Conceal (The Barker Triplets 3)

“Just asking the question.”

She stared into his eyes, not liking the turn their conversation had taken. “I’ll be fine.”

He stared at her so intensely that Betty looked away. She had to be fine. This was her shot and dammit, she was taking it. Beau Simon might throw her off her game, but there was no way she was in danger of falling in love with him. Hell, Betty didn’t even know what it felt like to fall in love, but she was pretty sure it was a lot deeper than desire.

“Okay,” Matt said softly as he got to his feet and held out his hand. “You ready to get the hell out of here? Or did you want to whisper sweet nothings in Beau Simon’s ear?”

She made a face and jumped to her feet, slipping her hand into Matt’s.

“Let’s go.”

Betty was strong enough to admit that she was attracted to Beau, but she needed to be adult enough not to act on it. Sucked that it was the whole adult thing she always had problems with.

Resolve in place, Betty let Matt lead her back outside. She would do this, or—in epic Betty Jo Barker fashion—she would go down in flames trying.

She just hoped that she didn’t go down, because if she did, Betty was pretty damn sure she’d never get up.

Chapter Sixteen

IT WAS ONLY six in the morning and already Beau was in a shit mood. Though to be truthful, his shit mood had started right about the time he saw Betty Jo leave the barbecue with, the hulk.

Matt Hawkins was his name, according to her sister Bobbi, and boy did she like to talk about him.

Matt Hawkins, the man who had apparently sowed as many wild oats as Betty and was equally as infamous—at least in this small town.

Matt Hawkins, the man who liked his booze a little too much and who knew what else the guy was into. Drugs? Maybe. Weed? Most likely.

Matt Hawkins, the man with tree trunks for legs and arms the size of a small child.

According to Bobbi, the guy was bad news, so of course Betty was hooked up with him. He’d been all over her, his hand slipping down her waist to rest on her ass as he steered her in Beau’s direction.

And then he’d had the fucking gall to wink and nod at Beau like they were buddies or something. He’d said, ‘see ya tomorrow, dude,’ before proceeding to shove his tongue down her throat.

They’d left together—right after Betty had yanked her mouth away from his—most likely to go back to his place where his big meaty paws would be all over her. Touching Betty in places that Beau had thought a lot about.

Places he’d once had.

Places that maybe, he wanted again.

“Jesus,” he muttered, rolling out of bed and nearly landing on his ass. He shouldn’t be thinking about Betty Jo in terms other than strictly professional ones. And he sure as hell shouldn’t be thinking about the sexy belly-button ring, or the flat, smooth stomach above her obscenely low rise jeans.

He glanced down his aching cock. Jesus. This wasn’t good.

He stretched tight muscles and pulled on his boxers, cursing when he stubbed his toe on the end of the bed. He hopped out of the bedroom into the main area of the loft, limping, cursing, his only thought coffee and maybe a quick shower to relieve—

“Hollywood.”

His eyes narrowed as he swung around to find Tucker leaning against the island in the kitchen, a mug of coffee in his hands and a big ass grin on his face. The guy had taken the sofa, there was no way he should look so damn chipper.

“Don’t call me that,” Beau bit out, crossing the room and grabbing the cup Tuck had left out for him.

“Someone’s a nasty dickhead this morning.”

“Whatever,” Beau murmured as he took his first shot of caffeine and glanced down at a pair of heels. He frowned.

They were white. About four inches in height.

“Ah, yeah. About those…”