2. Travis
Chapter 2
Travis
S ince I was a kid, the Bluebonnet Café has been Cupid’s Creek’s beating heart, where the charm of small-town Texas is served with every cup of coffee and cherry Danish. No matter the day, familiar conversations, with a side of gossip, rises above the sounds of cutlery and dishes scraping over tabletops, food sizzling on the grill, and the aroma of fresh-baked bread. As a kid, I’d come in with my parents after church on Sundays. In high school, we hung out after class. I had my first date and my first kiss in this very booth. And if I look under the table, I’ll find my name scratched into the wood.
Once, a long time ago, I found comfort in the fact that just by being part of this town, I blended into the background. Everybody knew everybody, their good days and bad. They knew the secrets or what they thought were secrets. Town gossips like Martha Jenkins, currently sitting a few tables over, considered the café the best place to have tea and listen in on conversations they could later share with their cronies at the hair salon.
But those small-town quirks quickly outgrew themselves when first Dad passed away and then Amelia walked away.
For months, almost two years, the ultra-coziness and busybody aspects of Cupid’s Creek grated on my nerves. I found it easier to be alone, to keep everyone at arm’s length. Safer. I didn’t have to answer questions. I didn’t have to dodge set-up attempts. Nothing I did or didn’t do became part of the rumor mill. But a nagging emptiness has gnawed at me over the last few weeks, whispering that perhaps it’s time for this self-imposed isolation to end. Maybe it’s because Mom decided I need somebody new in my life. Maybe she’s right. I am lonely. What I don’t need is her and her friends at the country club setting me up with women they think are suitable. I definitely don’t need the lovely ladies of the local scrapbooking group finding me a new wife.
Regardless of the reason, I’m old and wise enough to know that it’s time to get off my horse and out from behind my desk and face the world again. So, I’ve been testing the waters by popping into the café once or twice a week. At least, it started with a day or two.
Until Rachel Anderson showed up in town. Suddenly I needed the Bonnet’s decaf daily.
The fact that she works at the café means nothing.
However, I do find it amusing that she refuses to serve me, even when I sit in her section. Which I try to do every day.
But today, especially after that little… whatever it was, my usual table feels more like a stage, and the eyes that occasionally flick my way are curious spotlights. I’ve never been a stranger to attention. My family’s wealth and land stretch wider than any other sprawling ranch around Cupid’s Creek. Except today, the attention isn’t because of my family.
It’s because of her. The pretty one who I nearly held in my arms only a second ago. And would have if she hadn’t jumped up as fast as she’d fallen. And the request she just blurted out loud enough that I’m positive Martha caught it.
Rachel, Bluebonnet’s sexy new waitress, normally has a quiet, thoughtful way about her as she moves through the café with a practical grace that caught my eye from the first day I spotted her. But until now, we’ve never spoken. Hardly exchanged glances. At least not obvious ones.
But I’ve been aware of her.
I’m aware of the curve of her hip. The almost indiscernible indent at her waist. Her steady hand as she pours coffee. The smile she gives her customers. The smell of jasmine when she’s breezing past my table and avoiding me.
My gaze lingers on her jean-clad ass, and when she turns around, the green apron tied at her waist accentuating the generous swell of her breasts beneath a snug black t-shirt. My throat goes dry. She’s built like a pinup girl come to life. Auburn hair falls in soft waves around her face. Every time those full lips quirk into a half-smile, I wonder how they taste.
But the way her chest rises with each breath, straining against the fabric of her tight shirt—damn, but the sight makes it hard to think straight. Shifting in my seat, I do my best to ignore the heat pooling in my belly, my cock hardening below my belt.
“Do you mind if I sit for a minute?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, simply plops down across from me like we do this every day.
What do you know? Here I thought she couldn’t see past the invisible barrier she put up around my table. I lean back, crossing my arms, enjoying the view. Until today, I’d been content to stay in the background, watching her move through the diner with a calm that makes the work seem effortless. Something about the way she carries herself—steady, resilient—hooked me before I even realized it. And now that we’re finally face to face, all the cool indifference I rely on slips away.
Dammit. The woman has me off balance.
“You want me to be your boyfriend?”
“Just pretend,” she rushes to say, leaning forward, her elbows on the table. “You know, a fake boyfriend for the weekend. Just a couple of days while my mother is in town.”
The concept is so far removed from my carefully ordered world that I almost laugh. Yet, beneath my initial disbelief, a spark of interest flickers. “Why would you need someone like me for that?”
“Because you’re perfect for the role,” she says. “The elusive and successful cowboy with a side of mystery.”
Is that truly how she sees me? The image she paints might be flattering to some, yet it feels like a costume. I’m a rancher. I run a business. And, surely, there’s a guy around town closer to her age that’s more suitable for the job. They must be lining to spend time with her.
