Good Girls Don't Date Rock Stars

by Codi Gary

  Especially since it took two to say “I do.”

  He had been developing his strategy over the whole drive, and he’d come up with an idea he was going to propose before he lost his cool. He needed to prove that there was more to what had happened than a wild weekend gone wrong. Gemma had said he didn’t know her; well, what better way to get to know someone than to date them?

  She’d never agree to it, though, until she got over whatever had her in a panic. He needed to prove to her that it wasn’t over, not just like that. There was too much left between them for closure, or whatever her letter had said.

  And he would prove it to her.

  “I thought we were working really well together,” he said softly, his tone seductive. He took her hand, holding it gently when she tried to pull away and caressing the back of it with his thumb. He saw her shiver and smiled as he brought it up to his mouth, his lips hovering above her knuckles as he spoke. “When we were in your hotel room, and I had my hands on your body, running them over your skin . . . you felt so good.” She licked her lips and closed her eyes. He pulled her closer, trailing his lips from her wrist to her elbow, placing her arm over his shoulder. “And the taste of your skin . . . all the little sounds you made when I played with your breasts . . . and when I was deep inside you.”

  He wrapped his arms around her, his large hands splaying across the curve of her ass and using it to pull her against him. Her breath whooshed out as he pushed against her and knew she could feel every inch of his erection between them. He could feel her body relax into his, and her other hand held onto his biceps, her eyes opening slowly, meeting his. He saw the matching desire in those mossy depths and dropped his lips to her temple, trailing them over her skin until his mouth reached her ear. He nipped the small shell teasingly, and her body tightened against his, making him smile as he added, “I can show you again, if you don’t remember.”

  Chapter Eight

  * * *

  GEMMA’S BODY BETRAYED her as she grabbed hold of Travis’s shoulders and hung on, melting as his mouth left her neck and took her lips. She was vaguely aware of Travis pressing her backward until she hit a wall of books. One of his hands ended up in her hair, releasing her clip. Her wet hair fell around her shoulders, while his other hand gripped her rear, pressing her against him, immobilizing her. Maybe it was the shock of seeing him again, or the fact that she’d been missing him, craving him, but all thought of escape was gone; she didn’t want Travis to stop. Ever.

  Her hands slid over his biceps, her fingers pressing into the hard muscles as they drifted down his back and gripped his T-shirt, inching it up until her hands found the warmth of his skin.

  This was wrong and unfair. She’d told him it was over, and yet here he was, and she was taking full advantage of it.

  She pulled her mouth away and gasped, “Maybe we should—”

  Then his hand was reaching between their bodies and cupping her through her khakis, and she forgot why she was protesting.

  He stroked her through the light fabric, and her panties grew damp. She was so far gone that her hands were already moving to the snap of her pants, determined to get rid of the offending barrier between her body and the magic hand currently stroking her into a frenzy.

  A loud banging startled her. “Gemma?”

  Michael.

  Gemma broke the kiss and put her hands against Travis’s chest to put some distance between them, trying to control her ragged breathing as she yelled, “Yeah, Mike. I’m coming.”

  Her gaze stayed on Travis as his eyebrow rose, his expression daring her to tell Mike to go.

  The doorknob rattled and Mike laughed. “Did you and Gracie have a late night or something? Come on, I want to hear about your trip.”

  “O-okay, I’m coming.” Travis’s turbulent blue eyes told her that in his opinion she’d made the wrong choice, but she couldn’t ignore Mike. “Mike doesn’t know about us either,” she whispered. “Please don’t tell him, okay? Please?”

  Travis’s mouth thinned into an angry line and he released her. “For now.”

  Relieved, Gemma went to unlock the door, her hands shaking like crazy. She held the door slightly ajar and tried to smile naturally. “Hey, Mike.”

  Michael Stevens cocked his head, a puzzled look on his face. “Shouldn’t you be open by now? It’s ten after.”

  “Umm, yeah. I just had to—”

  Travis grabbed the door above her head and swung it wide open. “Hey, buddy, long time no see.”

  Shocked, Mike stammered, “Travis? Wow, man, hey—” Mike shot Gemma an alarmed look and she shook her head.

  Please don’t say anything about Charlie.

  Mike took the hint and stuck out his hand toward Travis. “It’s good to see you.”

  Gemma stood between the two men as they shook hands. In high school they had been thick as thieves, but now they seemed tense. They were eyeballing each other like a couple of dogs sizing up their opponent, and she broke in on the pissing contest.

  “Hey, do you mind if I call you later? Travis is just passing through and we have a lot to talk about.”

  Mike looked resigned, and she felt a twinge of guilt. She didn’t like hurting Mike’s feelings, but she had to find out what Travis’s intentions were.

  “Sure. Good to see you, Travis. We’ll have to get a beer and catch up.”

  The tension eased slightly as Travis smiled with genuine warmth. “Sounds good.”

  Gemma closed the door on Mike, but as a precaution, she raised the blinds over the door and windows. There would be more speculation if she stayed closed and someone saw him leave than if she opened as usual and someone noticed them talking inside.

