by Tessa Bailey
“Two Bats.” A hand clapped down on his shoulder, turning him around to face a man around his age he didn’t recognize. He was accompanied by a red-faced woman who was trying to hide behind her drink, a tourist map open in front of her on the bar. “I’m Mike, this is Cheryl.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Told her I wouldn’t say anything, but you’ve always been my wife’s hall pass.”
A hole opened in Travis’s stomach. Why hadn’t he taken this possibility into consideration? Of his persona catching up with him in public. The fact that Georgie was bearing witness made it so much worse than ever before. “That so?” He forced a tight smile. “I’m honored.”
Laughing, the man turned to face Travis fully, and he instantly regretted that he hadn’t shut the interaction down harder. The cameraman had already scented blood and was moving closer, within earshot of the conversation. “You can fit her into your busy schedule, can’t you?” Mike jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’d finally get a night of peace and quiet.”
Travis nodded stiffly, shame bubbling to the surface. He wanted to throw Georgie over his shoulder and make for the exit. “Schedule is full tonight, pal,” he rasped, apologizing to Georgie with his eyes.
Mike was clearly not ready to let the running joke drop. “Tomorrow, then. You should be ready for someone new by then, right? That’s Two Bats’s style. Hit her and quit her—”
Travis’s anger erupted. Just blew like Mount St. Helens down deep in his gut. The joke being played at his expense made him queasy, but as soon as the man suggested he’d hit and quit Georgie, a switch flipped and he saw bright fucking red. This is what people think of me. His fist slammed the bar and he turned, crowding Mike. “You want to disrespect me? Be my guest. But don’t you ever—ever—speak about her like that, motherfucker,” he said for the man’s ears alone. “Or the only thing I’ll be fitting into my schedule is your full-time ass kicking. You hearing me?”
Mike’s hands came up in surrender, but Georgie stepped in between them. Travis couldn’t see her face, but the tension in her body told him she was furious. On his behalf? “How dare you talk to him like that? Like he exists for your entertainment. You don’t know him. He’s not like that. Not anymore,” Georgie said, jolting back against Travis’s chest when the camera erupted in a series of shots.
His arm automatically went around her waist protectively, the need to get her out of the restaurant eating him alive. “Baby girl, come on—”
“Apologize . . . to my boyfriend. Now, please.”
“Yeah,” Mike muttered, chin tucking into his chest. “Sorry, I was out of line.”
“Thank you,” Georgie huffed.
With his fucking heart in his mouth, Travis watched his best friend’s little sister turned take-no-shit woman drain her drink and smack it back down on the bar, turning to him with a dazed expression.
“Want to go?”
“Yeah,” he rasped, throwing some money on the bar and guiding her around Mike and Cheryl to the exit. He moved in a trance, barely aware of the cameraman following them, although the man was on his cell phone now, speaking in a low, rushed tone. What the hell had just happened? One minute he’d been sinking into a mire of shame; now he might as well be watching a grand slam sail out of the park.
Even after agreeing to this charade with Georgie, he’d never really expected to shed his image as a lothario. What was the point of trying to change the public’s mind when it was already made up? Had he been selling himself short? Would Georgie defend him with such conviction otherwise?
They hit the parking lot and moved in tacit agreement toward Georgie’s car. “Well,” she breathed. “Tonight wasn’t a very compelling argument for you to stop getting takeout delivered every night, huh?”
“Georgie,” Travis growled, yanking her to a stop at the driver’s side. Her head fell back, calling attention to the strands of hair that had slipped loose from her braid, the streetlight catching the sheen of her mouth. Gorgeous. Outraged, too. All for him. “Thank you.” He couldn’t keep the disbelief out of his voice. “No one’s ever done that for me.”
“Done what?”
He cupped the back of her head, allowing his fingers to weave through her hair. Damn, touching her felt incredible. Especially when she sighed a little and leaned into his palm. “Defend me.”
She scrutinized him for a few beats. “How long have people been speaking to you like that?”
