Now she was mad. Real mad. And mostly mad at him.

And he didn’t like that much. He told himself that he shouldn’t care. That he certainly didn’t need to ask anyone out. If he did, he imagined he could find someone other than her, right? It didn’t have to be Becca Loftis.

Never mind that he stared at her picture far more often than was seemly.

Never mind that he jerked his dick to it several times a day, and the number was increasing over time. Never mind that hearing her voice or her laughter made his entire body react.

Never mind that she loved his daughter and flirted with him.

But those things did matter . . . which was why Hank stood outside the salon like some fucking creep, staring into the windows at the woman inside as she chattered and laughed with the woman in the chair in front of her. She expertly wielded tiny scissors, her hands moving rapidly as she cut wet hair and listened to the conversation, all the while keeping an eye on Libby, who was coloring in the corner.

Libby ran up, interrupting Becca as she cut the woman’s hair, displaying a picture she’d drawn, and instead of reprimanding his daughter, Becca acted like she’d just been given a gift. The woman in the chair oohed and aahed over Libby’s picture, and then Becca took Libby by the hand, ignoring the smiling customer for a moment, and went over to a wall.

It was a wall entirely covered with Libby’s terrible four-year-old art. Some people thought their kids were gifted because they could scribble shit, but Hank was a practical sort. It was cute, but it was still crap. Crap was fine, because she was a kid, though. But Becca acted like each one was a treasure, and that did funny things to him.

Adria had never given two shits about her own kid, so he’d always figured his dick was bad at picking out the right women. Yet here he was, lusting over a soft, too-pretty woman who also seemed to adore his daughter. So maybe his dick wasn’t that bad at this sort of thing after all.

He needed to ask her out.

She’d never offered again. Hank hoped that didn’t mean she had changed her mind about things, or that she no longer found him attractive. Maybe she just wasn’t the type to pry . . . he hoped.

So he stared into the window at Becca as she worked, trying to think of the right thing to say.

Apologize for this morning? Nah. It’d come across as weak. Besides, he didn’t believe in starting a relationship with an apology. No, he’d have to think of something else.