He was terrible at dating. He knew that now, after painful hours with Becca in which he couldn’t think of a thing to say to her. She kept trying to make small talk, and all he could think about was kissing her. Touching her. Tasting her. He couldn’t concentrate through dinner because her hair was in this messy bun-thing and all these tendrils had escaped and kept touching her neck and he had to keep thinking about skinning and hunting and fishing to try to keep his dick from standing at attention.

Then those jerks at the bar had embarrassed her, showing the entire restaurant her panties—pink with big brown blotches on them. Squirrels, she’d said later. She’d completely frozen and he’d seen red. He was out of his seat before he could even think, and he’d wanted to hurt the man at the bar for daring to fucking touch her. The only reason he hadn’t was because Becca had told him not to.

But he’d seen how red and puffy her eyes were when she came out of the ladies’ room, and his chest had hurt. He’d wanted to fix it. He felt responsible. She hadn’t wanted him to, and he was of half a mind to drive all the way back to the bar and hope that the jerk was still there . . .

And then what? Have Becca bail him out of jail in the morning? Explain to Libby that her daddy didn’t know how to keep his temper in check? He stared down at his messy hands and sighed, then grabbed the package of wet wipes from the back seat of the truck. He always kept them on hand because Libby was a toddler disaster, and they were useful now to clean up the evidence that he couldn’t control himself when it came to Becca Loftis.

She was just . . . so damn pretty. And sweet. And soft. He shouldn’t have touched her when the movie came on, but he couldn’t help it. Her hair was down, and he thought he’d sneak a quick feel of it. Just a touch, and then he’d keep his hands to himself because he needed to treat her right, treat her like a lady.

He’d mauled her anyhow. Just shoved his big brutish hand in her panties and made her come because he’d needed to like he’d needed air. Afterward, he’d felt a little guilty, but not as guilty as he should have.

Because he’d wanted to do more. So much more. But . . . more resulted in Libby the last time he’d lost his head about a woman. Becca wasn’t much like Adria. She was softhearted and kind and gentle and she’d fall in love with him. She’d want to have a family.