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.

Trapping, he knew. Wilderness survival, he knew. What to do when a rutting moose wandered onto your property in the dead of winter? Knew how to handle that.

Take a pretty girl out to dinner and charm her?

He was way out of his depth.

“Daddy,” Libby squealed as she came racing into the bathroom and clung to his legs. “Uncle Jack says you’re seeing Miss Becca tonight and taking her to a movie. I want to go, too!”

A movie? It wasn’t more than dinner. He hadn’t thought past that. Should he have suggested a movie? Uncertain, he reached down and picked Libby up, settling her on the corner of the sink so she could watch him. “It’s a grown-up movie,” he told her gravely. “You wouldn’t like it.”

Her little face grew solemn. “Is it a movie with spider mans?”

She hated Spider-Man, which he thought was amusing. He leaned in and whispered confidentially. “Worse. It’s a scary movie.”

Her eyes went wide. “With ghosts?”

Uh-oh. If he even so much as brought up the g-word she’d be crawling into his bed for the next month. “Nope. Those don’t exist and you know it. It’s a scary movie about . . . fish.”

“Fish aren’t scary.” She giggled.

“They are if you have to kiss them.”