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Betty Jo kissed Beau’s cheek, murmured something in his ear and grabbed the half-eaten slice. She took a bite and then made a face.
“What the hell kind of peanut butter is this?”
“The natural kind,” Beau replied. “The healthy kind.”
She dropped it like a hot cake and with a scowl, chewed the piece she’d bitten off. She washed it down with a swig of coffee and muttered, “natural and healthy sucks.”
But Beau wasn’t paying attention to his woman. Nope. He was focused on Tucker, his gaze curious.
“Girlfriend? I thought you said she was just a friend?”
Shit, now Beau was gonna be like a dog with a bone. Tucker leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “Like I already told you, she is just a friend. Nothing more.”
“Uh huh. You also told us to stay the hell out of your business,” Betty said with a chuckle.
“Yeah,” Tucker retorted. “I did.”
“Like that’s gonna happen.” She smiled and reached for Beau’s toast again and almost took another bite before remembering she wasn’t so fond of what he’d spread across it.
Tucker glared at the two of them and thought that agreeing to golf in their foursome was probably the stupidest thing he’d done this weekend—other than coming to the damn wedding in the first place.
“What’s gonna happen?” a male voice said.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. He couldn’t catch a break.
Tucker reached for his coffee as their cousin joined them. Maverick Simon—or Rick as they called him—was a year younger than Tucker and had been a pain in his ass for as long as he could remember.
It wasn’t a bad pain—far from it—but a pain nonetheless. Rick had grown up a mile down the road, and they’d attended the same schools, shared the same girlfriends, and, along with Tucker’s brother Teague, had gotten into all kinds of shit.
For a while there, they were always in trouble and if it hadn’t of been for the firm hand of a father who cared, things might have gone south after their last escapade. The one that involved Senator McDaniel’s daughters, the borrowing of a boat, a case of beer, a bottle of fifty year old scotch, and a bag of weed that Teague had eventually taken the blame for.
Rick was like a brother to him, and Tucker shook his head, a grin on his face as he eyed up his cousin. He was dark like Tucker, but where Tucker’s looks was more GQ these days, Rick looked like a surfer from California. His hair was too long, he needed a good shave and there were at least three new tattoos on his forearms, from what Tucker could tell. But his eyes were light, his smile genuine and Tucker couldn’t shake the stupid-ass grin off his face as he gazed at him.
God damn, but it was good to see Rick.
“Never mind,” Tucker said, clasping his cousin on the shoulder. “Where the hell have you been lately?”
Rick was an incredible musician and could play more instruments than Tucker could name. He’d attended Julliard, but because his passion wasn’t exactly classical, he was currently scoring for movies and television, making edgy, dark, and heavy music that had won more than a few awards.
“Around,” Rick said wryly. He winked at Betty Jo. “You’re looking good, sugar.”
“Maverick, don’t try that crap on me,” Betty said with a chuckle. “You know it won’t work. My sugar is only for one guy these days. Besides,” Betty said softly. “We were discussing Tucker’s new girlfriend.”
“Ah, shit. Really?” Rick said with a frown. “Sonya Devonish? That’s real? And here I thought TMZ had it all wrong. You know because they get so much shit right.”
Irritated, Tucker glared across the table at Betty Jo. “Jesus Christ. Why the hell is everyone interested in my fucking sex life?”
“I didn’t say anything about sex,” Betty shot back. “You did.”
Ignoring Betty, he focused on Rick. “I’m not here with Sonya Devonish.”
“No,” Betty butted in, “You’re not.”
Tucker loved Betty Jo—he really did—but right now he’d love it if she would just shut the hell up.
“Trust me, Abby Matthews is not my girlfriend. She’s just a…”
He was so pissed off he couldn’t even get the words out. He hated when everyone was focused on him. Always had. And ever since Marley it had gotten worse.
