Not even her asinine assessment of his footwear could cool him off because he’d reached her waist, and, as he’d imagined, she wasn’t wearing a bra. The frail bumps of her spine disappeared into the furry V of her costume like a delicate pearl necklace being swallowed by Bigfoot. It took all his considerable willpower not to slip his hands inside, slide them around, and explore exactly what the Beav had going on for herself.

“What’s taking you so long?” she asked.

“The zipper keeps getting stuck, that’s what.” He sounded grouchy, but his jeans hadn’t been designed to accommodate what they now needed to accommodate. “If you think you can do this faster, you’re welcome to try.”

“It’s hot in here.”

“Tell me about it.” With one last tug, he reached the end of the zipper, which was a good six inches below her waist. He took in the curve of her hip along with a narrow band of bright red elastic.

She pulled away, and as she turned to him, she crossed her paws over her chest to hold the suit in place. “I can take it from here.”

“Oh, please. Like you have anything I’d be interested in seeing.”

The corner of her mouth ticked, but whether from amusement or annoyance, he couldn’t tell. “Out.”

Oh, well…He’d tried.

Before he left, she passed over her keys and asked him, none too politely, to get her stuff from her car. Inside the dented trunk he found a couple of plastic milk crates stuffed with art supplies, some paint-splattered toolboxes, and a big canvas tote. He’d just loaded them in his car when the guy who’d been working inside came out to inspect his Vanquish. He had oily hair and a beer gut. Something told Dean this was the alleged sex deviant who’d earned the wrath of the Beav.

“Man, that is a sweet machine. I saw one of them in that James Bond movie.” And then, as he got a good look at Dean, “Holy shit! You’re Dean Robillard. What’re you doin’ around here?”

“Just passing through.”

The guy started sputtering. “Gawdamn. Ben should have made Sheryl drive her own big ass to the hospital. Wait’ll I tell him The Boo was here.”

Dean’s college teammates had stuck him with the moniker because of the amount of time he’d spent at Malibu Beach, which was nicknamed “The Boo” by the locals.

“I saw that sack you took in the Steelers game. How’s your shoulder doing?”

“Coming along,” Dean replied. It’d be coming along a lot better if he stopped driving around the country feeling sorry for himself and started doing his physical therapy.