  Plus, the open windows helped her fight the urge to jump his bones.

  What was the matter with her? She was like a cat in heat, hissing at him to leave one minute and almost letting him take her against the bookshelves the next. There was something seriously wrong with her.

  Flipping the CLOSED sign over to OPEN, she took a breath and faced Travis again. “Why are you here?”

  “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.

  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?”

  “Well, hell, son, you scared the devil out of me. Gemma, that DJ’s kid who introduced us?”

  “That’s her,” Travis said.

  “Whew, okay, that’s an easy spin. Young lovers reunited after years apart, the old spark’s there, and they act impulsive. The media will think it’s romantic as hell.”

  Except that she wants nothing to do with me now.

  “How many pictures have surfaced so far?”

  Big George’s breathing was labored, which meant he was either pacing or the yelling had taken its toll. The man had been a pack-a-day smoker for twentysome years and carried about a hundred extra pounds around his middle, so excitement tended to wind him. “Half a dozen or more on social media, but so far I’ve only seen one of you and her entering the chapel in the tabloids, and it’s hard to see her face.”

  “Do you think you can contain it for now? I need a little bit of time with Gemma before the shitstorm hits.”

  Big George’s hoarse laugh exploded. “Need a little honeymoon before you step out, huh? I imagine you’re both eager to get ‘reacquainted.’ You do what you gotta do, and I’ll try to get a handle on the rodeo circus.”

  “Thanks, George.” Travis said his good-byes and went back inside to find Gemma putting books on a shelf.

  “Sorry about that,” he said as she stood up to face him. Reaching out, he took her hands and squeezed them. “Why don’t we put all our problems on the back burner for a while? I have some time, and you said I didn’t know who you were, so . . . why don’t we date?”

  “But,” she stammered, “we’re married already. At least technically.”

  “And that means we can’t date? Come on, married couples have date nights,” he said, pulling her close to his body. “Why don’t we say three? Isn’t there a three-date rule or something, where you know after three dates whether you like someone or not?”

  “I think three dates is the sex rule. Three dates before sex,” Gemma said, biting her lip, but he thought he caught a twinkle in her eye.

  Smiling, he said, “Well, we’ve already gone there, but we can take it off the table if you want. Three dates; we’ll talk, we’ll have fun, we’ll share things about ourselves, and if the date goes well, maybe a little light petting.”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “I’m just asking you to give it a shot, Gem. After that, we can get down to the heavy stuff,” he said, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “What have you got to lose? You said it yourself; you’re already married to me. If things really aren’t working out, I’ll do what you want; we’ll get a divorce and I’ll never darken your doorstep again.”

  “Travis—”

  “Just say yes, Gem.” He brought up the palm of her hand and laid a kiss against the heart of it.

  He thought for sure she would argue some more, but instead, he was pleasantly surprised.

  “Okay, but if we’re doing this, it needs to start tonight,” she said. “That way if it doesn’t work, we aren’t dragging this out.”

  A little disheartening, but I’ll take it. “So, do I pick you up at your house, or—”

  “Just meet me here, at around seven,” she broke in, and he wondered what was going on at her house that she didn’t want him to know about.

  Maybe she’s a hoarder . . . or an animal hoarder at that.r />
  “Why are you smiling at me like that?”

  Keeping his thoughts to himself, he teased, “Nothing. I just can’t wait to take my wife out on our first official date.”

  Chapter Nine

  * * *

  WHEN IT WAS quiet at the bookstore, Gemma sat down at her laptop but couldn’t concentrate on writing. She’d been trying to write her first novel for several months now, a Regency romance, which was what had first inspired her desire to attend the Lovers of Romance Convention. The workshops had been helpful and informative, but now all of their concentration tips failed her as her mind kept wandering.

  With mild curiosity, she Googled “Travis Bowers Vegas,” and waited as the results popped up. She saw several pictures of Travis on stage at his concert and smiled as she clicked through the photos until a very clear picture of Travis holding her hand in their formal wear as they walked into the chapel caught her eye. Her face was only partially visible, but for someone who knew her, it would be easy to identify her.

  Shit. She scrolled down some more, and there was Travis with his hand on her back, talking to Callum. Bile rose in her throat as she kept going, but after that, there were mostly concert and shirtless pictures. She was surprised that there weren’t more pictures, especially when she went to the different tabloids. Talking Nashville seemed to be the only one covering the story. Their headline read:

  DID COUNTRY MUSIC’S BAD BOY TIE THE KNOT?

  Travis Bowers was seen with a mystery woman at a small wedding chapel in Vegas. When Talking Nashville tried to get the scoop from chapel owner Seamus McGillan, he refused to comment. So far, the possible bride-to-be’s identity is unknown, but if Travis is off the market, there will be a lot of ladies nursing broken hearts.

  A cold sweat spread over Gemma’s body, but there was no help for it. The pictures were out there, and it was only a matter of time before someone spilled the beans for money or cruelty. She’d spent half her life as a punch line, and her faith in people being inherently good was slim.