Good Girls Don't Date Rock Stars(32)

“Give me one. Is there someone else? I know you said there wasn’t, but Mike seemed pretty bent out of shape at seeing me.”

She had to tell him; there was no other choice. “There’s someone in my life, but it isn’t like you think.” Sucking in a breath of courage, she started, “Travis, I have a—”

The bell on the door jingled, and in walked the fine ladies of the BOIL Club—Bookworms Opposed to Illicit Literature. All seven women, ranging in age from twenty-five to seventy-five, bustled in, too engrossed in whatever they were chattering about to notice Travis.

Their leader, Mrs. Andrews, gave Gemma a pleasant smile. “Good morning, Gemma. We’re here for our next book.”

Gemma returned the older woman’s smile and turned to grab a stack of books from the shelf. Mrs. Andrews was known throughout town as a nosy, unpleasant busybody, but she had never been unkind to Gemma. In fact, Mrs. Andrews had come by several times after she’d come home from the hospital with Charlie, a casserole or a knitted blanket in hand. Gracie had asked her several times what her secret “bitch-proof” formula was, but in all honesty, Gemma had no idea why Mrs. Andrews had been kind to her when she usually had nothing but contempt for what she considered bad behavior.

“You have a lot of nerve coming back here.”

Gemma froze at Mrs. Andrews’s outraged cry and was spurred back into action only by Travis saying, “Pardon?”

Crap! Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap!

Gemma spun around with the books and set them on the counter. “Here they are, ladies. Do you want to pay for them together or separately?”

“Do you have any idea what this girl went through while you were off gallivanting around the country with your floozies and your partying? Why, I ought to fill up my purse with a few of these books and whack some sense into that fool head of yours! What kind of man—”

“Mrs. Andrews!” Gemma screamed, bringing all eyes in the shop her way, especially Travis’s confused ones. Taking a breath, she said, “Thank you for defending me, but please, let me handle this.”

The older woman’s round face didn’t lose its scowl, but she seemed to be biting her tongue clean in half. Gemma prayed that for once Mrs. Andrews would mind her own damn business.

Finally, she ground out tightly, “Very well.”

Gemma, relieved beyond measure, repeated her question, and Mrs. Andrews said, “It’s my turn to pay, but I’d like to use my credit.”

Gemma sped through the transaction, wanting to get Mrs. Andrews and her lynch mob out of there before they made a bad situation worse.

But as Mrs. Andrews turned away from Gemma, she handed the bag off to one of the others, and before Gemma could say anything, the woman swung her purse at Travis. The large white bag bounced off his arm, and he yelped.

“Degenerate!”

With a huff, the gaggle of women left the bookstore, and Travis asked, “What the hell was that? I know the old bitch has always hated my guts, but . . . what was she talking about, about what you went through?”


This was it. No going back and no holding out. “Travis, when I came to visit you in Phoenix, it was because—”

Craig Morgan’s “This Ole Boy” blared from Travis’s jeans pocket, and he reached in to grab his cell phone, checking out the front. “It’s Big George. I’ll call him back.” She watched him press the DECLINE button and shove the phone back into his pocket. “What were you saying?”

She was going to vomit. Breathing hard through her nose, she opened her mouth again, only to close it when, once more, his pocket started blaring.

“Shit.” He pulled it out and sighed. “If he’s calling again, it might be important. I’m sorry.”

Travis stepped outside as he answered, and she sank back against the wall, trying to give herself the pep talk of her life.

This is a sign. Him showing up here and everything that happened.

She needed to tell him now, before Charlie came home. That way, if he decided it was too much for him, Charlie wouldn’t get hurt.

Gemma, on the other hand . . . well, that ship had sailed a long time ago. Travis couldn’t hurt her again so long as she didn’t let him charm his way back into her heart.



TRAVIS STOOD OUT on the sidewalk pacing as Big George hollered into the phone, which was currently about a foot from Travis’s ear, though he could still hear him loud and clear.

“The next time you decide to have a spur-of-the-moment wedding in Vegas, how about giving me a heads up? I got a picture of you two heading into some hole-in-the-wall wedding chapel on the front page of Talking Nashville!”

Travis clenched his jaw. He had a feeling their limo driver was behind the photo, but there was no way to prove it unless they shook down the reporter who’d bought the photo.

And Big George was still going. “We have got to get ahead of this thing, Travis, before the media spins its own tale.” Big George panted into the phone for a moment before he asked, “How did this happen?”

Travis leaned against the front of Gemma’s building and smiled. “You know me, George. Go big or go home!”

“Well, shit, son, you picked a hell of a time to drink the crazy juice.”

“It’s not that crazy, George. It’s Gemma Carlson; I married Gemma.” The silence stretched on the phone, and Travis said, “George?”