And that should have made him comfortable because this was the Betty Jo he knew. The Betty Jo he could handle. The other one? The one who hid just beneath the surface? He had a feeling that, that one, could break a man if he wasn’t careful.
Yet, he thought that maybe the man lucky enough to find his way past all those barriers, the man lucky enough to get to the real woman underneath…That guy would be one lucky son-of-a-bitch.
Chapter Fifteen
IT TOOK A few moments for Betty to gather her thoughts. She tugged her hair forward and let it fall, covering the tattoo that was inked into her skin like a scar.
It was a scar. It was a reminder that she could never lose control.
A reminder of her past.
Carefully, she shuffled everything inside herself, until she felt the familiar mask slip back into place and she was able to look Beau in the eye. Even then it took a second to settle.
Why did he have to look so damn good? And why was something hot and pulsing, curling inside her?
Damn him to hell. He’d been a thorn in her side since the first time she’d met him.
His blue eyes shone from the candles lit in the foyer, and his mouth was open slightly, giving her a peek at even white teeth.
His blond hair was messy, waving from the heat and curling around the collar of his white button-down white shirt—a shirt that was open, revealing just enough of the tanned skin beneath to drive the women crazy. His sleeves were rolled up revealing his own tattoo, his jeans were old, worn, and belted so that they rode low. She was willing to bet if he lifted his arm, more than a tease of flat stomach would be seen.
Again with the fluttering in her stomach. What the hell? Was she fifteen again?
Her eyes traveled the length of him and rested on his Birkenstocks. Leave it to Beau to buck tradition.
She cleared her throat.
“Are you stalking me now?”
Good. She sounded normal. Not as if she was about to lose her shit.
He smiled—a slow kind of thing—but this time she was ready for it and the fluttering in her stomach, the heat that pulsed even lower, didn’t rise.
It was still there, but she could handle it.
Beau held his hands aloft, palms out. “Guilty.”
And damn if her eyes didn’t wander down—for just a second—and yep, there was that flat stomach. She saw the narrow strip of hair in the center that disappeared beneath his jeans and she was willing to bet he was commando.
Betty’s fingernails curled into her palms. Where the hell had that thought come from?
Better yet, what the fuck was wrong with her? She thought of the whiskey she’d tossed back before she came and silently cursed Matt. This was his fault.
“See something you like?” he asked.
“Not really.”
He was quiet for a few moments, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “What’s going on, Betty?”
“What do you want?” she asked bluntly.
“You.”
Wait. What?
“Excuse me?”
He took a step closer and it took everything that Betty had in her, to not move back.