Scott walked out.
Feeling panicked, I slammed the van into park and prayed he couldn’t see me around the Roto-Rooter truck parked a house down from where I sat. My van was a nondescript silver, a dime a dozen in this town, but it didn’t matter because he seemed zeroed in on something across the street. He stuck his hands in his pockets and walked briskly to—I moved my head to peer around the plumbing truck, pressing my cheek against the cool glass—a small white car parked across the street. Scott crossed the street and rapped at the window. The window slid down, and I could see the side of a man’s face.
Was that my private investigator?
Something twisted in my gut.
Holy crap! We’d been made.
But then I watched, stupefied, as Scott reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet.
What in the hell?
It was pretty evident even as the darkness descended what was happening.
My dick of a husband was paying off my . . . well, my own private dick.
Son of a biscuit.
CHAPTER NINE
RUBY
Ty had just dropped me off at my car when Cricket pulled into the parking lot around back. I glanced at my watch as I walked to my hand-me-down car, which I had left on the street earlier. My ten-year-old Honda was a far cry from the sleek new BMW that Ty drove. The only way to warm my seats was to swish my behind around a few times briskly. He had a little button for instant hot buns. Lucky duck. I paused at my slightly dented door as I caught sight of Cricket’s face.
Uh-oh.
I had spent the most unusual afternoon at the Bullpen before going for a coffee with Ty at some fancy place with people on computers and confections that I literally didn’t know how to pronounce. In fact, if I had said, Give me a cup of coffee, the cashier might have been confused.
By that point, I’d had so much caffeine that I probably wouldn’t sleep that night. But even if I managed to close my eyes, I would probably be haunted by the two hot guys wrestling around in my head.
As I had sat there with Juke at the Bullpen before Ty arrived, nursing decent coffee （for a bar）， I had tried to study my ex without looking like I was watching Dak. I wasn’t sure I succeeded, because every now and then our gazes caught before I quickly darted mine to the button on my cuff right next to the jelly stain. Or Juke’s jittering leg. My cousin needed a drink. Dak’s refusal to even glance his way other than to set a little silver milk pitcher on the bar told me that Juke wasn’t going to be served what he craved.
The whole situation had been bizarre to begin with, and then Ty had walked through the door of the bar into my side of town. Correction. My old side of town. But I had to give the dude credit for coming north to meet me. He showed up wearing a pair of Brooks Brothers khakis. Or what I assumed to be Brooks Brothers. I wasn’t exactly versed in modern preppy. He’d paired them with a tight polo shirt with short sleeves that hung up on his toned biceps, and flashy sunglasses perched on his burnished locks. He looked straight off a yacht.
Juke wasn’t as impressed as I was. And my ex–soul mate standing behind the bar looked like he had a bad case of acid indigestion. Or the red ass. Maybe both, but I was certain he didn’t like Mr. Million Bucks heading my way. And that made me oddly pleased.
“Hey, gorgeous,” Ty said as he slid onto the stool next to me. He peered over the bar to my cousin and flashed his 5,000-watt smile. “Hey, I’m Ty.”
Juke made a sound that might have been approving but probably wasn’t. More of a choking sound he covered with a cough. “Juke. I’m Roo’s cousin.”
“Roo?” Ty shot me an amused look.
“Ruby. We always called her Roo. Like that baby mouse on Winnie the Pooh.”
“That would be a kangaroo, Juke. Thus the ‘roo’ part. And I don’t go by childhood nicknames anymore.”
Juke made a sour face. “So sue me.”
“Well, I think that nickname is as cute as you are,” Ty said, giving me a little wink. He then slapped the bar. “Yo, can I have a Mic ULTRA?”
Dak turned and cocked his head. “We don’t have Michelob. But you’re welcome to choose any of these on tap. Four-dollar happy hour on tap and well.” Then Dak turned back around and slid some empty mugs to the side of the bar before pulling out a few Miller Lites, popping the tops, and hooking up the two guys who were still talking about some pitcher and the nasty slider he’d thrown when he played at UNC.
“Well, this guy is a charmer,” Ty joked with a roll of his eyes. He didn’t get perturbed like most guys would. I liked that about him. “You two drinking coffee, huh?”