“What makes you think that?”

I raise my eyebrows. “Your scowl.”

“I’m not scowling.”

All I can do is laugh. For a second, Brody’s scowl deepens, then breaks. Not quite a smile, but the corner of his mouth quirks. It makes me feel like I’ve been crowned queen of all I survey.

Justin reaches up and grabs Brody’s mouth.

“Ow,” Brody says. “Dude, that hurts. Save the hooks for the fish.” He untangles Justin’s fingers from his lower lip. Justin puts both his baby hands on the sides of Brody’s face and smacks his forehead into Brody’s chin.

“Why?” Brody demands, lifting Justin up so they’re face-to-face. “Why do you want to hurt me, little man?”

Justin chortles and drools on Brody’s face.

“Oh, God,” Brody says. “You need a new diaper.”

He grabs the diaper bag, plops Brody down on a mat on one of the benches in the stern, and proceeds to execute a surprisingly speedy and hazard-free change. It’s been years since I babysat, and I was never an expert, but I can recognize true skill when I see it.

There’s something ridiculously hot about a tattooed biker bad boy changing a diaper without batting an eyelash.

He gets Justin dressed again, lets him lie on the seat, kicking his legs. He finds a bright colored toy with a million dangly bits and hands it to Justin, who alternates between shoving it in his mouth and hooting at the sky.

We both watch him, because babies. They’re full-time entertainment.

“Do you want kids?” I ask Brody.

He nods. “I didn’t think I did. And then this guy came along. So yeah, I do, but…”

He stops.

“What?”

He shrugs, and pulls the lure—the one from his dad—out of his pocket. Fidgets with it. I know him well enough by now to know it means something big’s bugging him.

He worries the body of the “fly” with his thumb, then sighs. “I don’t know if I’ve got what it takes.”

“What do you mean?”

“I got a taste of how much responsibility there is. And I guess I just don’t know if I’m the guy who signs up for that.”

“I think you could be. If you wanted to be.”

“Yeah,” he says.

I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn’t. He’s scowling again, and worrying the lure, and I don’t want to press.

“Hey,” he says, a moment later. “What about you? I’ve gotten to go on three of my favorite dates now: a motorcycle ride, a river fishing expedition, and a day on the boat. What about yours? What’s your dream date?”

I have to think about it a minute. “This is pretty great,” I admit, surveying the gorgeous scene around us. “But I think my favorite would be if someone ever cooked for me.”