Page 35 of Good Girls Don't Date Rock Stars (Rock Canyon, Idaho 2)

“I told you: to be with you.”

“I don’t believe that. There’s something else.” Gemma went to walk around him and, surprisingly, he made no move to grab her again. Once she had some distance and the counter between them, she continued, “I couldn’t have been clearer about what I wanted.”

His face flushed, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Yeah, I know. You made your wishes crystal clear, but here’s something you didn’t take into account.” He leaned closer and drew out the words slowly. “You. Aren’t. The. Only. One. In. This. Marriage.”

“Shhh. Stop it. Don’t talk like that. It was a mistake.”

“No, see, it wasn’t. It might have been rash and impulsive, but being with you again?” He came around the counter, pushing past her warding hands and cupping her face in his hands. “Us together, Gem . . . it’s not a mistake. When I found you gone, I thought I was going to lose it and go all Van Halen on that hotel room.” He dropped his forehead to hers, his breath warm against her lips as he whispered, “Does this feel like a mistake?”

“Please.” She didn’t mean to whimper, but her traitorous body was swaying, liquefying at the softness in his tone. “Travis, I wasn’t trying to hurt you, but you have to understand. There are other factors—”

“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.

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