Libby popped her thumb out of her mouth. “Daddy, you said a bad word.”

He nodded gravely at his daughter. “I did. I’m sorry.” He glanced over at Becca again, waiting.

“No, you didn’t mess up.” She locked the salon door and then headed over to the door to her house. “Come on inside.” Even if it wasn’t a date like he’d said, they probably still needed to talk.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Once inside the house, she was distracted by Libby, who wanted to help her make dinner. Her stomach was in knots, and the last thing she wanted to do was make a big dinner. Her phone pinged in her pocket, and pinged again with incoming texts.

“Daddy’s going to make dinner,” Hank declared, taking his daughter into her living room. “Why don’t you sit and watch Nemo?”

Once the little girl was settled, her gaze rapt on the screen, Hank touched Becca’s arm and steered her toward her kitchen. He searched her face, gazing down at her for so long that she wondered what he was possibly thinking. Finally, he spoke. “Hungry?”

She bit her lip. “Not really.”

He grimaced. “I should probably make something anyhow. You mind pancakes again?” He went to her pantry and opened it.

“You’re . . . cooking again?”

Hank glanced at her from over his shoulder. “I wasn’t demanding that you cook for me and my kid, no.”

Ironic, considering she’d spent the last month doing just that without a word of thanks from him. But she didn’t point that out. She just silently handed him the butter as he put a skillet on the stove.

“So . . .” Hank said as he stirred the pancake mix, “that was Greg.”

Ugh. Did she want to talk about Greg? To air out all her dirty laundry? To show him just how clingy a woman she was? But was it even worth trying to hide it? It’d come out no matter who he asked, and he already knew the bitter end of what had happened, as she had told him foolishly many months ago. Even Doc knew all about her sad love story. She supposed it was best for him to hear the whole thing from her. Becca sighed. “It’s a long story and not a great one.”

Hank leaned over past the cabinets, glancing into the living room to check on his daughter. “I’ve got time. Nemo and Dory don’t get home for at least another hour.”

Her lips twitched with amusement. “You on a first-name basis with a kid’s fish movie?”

The look he gave her was solemn. “That movie is a classic . . . and no one sings in it, which means I tolerate it a lot more than most kids’ movies.”

She bit back a giggle at that. “Don’t like it when they sing?”

He shuddered. Actually shuddered. “No.”