“A while,” he whispered, a hot pulse pounding in his temples.
“They shouldn’t. You deserve better,” she returned, going up on her toes and laying a soft kiss on his lips—just as a flurry of flashes went off, making her eyes go round. She rocked back on her heels, dislodging his hand. “I . . . This thing between us . . . will make it stop, won’t it?”
This thing. This thing. Their arrangement, which would end when they were both satisfied with the results.
That’s why you’re here.
“Yeah,” he managed, needing like hell to pin her to the car and tongue fuck her into a stupor, the family-friendly persona he was trying to achieve be damned. God help him, he couldn’t keep his neck from craning, breathing once, twice, against her mouth. “That’s what this is all about, right?” He said it mostly to remind himself that their relationship wasn’t real. But when Georgie took the hint and eased away, climbing into her car and driving out of the parking lot, he couldn’t keep the regret at bay.
Striding past the gleeful cameraman to his truck, Travis could only hope tonight had done the trick. Because this fake relationship was either going to kill him before he got the job . . . or start to feel far too real before it was over.
Chapter Fifteen
Georgie woke up from a nap with thirty-one text messages and fourteen missed calls.
There was also a half-eaten granola bar stuck to her forehead, but that was beside the point.
She jerked into an upright position and picked a mini chocolate chip from where it had been embedded above her eyebrow, shrugging and popping it into her mouth.
She’d had a midmorning birthday party for a one-year-old, which should have been easy peasy, but both of the organizer’s sisters had come down with a cold, leaving no one to help decorate and serve food, so Georgie had pulled double duty. Made a nice tip out of the whole thing, too, though it had been unnecessary. She’d been far more grateful for the woman’s candor as they’d plated apple slices and ransacked the house for matches to light the birthday candles. They’d been in it together, as opposed to being employer and employee.
It had almost felt like her dating experiment with Travis was already working, but that couldn’t be right. Barely enough time had passed for people to find out—
Fully conscious now, she snatched up her phone again. Oh, this was it.
The Travis was out of the bag.
Leave it to her friends who hadn’t bothered to pick up a phone in months to be texting her now. They’d each messaged her five times.
You’re dating Travis Ford?
Have you . . . you know . . . met the second bat??
You’ve been holding out on us!
Georgie frowned down at her phone. Those kinds of questions weren’t out of the ordinary between her and her friends. But reading them made her feel hollow. There was no excitement to text them back and overshare, like they used to do about their boyfriends before time and distance caused a strain. It was all a hoax, so obviously there wasn’t that typical feminine urge to squeal to her friends.
It was more than that, though. Reading the messages, she could only think about the couple in the bar last night. How they’d treated Travis like a punch line and how he’d allowed it to happen—to a point—as if it were his due. Her irritation renewed, Georgie rose from the bed, continued to scroll through her plethora of messages and missed calls. Most of them were from her mother and she’d be taking the coward’s way out on that one. For now. Vivian Castle didn’t like to be left in the dark, so there would be a wave of passive aggressio
n headed in Georgie’s direction. She’d cross that bridge when she came to it.
Bethany had called several times. No Stephen. Huh. She couldn’t decide if she was surprised or not by that. On the one hand, Stephen never bothered himself with her social life. On the other, Georgie was dating his best friend. At least that’s how it would appear. Had Travis told Stephen they were seeing each other? For some reason, the possibility of Travis taking that initiative gave Georgie butterflies.
Great, big, whopping ones. Which was stupid.
Although, maybe he’d told Stephen it was fake.
Those butterfly wings stopped flapping. Maybe that’s why Stephen wasn’t calling. He was just shaking his head in private over Georgie’s latest antics.
There was no time to think about it now. Tonight was the Just Us League meeting and there was no time like the present to face the firing squad, also known as her sister. She’d promised to be more forthcoming with Bethany, but would it be so bad to keep this secret to herself for now? To let everyone really believe she and Travis were an item?
