Place Your Betts (The Marilyns) (23 page)

Slam.

Betts sat bolt upright as her ears perked up. Someone was in the house. Adrenaline pumped through her. It couldn’t be Gabe because he’d just left. Tom? Had he come home from school sick? Betts grabbed for her robe.

The bathroom door banged open.

“What are you doing in my house?” Gabe had the one-eyebrow-arched thing going on.

“I’m scaling Mt. Everest. What does it look like I’m doing?” Betts used her arms to corral some bubbles and pulled them closer to cover her chest. Just because they’d had sex didn’t mean they were intimate. And this felt intimate.

“This is my house. You can’t break in anytime you want.” Gabe checked his watch.

“I didn’t break in. I used the spare key.” Betts relaxed back against the tub. “FYI—you should probably find a new hiding place. The lonely, flowerless flower pot is a dead giveaway.” With her index finger, she tapped her temple. “Criminal mastermind.”

“You can’t invade anytime you want—”

“Invade? You make it sound like I staged a coup. It’s a bath, not a revolution.” Betts smiled.

Gabe watched the bubbles at her chest very carefully. Betts lazed deeper into the water. Had his date gotten cancelled, and that’s why he’d come home?

“Want me to do your back?” He checked his watch again and chewed on his upper lip.

“I’ll pass.”

He knelt next to the tub, and judging by the look on his face, he was doing his best to will the bubbles to pop. “Sure? I’m good with backs.”

Yep, he wanted her. Female pride high-fived her ego.

“Really? According to who?” Did he do many backs these days?

“I never rub and tell.” He looked at his watch again. “Sorry, gotta go. Just clean up after yourself.” He stood.

“Mind if I rearrange some of the furniture? I noticed that things didn’t flow well in the living room.” Betts used her charming smile. Gabe wasn’t standing in her way because she wouldn’t let him. Her men should have the best, and she needed to give it to them.

Gabe shrugged. “Why not? If you think you can make that old couch any less ugly by moving it across the room, go for it. Just so you know, the vacuum’s in the hall closet. Considering that I haven’t cleaned under the sofa in, well…ever, there are probably sasquatch-sized dust bunnies hiding underneath.”

“That’s just gross.”

“I’m a guy. Unless the dirt attacks first, I leave it in peace.” He checked his watch. “After you move my furniture around and you feel the need to continue the light remodel, the bathroom needs a new coat of paint, and the cabinet door above the kitchen sink squeaks.” He waved good-bye as he walked out of the bathroom.

“Have fun today doing whatever it is that you do.” Betts waved at his retreating form. That was easier than she’d thought it would be, and he’d used the words “light remodel.” She was taking that and running with it.

Gabe needed a new home, and she needed to do something nice for him. It was more than just gratitude for Tom—she wanted to make a home for him. And Tom. Betts nodded to herself. And she’d give it to Gabe in a way that he couldn’t say no.

“Dinner’s at six. Don’t be late,” Betts called as the front door clicked shut.

Betts pulled the little metal chain attached to the rubber stopper. Water swirled down the drain as she eased out and slipped on her robe. No time to waste.

Gabe’s back ached like a son of a bitch, and his left butt cheek burned like it was on fire. He shifted on the truck seat trying to relieve some of the pain. Shoveling chicken shit for the past ten hours had left him tired and irritable, not to mention, smelly.

Dinky Bradshaw, the plant manager, had it in for Gabe. Just because Gabe might have made fun of him a time or two in high school, Dinky had to carry a grudge. For Christ’s sake, the man’s name was Dinky—that just begged for schoolyard ribbing.

If the property taxes weren’t due soon, Gabe wouldn’t have taken the job. He winced and shifted again. What was he thinking? Turning down a job was another luxury he couldn’t afford. He kept on plugging away day after day. Until his organic certification came through, his only choice was to wait in the Longview Home Depot parking lot with a handful of non-English-speaking men all hoping someone would drive up with work.

Gabe sighed. He should be thankful that Forrester Chickens—That Ain’t Chicken Little Just Little Chicken—had given him work today. They paid slightly above minimum wage and in cash and, more important, Tom didn’t know. No one knew that Gabe drove the next county over to shovel shit, load crates, pull weeds, or whatever needed doing. No one knew. It had to stay that way. Pride was the only thing the bank couldn’t take from him.

