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“That was his advice?” A small frown tugged her brows together. “I do like you.”

“I know that, even when I’m making you crazy. It’s mutual.” He rolled a hand in punctuation, expression open and earnest. “But again, us spending time together that isn’t about work or the kids or the dogs is probably a really good idea. So . . .”

He reached in his back pocket and flipped his field book on the coffee table. Her lashes fell on a hushed laugh. “A list. Why am I not surprised?”

“No list.” He ripped a page free and then tore it into smaller strips. He slid three in her directions and kept three for himself.

She cast a suspicious look over the small pieces of paper. “What am I supposed to do with these?”

Her Montblanc joined the scraps. He uncapped his own pen and scrawled on his first strip. “Casual date ideas. Ways we like to spend time as a couple. Easier if they’re things we can do at home or with the kid in tow, but don’t let that limit you. I don’t mind springing for a sitter.”

The blank paper stared up at her, mocking her. She spun her pen in a circle. “Should I list the shower on one of these?”

“Don’t be a smartass.” Without looking at her, he scratched his pen across the second slip and folded it in half.

She fingered the uneven edge on her first piece of paper, her mind blank in the worst way. Honestly, the task should not be this challenging, except the activities she would list almost always led to physical contact, which led them to the inevitable intimacy and—

The flick of his finger against her knuckle stopped her ruminating cold. He didn’t look up at her. “Get out of your head and write your ideas down.”

“Stop giving me orders.” She straightened her shoulders. “You are not my supervisory agent.”

“Technically, that is not one hundred percent accurate.” He finished writing on his last strip and folded it. “You analyze for my teams, so, yeah, I’m kinda your supervisory agent from time to time.”

“I hardly think so—” She frowned as he snagged a blank scrap from her side of the table. “What are you doing?”

“You weren’t writing anything on it.” He scratched out an idea and reached for a second slip.

She snatched up the remaining two before he could touch them. “That is not how this works.”

“It was my idea.” Grinning, he touched two fingers to his chest. “This is totally how it works if you waste time overthinking.”

“Your need to be in authority and control is pathological.” Ignoring his laugh, she scrawled the word movie on one slip and folded it. On the next, she almost tore the paper with the force of her pen, forming the word volleyball.

“Good job.” He snagged the folded slips and cupped them with the other four in his palm, jiggling them.

“Condescending jackass.” She brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

Ignoring the insult, he extended his hand, folded ideas cradled within. “Pick one.”

Unsure how this idea of his would improve their situation — because it hadn’t so far — she lifted her gaze heavenward and plucked a slip free. Unfolding it, she swallowed a horrified groan.

Basketball

“Let me see.” He snagged the paper before she could crumple it. A grin spread over his face and he tucked the other ideas in his pocket. “All right. Let’s go.”

She resisted his easy tug on her wrist. “Tick, I hate basketball.”

“We’re just going to go shoot for fun.” He levered her to her feet. With a wide grin and hair falling over his forehead, he looked younger, lighter.

With a sigh, she gave in. She possessed no desire to wipe that expression from his face, and if the only cost to her was a half hour of a despised activity . . .

She picked up the baby monitor, and on the way through the kitchen, he dropped the paper choices on the tray on the island. She trailed him to the garage, where he grabbed a basketball, starting a casual dribble to the driveway. The girls loved the sport as much as he did, and Callie and Ivey often wandered down the street to play with the three of them in the drive while Caitlin hung back to watch.

He tossed an easy three-point toward the goal, net swishing, and jogged to retrieve the ball. Caitlin tucked her hands in her back pockets.

Really, she should text Callie to come play with him because she didn’t know where to start here and how exactly was this going to make her feel better?

The ball thudded a light tattoo against the concrete, a familiar rhythm in the summer night. “Come here.”