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“Hey, darlin’, you make sure to order us up a jug of cold draft, will ya?” Beau said warmly.
Her eyes nearly popped out of her head and she began to nod as her face flushed a deep shade of red. “Yes, sir. I mean, sure…are you…are you sitting in my section? Good lord are you sitting in my section?” That ended on a squeak and Tucker rolled his shoulders, his white T-shirt damp, as he grinned at Beau and then back at the woman. She was on the plus side of forty, but definitely looked after herself.
“If you don’t mind,” Beau answered.
“No,” she said quickly. “Not at all. Sir Simon. I mean, Beau Simon. I’ll ah…I’ll bring you out a jug right away.”
“Thanks. And sweetie? If Logan Forest is inside, you wanna ask him to join us?”
She scooted over and swung open the gate to let them onto the patio without going inside first. It was hot, so there weren’t a lot of customers out there, but the few that were—a family of four and a few couples scattered about—eyed him with interest and a few grabbed cell phones.
Tucker nodded to a table in the corner, one that offered shade from the pagoda above, and Beau followed his brother over, making sure his back was to the patrons.
“This looks good,” Tucker said as he slid into the chair and glanced around. “Our backs are covered and we can keep an eye out on the teen invasion back there. Plus if we have to make a run for it, the bikes are close.”
“Relax, Tuck. It’s not LA.”
“You say that now.”
The door from inside The Grill swung open and Beau nodded at Logan Forest as he strode through, carrying a mug of beer. He was followed by Shane Gallagher, and the two men slid into the seats across from them, quick introductions following suit.
“How’s the bike?” Logan asked.
“Runs like a charm.” Beau settled back into his chair. “The design is perfect. Thanks for that.”
“Good to hear,” Logan replied. “Shane here, worked on it and his touch is legendary.”
“So, you boys playing in this celebrity tournament?” Beau asked.
“Damn right,” Shane answered with a grin. “Our hockey team has entered.”
The door slammed open again and they all glanced over.
“Shit,” Logan muttered. “This isn’t gonna be good.”
An obviously pissed off Betty Jo Barker marched across the patio, until she reached their table. She carefully placed two large jugs of beer in the center and straightened, hands on her hips as she glared at Beau.
Her hair was in a ponytail, swinging back and forth, and Beau’s eyes followed the curve of her cheek down to the pulse that beat erratically at her neck.
“Seriously?” she snapped. “You’re back in town for less than five minutes and manage to turn a perfectly capable woman into a babbling mess of girlie parts whose mouth and brain no longer function?”
Damn she looked fierce.
She looked at all of them in disgust and then turned around and marched her pretty little butt back into The Grill, where the door, once more, banged hard behind her.
“That’s gotta be some kind of record,” Logan said. “Even for Betty Jo.”
“Shit, Beau. What the hell did you do to piss her off? You just got here,” Shane said shaking his head.
Beau looked at the guys and shrugged. It’s not as if he had some magical insight into the workings of Betty Jo’s mind.
Tucker reached for the pitcher and proceeded to pour himself and Beau a mug. “So, I’m guessing that’s the infamous Betty Jo Barker. She looks different from the magazine pictures I’ve seen.”
“That’s because she’s got clothes on,” Logan replied dryly.
It was a light comment, but Beau didn’t much care for it.
“I guess,” Tucker said. “And if I’m reading the signals right, she’s not exactly a fan of yours.”