All he wanted was a hot shower, a cold beer, a quiet house, and to see Betts. She calmed him. Gabe turned onto his driveway. His truck hit a pothole, and his head bumped the ceiling. Someday soon he needed to spread a new layer of gravel, but that cost money he didn’t have.

A white delivery truck headed straight for him. As the truck eased past, the dark green writing on the side came into view. 
Pope and Turner
. Who the hell were Pope and Turner? And why were they at his house?

A dull pain started at the base of his skull, but it was nothing compared to the aching in his lower back.

As his house came into view, his breath caught in his throat. The dark brown cabin he’d left not ten hours ago was now painted a fleshy tan color. Pots of red geraniums stood out like rosy cheeks on either side of his front door. What had happened to his house?

Gabe blinked. Yep, the house was still tan.

Holy crap! What had Betts done?

She was just supposed to move some furniture around, not go all housing homicide. He’d been kidding about painting the bathroom, but she’d gone hog-wild. Sure, he’d have liked to redo his house, but he hadn’t been able to afford it. Pride mule-kicked him in the gut. He wanted to do things for her, not the other way around.

Gabe jumped out of the truck and slammed the door. This time Betts had gone too far. She was flaunting his horrible situation. How would he ever be able to pay her back for all of this?

Gabe didn’t so much stomp as glide across the front yard on a good head of steam. He threw open the door. It banged off the wall and bounded back to hit him in the shin. “Damn.”

Betts stood in what had been his kitchenette. Now, it had a marble counter, full-sized stainless steel stove/oven combo, and a side-by-side refrigerator. Seated on a brown leather sectional sofa were a thin man with glasses and a blonde woman whose flat face and features reminded Gabe of a pit bull.

Betts grinned and eyed him brightly over a glass of wine. “Gabe, there you are. I was beginning to wonder. Do you know Chester and Marva Ann Smith? Kaitlin’s parents?”

Goddamn, Betts was good. He’d give her that. She knew damn well that as a gentleman, Gabe couldn’t yell at her in front of company—especially the parents of his son’s girlfriend. Gabe smiled so hard his cheeks hurt.

“Good to meet you.” Gabe shook Chester’s hand and turned to the blonde woman. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

Mrs. Smith didn’t offer her hand, so he nodded. She eyed his grimy jeans and stepped back.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get cleaned up.” Gabe turned to Betts. “Could I have a word with you?”

“Sure.” She pointed to the counter. “Marva Ann, would you mind giving me a hand with the cheese tray?”

Marva Ann beamed at Betts. “Sure thing Ms. Monr…oops…Betts.”

Gabe clamped a hand on Betts’s upper arm and pulled her down the hall to his room. He stepped through the doorway, and his mouth fell open.

Gone were his double mattress and box springs, brown oak dresser, and nightstand. In their place was a tall, dark wooden four-poster with see-through purple fabric draped over it, and a million fluffy pillows hid the headboard from view. A squat purple chair—long enough to be a couch—sat dead in the center of a zebra hide rug. Gabe gritted his teeth. All of it was going back. She wasn’t shoving her charity down his throat.

“Sorry about this room. A couple of designers from Longview, Pierre and Henri, did it. They called it Las Vegas goes on Safari. I went to town to pick up a few things, and by the time I got back, the workers were putting the finishing touches on your room. And then Marva Ann and Chester showed up. Don’t worry, I’ll have it fixed tomorrow. How about a cowboy theme? We could fill it full of denim, coils of rope, and get you some of those sheets with little cowboys on them.” Betts grinned hopefully.

Was she kidding? This was
his
bedroom. His private sanctuary. “Are you going to stand there and tell me this”—he twirled around—“wasn’t your fault?”

“Hell no. The house was my idea, but I took the kitchen. I hired Pierre and Henri to do the bedrooms. I didn’t have time to do it all myself and have it ready to surprise you. Tom’s came out nice.” She glanced at the bed. “That is way too much purple. And the walls…I’ll cover the silver paint with the color of your choice. Sorry.” She chewed on her top lip, worried.

He took a step back and tunneled his fingers through his hair. She’d just torn his house upside down—just like his life—and her only regret was that there was too much purple? The woman was a nut case…certifiable. His brain searched for the right words but came up empty. Arguing with crazy was just plain crazy. The fading sunlight filtered through the purple blinds and hit the silver walls. Tiny neon rainbows danced on the newly installed purple carpet.