Resolving to make the decision on the road, Georgie sped through a shower, threw on one of her new pairs of leggings and a loose V-neck. She shoved her feet into a pair of flats on the way out the door and made it to Bethany’s in record time. Before she walked through the front door, she took a deep breath and prepared for a barrage of questions. She got a sniff from her sister instead and an uh-oh look from Rosie.
“Uh, hey.”
That set off Bethany. Her sister pinched the bridge of her nose and paced the length of her kitchen. “Uh, hey? A photo of you kissing Travis Ford in the parking lot of the Waterfront goes fucking viral and you just stop answering your phone?”
In her nap haze and rush to get out of the house, she’d completely neglected to research how everyone had found out about her and Travis. “Which photo is this?”
“Take your pick! There’s like . . .” Bethany snatched an iPad off the marble countertop and swiped across the screen with a furious finger. “Eleven. Twelve—”
Oh no. This is bigger than I thought it would be. Georgie’s stomach pitched as she crossed the room. “Let me see.” One glance at the screen and she was rolling her eyes. “This isn’t viral. This is the Port Times Record.”
“It’s viral for Port Jefferson,” Bethany shot back. “And the picture where you’re telling off that man in the bar made SportsCenter, so it’s not contained to the local news. It was on Plays of the Week, Georgie. Mom said Dad almost choked on a chicken bone.”
Georgie hopped up onto a kitchen stool, marveling over the face staring back at her from the glass screen. Was that her looking so fiercely passionate? Yes, it was. And she couldn’t find it in her to regret defending Travis. Not for a second. Her belly couldn’t help but flip at the kissing picture, even though she knew the sentiment behind it was contrived. Their affection was all for the camera. Her heart started pounding nonetheless when she landed on the final picture. Travis staring after her in the parking lot with an expression she’d never seen on his gorgeous face before. Maybe it was the camera angle. Travis would never be wistful for her. Not in this lifetime. “Um,” she rasped. “So Dad choked on a chicken bone?”
Bethany slapped her hands on the counter. “What is going on?”
“We went on a date.” Looking for an ally, Georgie turned to Rosie, who feigned fascination with an untouched shot glass of tequila. “We decided that was allowed.”
“It is. But him, Georgie? Travis?”
“Yes. Travis.” Indignation rose up in her swift and furious. It wasn’t just the couple in the bar. It was everyone, wasn’t it? The whole world thought of him as some brainless sex symbol. So much so that he had to date the town’s dopey birthday party clown so people would . . . take him seriously. They both wanted the exact same thing, didn’t they? That did it. She wouldn’t tell a single soul their relationship wasn’t real. She’d be out and proud about her fake boyfriend. “You haven’t spent time with him since he came back. He’s done being thought of as a player.”
“Yeah, but is he done being one?” Bethany gave a long exhale. Georgie could tell she was dying to put in another two cents, but she managed to refrain. “I’m guessing you haven’t spoken to Mom. She has dibs on this kind of information and ESPN scooped her. You’re going to get Guilt Face at Sunday dinner next weekend.”
Georgie started. Their family was close, but with everyone so busy, their dinners were more of the spontaneous variety. Georgie would pop in for lunch or Stephen would bring bagels by and fill their father’s need for business talk. Formal dinners with everyone in attendance occurred only when someone organized a summit. “Sunday dinner? Who called it?”
“Me. I’m breaking the news to everyone that I’m striking out on my own.” Bethany sent Georgie a look down her nose. “If you’d been here on time, you’d know that.”
“Sorry. I’ll be there. Solidarity and all that. Yada yada.”
“Are you bringing Travis?”
Her skin flushed. Bring Travis to a family dinner? Why not just hang herself in a museum so everyone could walk by and pick her apart? “I’ll ask him.”
Rosie rubbed a circle into her back. “Did you go on your date with the fireplace guy?”
