“You know,” I say, kicking another rock. “I think I’m more of a hiring guy.”

“What do you mean?” Dad asks.

“I think instead of being the handyman, I’ll hire someone to come and do those things for me.”

“Nah.” Dad waves a hand through the air. “You have to do it yourself. It’s a part of the process.”

I make a face. “Or maybe I’ll just contribute to the local economy. Why do a job when someone else knows how to do it better and probably would appreciate the business?”

“Because you’re a Beck, that’s why. Besides, I’ll give you six months, and you’ll be desperate for a project. Every retiree needs a good project to work on. Hell, maybe we can do them together someday.”

Fish grins. “I think your boy found a project today.”

I smirk.

Damn, that woman.

I felt Palmer walk into Fletcher’s this afternoon. I don’t know any other way to explain it.

The air changed as soon as she stepped foot into the restaurant. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and I was compelled to turn around.

And there she was, walking into the room like a beautiful storm.

Her clothes were slightly baggy, skimming over curves that I could barely make out. A wild mess of strawberry-blonde hair was piled on top of her head, and the irritation on her pretty face was so adorable that I laughed out loud.

I’ve never been pulled to a person like I was today. I had to talk to her. Usually, if a woman piques my interest, I sit back and wait. They come to me. They always do. But relying on that strategy seemed too risky. Fish, always observant, gave me the excuse I needed and goaded me with his stupid bet.

Stupid, but it worked. I needed a reason to talk to her and didn’t have time to come up with an opening.

I slip my phone out of my pocket and reread the text I sent her earlier.

Hey, it’s Cole. It was really nice meeting you today. If you change your mind about dinner, just let me know. I’ll be in town for a few days.

She hasn’t texted me back.

For some reason, that information stretches my grin from ear to ear.

“I need to get going,” Fish says as he shakes my father’s hand. “Call me if there’s anything else your boy here can’t manage—oof!”

He leans forward, holding his stomach like the punch I just threw at him jokingly hurt.

“Get out of here before I don’t pull the next punch back,” I tease.

Fish walks backward. “Call me tomorrow, Cole. Good to see ya, Lawrence. Give Casey a kiss on the cheek for me.”

We say our goodbyes as Fish turns and walks around the house and out of sight.

I wipe my brow with the back of my hand.

“Well, what do you think?” Dad asks, sitting on the edge of the picnic table.