Betty shook her head, no.
Beau answered, yes.
“Are you crazy? They’re just waiting to catch us together!”
“But they won’t,” Beau said silkily. He pulled on a ball cap he’d stuffed into his back pocked, a large pair of mirrored aviators, and dangled a set of keys in the air.
“What are those?” she asked, almost afraid to hear his answer.
Beau leaned close, his warm breath on her neck and she shivered when he spoke.
“These are keys to your chariot.”
“You mean that piece of shit Beetle in the driveway?”
He grinned. “Is there any other?”
“You’re weird.” But her tone was light and she turned before he could see the grin on her face and followed her father down the hall.
“You already said that.”
Truthfully, Betty Jo didn’t care if anyone saw them. She didn’t care if the freaking God of the Internet found them and zapped their pictures to the four corners of the world. Hell, even Hollywood Rag could have at it and she wouldn’t give a goddamn.
And that was something to be truly scared of.
Trent Barker slid into the back seat, which meant that Betty was riding shotgun. They pulled out of the driveway and were nearly out of town when they rolled to a stop at the last traffic light.
A car pulled up beside them and before she knew what was happening, Beau’s hand was on the back of her neck and he forced her down. Down across his lap. Right there where his crotch was.
“What the hell are you doing?” she snapped.
“Don’t want anyone to recognize you.”
His hand was warm on the back of her neck, his thumb rolling across her skin. She felt his touch reach into her…from the top of her head to the bottom of her toes. It was a hot, delicious feeling that left goosebumps on her skin, warm fuzzies in her heart and…
Oh. My. God. Get it together, woman.
She dug her nails into his thighs, felt him stiffen beneath her. “Let me the hell up.”
But the pressure was still there and he held her in place. “Hold on, Barker. It’s a bunch of photographers.”
“Shit.” Really?
She turned slightly and glanced up at him. Felt her heart turn over when he smiled down at her, and rolled his damn thumb along the back of her neck again.
“Ah, Mr. Simon?”
Beau’s gaze slid to the mirror so he could see in the back. “Yes, Trent?”
“That there is the preacher’s wife, Darla Stone and her best friend Marianne Phibbs.”
Son-of-a-bitch.
Betty’s nails dug in harder and with a chuckle he let her go, accelerating as he did so.
“What?” I thought it was a bunch of paparazzi!”
He flashed that grin at her—the one that usually got him whatever the hell he wanted. He wanted Betty. She saw that now, but that didn’t mean she had to make it easy for him.