Her eyes went wide. “Tomorrow . . . night?” When he gave a sharp nod, she thought for a moment. “It’ll be Friday, and I don’t have any appointments after four. I can close up a bit early. Dinner, I assume?”

Dinner sounded like a smart choice. He nodded again.

“Are we bringing Libby? Should I bring some stuff to keep her busy?”

Bring his daughter on a date? Hell no. He loved Libby. Loved her more than life itself. But the thoughts he’d been having about Becca were distinctly unchaste and he didn’t want to be trying to get romantic with the pretty hairdresser with his daughter around. A four-year-old—a bored one especially—would quickly take over a date.

Besides. He knew she liked Libby. He wanted to see if she liked him enough. To see if she was having the same flirty—dirty—thoughts he was having. “Jack’ll watch her.”

Of course, he’d have to ask Jack, but his younger brother probably didn’t have plans and Hank would offer him some money. Problem solved.

“Right. Okay.” She turned her face up and gazed expectantly at him.

He nodded.

A flash of disappointment crossed her face, as if his response hadn’t been what she’d expected. Did she . . . did she want him to kiss her? He wasn’t sure if he was ready for that, yet. Not with Libby sitting right there. Not with that expectant look on her face.

He didn’t even know if he was good at kissing. Adria had told him he was, but Adria had said a lot of stuff and then reached for his wallet, so she couldn’t be trusted. So Hank nodded again, and then he felt like a damn idiot just nodding all over the place. He went and scooped up his daughter without a word, crossed the room, nodded at her again—damn it—and then left the salon without a look back.

He was going to be nervous as shit for the next twenty-four hours.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Hank groomed his beard as he stared into the mirror and tried not to sweat. He’d already changed shirts once due to his nervous sweating, and at this rate, he wouldn’t have a damn shirt to wear by the time the actual date rolled around. So he concentrated on his beard, trimming a stray hair here and there because he thought maybe that would please Becca.

And for some reason, tonight he wanted to please her. It wasn’t that he had expectations . . . well, hell. He kind of had some expectations, even if he told himself he shouldn’t. He was hoping for a kiss, maybe. Maybe get to touch her hair. She seemed like a good-girl type, the type that would need several dates before she even considered doing anything with a guy. Not that there was anything wrong with that . . . he just didn’t have experience in that sort of territory whatsoever. So he had to think like a gentleman . . . and he worried he was going to mess it up something bad.