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She waited for Duke to fill the jug, and Matt felt her eyes on him. She made this sound—the one that told him she was digging for something. Guess he couldn’t hide from her forever. She wasn’t the type to let anything slide past.
“What?” he asked, nodding to one of the guys seated a few stools away.
“I had a chat with Grace, yesterday.”
“Yeah?” He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised, considering Grace was Betty’s sister-in-law.
Duke slid a full jug across the bar and Betty grabbed it. She didn’t move and he knew she wasn’t anywhere near done with him. The fact that she hadn’t brought it up earlier was some kind of miracle.
“She’s flying in tomorrow and coming to the house for dinner.” Betty paused for a few moments, her blue tipped fingers holding onto the jug. “She asked if you’d be there.”
Matt didn’t react—people thought Betty was a good actor? Hell, she had nothing on him. He’d been acting in some form or another his entire life it seemed. But the truth was, it felt good to know Grace was asking after him. They’d talked a few times since she’d left Monday. But it had only been a few text messages—Matt had never been good at the communication thing.
“What did you tell her?” he asked lightly, taking another sip from his mug.
“What do you think I told her? Of course you’re coming for dinner.” Betty eyed him a little too closely. “Did you sleep with her?”
Okay. She was his best friend. His go-to when things got rough. And sure they’d been through a lot together. But there was no way in hell he was discussing Grace Simon with her. Not now anyway. This wasn’t Nashville. He was still trying to figure things out himself, so what good would it do?
He nodded toward her table. “Your sisters are waiting for their beer.”
“Oh my God, Matt. I told you to leave her alone. Why didn’t you leave her alone?” Gone was the lightness and as he turned to look at Betty, he realized a few things.
One, she was pissed at him—and not just a
little bit. She was in full-on anger mode.
And two, she was looking at him as if he’d committed some kind of reprehensible crime. She was looking at him the same way he used to look at Delilah.
That got his back up and Matt pushed away from the bar, suddenly just as angry as Betty was.
“I’m not having this conversation with you.”
“Damn right you are,” she yelled, slamming the full jug onto the bar, and splashing a good amount of it all over his sleeve.
Neither one of them cared that they were in the middle of the Roadside Grill. Betty had always been up for causing a scene, and Matt Hawkins was known for it. The couple sitting beside him scrambled off their stools, and made some room. Probably a smart move considering the anticipated dust-up.
Matt studied Betty through narrowed eyes. He didn’t have what it took to deal with her right now. He hadn’t been sleeping well. He was pissed off, tired, and done with people.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Matt shoved his way past Betty and the crowd parted like the red sea. His anger grew with each step and he’d just made it to the parking lot when someone yanked on his jacket and damn near pulled it off.
One guess as to who that someone was.
“Don’t you walk away from me like that,” Betty Jo snapped, glaring at him. “Let’s have an adult conversation. Let’s talk about Grace.”
“I don’t want to talk about Grace.” He tugged his hat from his pocket.
“You don’t…” Her eyes widened. “We always talk about the women you bang.”
His anger was near to boiling and he had to take a step back. “Watch your mouth, Betty Jo. I don’t want to hear you talk about Grace like that. Understand me? She’s not…”
He stumbled over his words and then swore like a sailor. There was no rationale behind his anger—at least none that he could think of. But if anyone other than Betty Jo had been in front of him, he just might have thrown a punch.
She wrapped her arms around her body, shivering in the cold night air, and her eyes narrowed as she studied him in silence.
“She’s not like the others. Is that what you were going to say?”
Matt’s lips were clamped together so tightly that pain radiated along his jaw. Muttering a bunch of words that would never earn him a seat in church, he shoved his hands into his pockets. Because it was either that or he would hit something.