“Holy Jesus, are those diamonds inlaid in the walls?” Gabe ran his finger along the way. If they were real, he’d be a wealthy man.

 “Don’t be ridiculous. Those are rhinestones.” She punctuated her comment with a nervous laugh. “Pierre said the room needed more drama and movement.”

“If I wanted drama and movement in my room, I’d dance around in my underwear.” He didn’t know where to look next. Every square inch was a travesty.

“Can I watch?” Betts’s eyes went huge. “Sorry, that slipped out. Look, I know you’re mad about the house. You can yell at me later. Right now, we have a bigger problem. The Smiths—”

“Do you really expect me to believe you didn’t plan this?” His pulse pounded through his body. His bedroom…looked like a giant, sparkly bruise.

Betts propped a fist on her hip. “Do you really think I’d want to spend time with those two pretentious, pompous a-holes? That blonde, snooty bitch actually looked down her nose at Tom. Like her slutty daughter is some prize.” Betts’s face was turning the deep red that only a true redhead could manage.

And he happened to know that she was a true redhead.

“They came over tonight to introduce themselves and”—Betts made quote signs with her fingers—“check out”—she dropped her hands to her sides—“the boy their daughter is spending time with.” She snorted. “Can you believe that? Implying that Tom isn’t good enough for their little girl. It was all I could do
not
to smack that pug nose right off her face.”

Gabe stared at her. Betts had worked herself into a good lather. The last time he’d seen her this worked up, she’d been naked. One corner of his mouth turned up. He liked her riled.

“Really? Check out Tom?” Betts paced back and forth in front of the bed. “They just showed up at the front door—without calling—and wanted to look over the ranch. How dare they?” Betts pointed to the living room. “That woman got out of the car with her nose all scrunched up and her chin in the air like she was the Queen of England and this”—Betts extended her hands and spun around—“was the city dump.”

As Gabe watched her stomp back and forth, back and forth, his anger eased. She was spitting nails because of Tom. The mama bear instinct ran deep.

She loved Tom.

The last bit of suspicion evaporated. Betts may not be mother of the year, but she loved her son. It was odd—this was the first time he’d thought of Tom as her son too.

“Of all the nerve. Mrs. Smith walks right up to Tom and asks if he can afford to treat her daughter right because her daughter is used to the best. ‘Lance what’s-his-name’s father owns a car dealership. What does your father do?’” Betts imitated Ms. Smith. “’Son, do you have a cell phone? I’d hate it if your old truck broke down and you didn’t have a way to get Kaitlin home.’” Betts resumed her normal voice and pointed at Gabe. “I’ll tell you one thing. I’d like to wrap those fake pearls she keeps playing with around her neck so tight her lips turn blue.”

Betts stopped pacing. “I swear to God, if Kaitlin’s mother says one more insulting thing about Tom, I’ll poke Buttercup in the butt and point him toward Marva Ann. That red dress she has on should be enough for him to go homicidal.”

Maternal protectiveness looked good on Betts. Gabe stepped in front of her, leaned down, and kissed her hard. It was the best way to shut her up. Betts went very still, and then her arms snaked around his neck and she pressed her body to his. All the backbreaking work, frustration, financial worry, and purple pillows faded away. The only thing in his world was her. Her tongue skittered inside his mouth, and her body fit perfectly against his. After a hard day’s work, this was what a man should come home to.

Betts pulled away. “You need to get cleaned up.”

“I know.” Gabe laughed and pointed her toward the door. “Go entertain the Smiths while I freshen up.”

She shot Gabe what could only be called a saucy smile. “About that. You’re gonna be mad. I didn’t have time to put everything back. You’ll have to make do.” She stepped through the door and closed it after her.

Gabe scratched his head. What did that mean? Wait a minute—he did an about-face and flung open the double closet doors. A vein popped out in his neck. Gone were his precious Levis, Wranglers, and assorted tee shirts—all had been replaced with brand new designer jeans, flashy silk shirts, and—God forbid—purple cowboy boots. He peered closer.

Betts was right, it was too much purple.

An hour later, Betts stood in Gabe’s newish kitchen weighing the pros and cons of stabbing Marva Ann Smith with a cocktail fork. Marva didn’t eat sugar or cheese or red meat or salt or carbs or fat or butter.