“No. Something came up,” she hedged. And looking over at Rosie and her soft, encouraging expression, Georgie encountered a swift kick of guilt. “Rosie, I have to tell you something. I really have no excuse for not calling you sooner . . . I’ve just been so distracted. But you can punch me in the stomach afterward, if you need to.”
Rosie drew back her hand slowly. “What is it?”
“Dominic knows about the newspapers under the mattress. He mentioned it to Travis.” She gave her friend an apologetic look. “You need to find a new hiding spot.”
Two spots of color appeared on Rosie’s cheeks. “Oh.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why should you be sorry?” Rosie gestured to the bottle of tequila with the international symbol for “pour.” “I mean, you’re not the grown man ignoring his wife, instead of just asking her questions and having a normal conversation. That would be too much to ask for. Stupid . . . jackass.”
Rosie slapped a hand over her mouth.
After pouring a round of shots, Bethany picked up a pen and scratched some notes on a nearby legal pad. “We’re going to have to meet twice this week. No way we can cover cock talk and get important things done—”
“Bethany?” Georgie said.
“What?”
“Lose the agenda.”
Her older sister primly set aside the work pad. “Might I suggest, Rosie, that instead of hiding newspapers under the mattress, tomorrow you leave a dead rat in their place?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of my vibrator. It’s capable of more affection than Dominic lately.” Rosie split a look between them. “Tequila makes me overshare.”
“We’re here to overshare. It’s encouraged,” Georgie murmured, sympathy for Rosie’s obvious relationship troubles swimming in her stomach. “Did you find a commercial space for the restaurant yet?”
“There’s one,” Rosie whispered. “There’s one I like. But I’m not ready to . . .” She shook her head. “I’m not ready yet. I’m good with my newspapers for now.”
The front door of Bethany’s house blew open, Kristin breezing in with a basket full of muffins. “Hello, ladies,” she twanged in her Georgia accent. “I heard y’all were having a meeting tonight and I came by to join the club.”
Bethany narrowed her eyes at their sister-in-law, who was making herself busy at the kitchen bar, putting muffins on plates. “How did you know about the club?”
“Stephen found out from your mama.”
“Shit,” Bethany muttered. “Why do we tell that woman anything? She’s like a colander and yet we continue to pour in information.”
“So this is about thumbing our nose at men, right?” Kristin trilled excitedly, sliding onto a stool at the
island in one graceful motion while balancing three plates of muffins. “If so, count me in. I’m leaving your brother. He’s really done it this time.”
Georgie bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing. “What did Stephen do?”
Kristin huffed. “I made him lunch to bring to work this morning. Pecan chicken, fresh-baked rolls, and a cucumber salad. Do you know he left it in the fridge?” She set down the plates with a clatter, balled up her fists, and perched them on her knees. “I would have forgiven him, only he came home from work tonight and didn’t say anything about it. Nothing about how he suffered without my chicken or how terrible his fast-food replacement lunch was. Not a darn thing. So I waited until he got in the shower and I left. I won’t be underappreciated.”
“Kristin,” Rosie started. “Maybe he just had that tired work brain. He probably would have opened the fridge sooner or later and remembered he forgot to take your chicken.”
“Also,” Bethany chimed in with mock sincerity, “we’re literally talking about chicken here, so—”
“Pecan chicken,” Georgie cut in smoothly, patting Kristin’s arm and trying not to show how ridiculous she found the complaint. “One of his favorites, right, Kristin?”
“I don’t know.” She looked up at the ceiling. “I just don’t know anymore.”
Across the circle, Bethany mouthed a silent countdown. Three, two . . .
Outside the house, a vehicle screeched to a halt, followed by a door slamming and angry boot steps storming up the walkway. The door to Bethany’s house opened without preamble and in stormed their brother in flannel pajama pants and a sweatshirt, his hair still wet from the shower. “Get in the truck, Kristin.”
His wife stood her ground—or sat it, rather—refusing to turn and look at him. “You’ve done it this time,” she called dramatically. “Enjoy your life of deep-fried potatoes and fake meat.”
