not that he was supposed to be thinking about that sort of thing. Didn’t seem right.

“But you didn’t wanna go out with her,” Jack restated, grabbing a chair and flipping it around, then straddling it. He sat at the table and gave his older brother a hard stare. “Did you pull a Caleb?”

Caleb was their other brother, and he was quiet and polite . . . most times. Around women, he got all red-faced and said nothing at all—and when he did say something, it usually came out wrong. Jack still liked to tease poor Caleb about the last time he liked a woman—Tina Tattersall was wearing a pretty, low-cut blouse and tending bar back in Anchorage when they’d stopped in for supplies one time. After dreaming about her for six months, Caleb had walked up to her and instead of saying, “Hi, Tina,” he’d said, “Hi, Tits,” and then turned around and walked out of the bar.

He’d never gone back.

“Becca isn’t ugly,” Uncle Ennis declared. “She’s a very sweet girl. Very lovely. And she hasn’t dated anyone since Greg left her at the altar.” Ennis patted the table. “I think you should go out with her.”

“No,” Hank said quietly again. “Not interested.”

“If she’s so pretty, maybe I’ll go say hello to her,” Jack said, scratching at his unkempt beard. “She can’t be all that picky if she asked you out, and I’m of a mind to start datin’ since I’m here.”

That was enough conversation for him tonight. Hank got to his feet, glared at Jack, glared at Uncle Ennis—who was grinning like a fool—and headed up to his room. At the top of the stairs, he pushed Libby’s door open wider and checked on her. His little girl was asleep, thumb shoved in her mouth, clutching a teddy bear, the blankets kicked off. He tiptoed in, replaced the blankets, smoothed her hair . . . and realized too late that he’d just gotten glitter on his hand.

Pink glitter.

Damn it.

Hank quietly left the room and went to the bathroom to wash off the glitter. Shit was everywhere, and somehow it had gotten into his beard in the last thirty seconds. How the heck did that happen? Frowning at his reflection, he scrubbed at his beard and then stared at himself. He saw a deep scowl, heavy, dark brows, and a long beard. Nothing that would entice a pretty, sweet woman like Becca to instantly ask him out on a date.