I knew all the ladies at the Pink Pony. In the past, before my recent dates with Darlene, I’d often helped many of them with handyman work around their houses and apartments. As I stretched the soreness from my muscles and walked toward the garage, I debated who the her might be.
Immediately, I crossed Tina Patterson off the list. Tina had been my twin brother’s on-again, off-again girlfriend before Duane and Jessica James had started things up last year. I also eliminated Mae, Roxy, and Hannah. They were too young at nineteen, twenty, and twenty-two respectively. Hank knew I liked my women more mature, both in body type and disposition.
Slowing my steps, I peeked around the Ford parked just inside the garage, spinning the ring that held the keys to the truck and carrier around my index finger. The late summer morning was bright and clear, which meant I was blinded momentarily by the dim interior of the shop. I heard boots shuffling against cement paired with a short grunt.
“Cletus?” I asked tentatively, hoping the grunt belonged to my brother, even though instinct told me the sound hadn’t originated from a man.
Taking a bracing breath, I debated how best to put the stripper off, fairly certain I could spare us both a wasted ten minutes by offering a twenty if we could simply skip the striptease. I decided to suggest grabbing a coffee and doughnut from Daisy’s Nut House instead.
Yeah, one of Daisy’s doughnuts sounded real nice just about now.
My attention snagged on a figure clothed in shop coveralls, bent over the hood of a Chevy I recognized as belonging to Devron Stokes. Despite the baggy attire, her womanly shape was impossible to mistake. At my arrival, she reached for a rag at her pocket and wiped her hands. Straightening, she leisurely turned and faced me.
BAM.
My mouth fell open.
My back stiffened and my eyes widened because, holy shit, the woman was the most strikingly beautiful person I’d ever seen.
Now, I’d seen some beautiful people before, but this lady was altogether different. I mean, the woman defied description. Gorgeous didn’t come close to what this woman was. She was so gorgeous, even dressed in greasy coveralls the sight of her landed like a punch to my ribs. I lost my breath. And when she lifted her eyes, the blunt force of her attention left me stupefied.
I caught my weight on the cab of the truck to my left, my stare moving over her long form.
Tall. Very tall. Maybe six feet or more. Her legs went on and on and on. Her hair was brown, but also streaked with blonde like she spent a considerable amount of time in the sun. It was braided in a long, thick rope hanging over a shoulder. I swallowed, my gaze traveling upward to her neck—long and tan—and chin. Lush pink lips, sharply pronounced cheekbones, large eyes fringed with dark, dark lashes set in a flawlessly formed oval face.
She was the kind of physical perfection that was difficult to look at.
Blinding.
Not helping matters, her stare was flinty, giving her an air of being unapproachable, like everything and everyone was shit on her shoe.
I was unable to temper my expression, saying, “Good Lord,” before I could stop myself.
But damn.
Damn.
“Hello.” Her husky greeting was just as flinty as her glare.
Releasing the air from my lungs, I wrestled with my shock and forced a friendly grin, searching for the right words.
Oh man, that Hank. Hank was a good friend. But this . . . her . . . whoa. This was too much. Where did he find her?
Clearing my throat, I crossed my arms and tried to locate my manners. “Uh, where’s your cake?”
Stillness settled over her, the woman’s eyes sharpening with an unsettling focus, like she was flaying the flesh from my bones.
Blinding.
Damn.
“What?” The single word cracked like a whip in the otherwise silent garage.
“Your cake?” I hazarded a step forward and leaned my shoulder against the side of the Ford. Needing to avoid her dissecting stare, I lowered my gaze to her body. I couldn’t see much, but I could see enough.
I’d bet my GTO that her legs are extraordinary.
Gorgeous or not, stunning or not, it didn’t matter. I might have noticed this woman—because it was impossible not to—but that’s all I was going to do. Notice.
I’d just left Darlene in Nashville. And though she hadn’t admitted as much yet, as far as I was concerned—for all intents and purposes—Darlene Simmons was my woman and I was her man. A pair of extraordinary legs attached to the most beautiful woman in Tennessee didn’t rank when I had my sights set on the long game with a person of substance.
Several quiet moments passed and I brought my attention back to hers. She was glaring at me with wide, glacial eyes. My, oh my, her stare was fierce. If this woman was stripping on the regular down at the Pink Pony, Hank was going to have to charge a higher entrance fee.
Squinting, I tried to guess her age. I couldn’t.
She looked older, mature, beautiful in a womanly way. Perhaps it was her height, because she also seemed young, a touch na?ve. I cocked my head to the side, studying the hard set to her jaw and decided the flint in her glare looked like uncertainty.
Maybe she was nervous. Maybe this was her first time stripping. I hoped that meant she’d be easily dissuaded from it.
Giving her an encouraging grin, I teased, “No cake?”
Her jaw ticked and her eyelids lowered to half-mast, but still she remained silent.
“Hmm . . .” I scratched my jaw, choosing my next words carefully and trying my best to ramp up the charm. “Here’s the deal, sweetheart, I’m sure whatever you’ve got under those coveralls is sexy as hell. However, I’m seeing someone, and I don’t want to upset her. Whatever Hank paid you to take your clothes off, I’m willing to double it if you keep your clothes on.”
In my experience, nothing irritated a stripper more than a disinterested customer, except maybe one who was too interested. I didn’t want to offend, and I hoped she’d take my offer at face value.
She blinked. Once. Very, very slowly. “You are Beau.”
I waited for a moment, my grin slipping, before nodding. “That’s right.” Wait, did she think I was Duane?
“I should’ve known.” She shifted her weight to one side, her hip jutting out, and stuffed her hands in her back pockets.
Now I was confused. Why would Hank send a stripper for Duane? “You thought—”
“I thought you were Duane. But I see now that you’re Beau.”
“You see now . . . ?” My tired, hungry, sluggish brain had trouble keeping up.
“Duane’s facial features are symmetrical, your right eye is higher than your left.” She motioned dispassionately to my face, her tone flat.
“Excuse me?” I straightened from the Ford, my fingers coming to my eye.
“And your nose is bent. To the left.”
What the hell?
My smile completely slid away as my fingers moved to my nose. “My nose?”
She shrugged, sending me one more glare before turning her attention back to Devron Stoke’s Chevy.
I gaped. At her. Standing there like a dummy asshole touching my bent nose.
Your nose is bent.
Who says that to someone they just met?
But then, as if making rude statements about my face wasn’t enough, she mumbled, “And you’re clearly an idiot.”
My jaw dropped, as did my hands.
What.
A.