Then she looked up. “Also, for the record, you have really nice forearms.”

He put the book down. “Someone who laughs at my bad jokes,” he said. “Someone who doesn’t mind when I leave my socks on the floor. Someone brave enough to tell me when I’m wrong.”

It started with small things. She’d appear in the garage while he was fixing his bicycle, handing him wrenches before he asked. She started using his brand of pine-scented shampoo. At dinner, she’d listen to his work stories—dull anecdotes about inventory spreadsheets—with the rapt attention of an audience at a Shakespearean tragedy.

“Dad,” she said, her voice soft. “Can I ask you something?”

“Supermodels leave their socks on the floor, too, honey. But no. Not my type.”