Jealousy flares bright and hot at the thought of any other man in town holding her hand at the festival this weekend.
I drum my fingers on the table, feeling the weight of her gaze. “And what do I get out of this deal? Beyond the free coffee and pie?” What the fuck am I saying?
“Good karma? And my eternal gratitude.”
I sigh, leaning in, but quickly retreat when I realize the space between us is charged with an energy I hadn’t anticipated. “I’ll consider your offer.”
She frowns. “Consider quickly. Please. My overbearing mother is quite persuasive. And she’s showing up tomorrow.”
I don’t believe in fate or Cupid’s arrows. Sitting across from Rachel, her hazel eyes challenging me, I start questioning everything. The logical part of my brain warns that this is a bad idea. We have nothing in common. There are years between us. We don’t know each other.
Then the green demon rages again.
Well, maybe she can help me with my situation at the same time.
“I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced. I’m Travis Kincaid.” I extend a hand across the table. Her fingers are soft, yet firm as they meet my callused ones. I’ve grown accustomed to the hard edges of ranch life, where even a handshake tells a story of long days and hard work. But Rachel’s touch speaks of a different life entirely, one I find myself unexpectedly curious about.
“Rachel Anderson.” She smiles with a shy tilt of her head. She’s the striking opposite of my rugged, dusty world.
“Tell me, Rachel, why would a woman who has never poured me a single cup of coffee suddenly need me to pretend to be her weekend beau?”
Her gaze drops to the table momentarily before meeting mine again, a flash of defiance lighting up her expression. “Like I said, my mother’s coming to town, and I need to get her off my back about dating, my career, and some other things she’s sure to complain about.”
The frankness in her tone makes me like her a little more. It’s not often that someone lays their cards on the table so openly, especially not in Cupid’s Creek, where secrets and gossip are the town’s lifeblood.
“Ah.” The pieces fall into place, her predicament painting a clearer picture. “So, you need a stand-in to stave off the maternal matchmaking.” Maybe we aren’t so different after all.
“Precisely.” Rachel’s fidgeting hands twist a thin ring clutching an emerald stone around her finger. “She has this... stupid damn fantasy of who I should be with, and you fit the bill better than anyone else in Cupid’s Creek.”
I experience a twinge of bitterness at her words. How many times have I been reduced to my bank account and acreage? The ranch that had once been my pride now feels like a gilded cage, attracting those who see me as nothing more than a meal ticket. Is Rachel another Amelia?
“Because I own a ranch?” I ask, my voice carrying more than a hint of cynicism.
“Partly,” she admits with a shrug. “But also, because you’re not… well, you’re not anything like my ex.”
A shadow passes over her face, the kind that comes from memories best left untouched. Her pain is palpable, and for a moment, I see beyond the pretty waitress to a woman carrying burdens I can’t begin to understand. What kind of man is this ex-boyfriend or husband? And why does mentioning him harden Rachel’s features and cause her body to stiffen?
I tilt my head and gaze at her beautiful face, then allow my eyes to wander down her curvy body to those fucking sexy round hips. “Should I be flattered or offended by that?”
She huffs. “Flattered. My ex is…” She hesitates before deciding how much to tell me. “He was a mistake. A big one.”
Her words stir something protective in me as our similarities start to outweigh our differences.
“Travis, look, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. My mother, she’s relentless. And you... you could help me…” She trails off, and her gaze settles on me, her eyes wide. “Maybe? No? Yes?”
I push my hat off my forehead and run a hand through my hair. My ex-wife took more than just my trust; she left a hole where my heart used to be. Rachel doesn’t appear to care about my money or the ranch. She just needs someone to stand by her side, and for reasons I don’t understand right now, she wants that someone to be me.
I shift in my seat, the worn leather of my boots creaking against the floorboards. Her request makes me feel a surge of empathy. But the memory of Amelia’s betrayal looms large.
Damn it all to hell. I’d sworn off commitment years ago and vowed never to let another woman close enough to hurt me again. I decided it wasn’t worth the hassle, the pain, the inevitable disappointment. And yet...
Rachel sits before me, desperate and hopeful, asking for nothing more than a bit of playacting for a few days. No strings, no expectations. Just a simple favor. It’s tempting, I must admit. I’ve wanted to get to know this woman, and here’s my chance. Besides, her situation mirrors my own a little too closely as it happens. Maybe we can kill two birds with one stone. This arrangement could work in both our favors. Give Rachel some peace from her overbearing mother and get mine off my back for a while as well.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
The last thing I want or need is to get tangled in someone else’s family drama. I have enough of my own. But something about Rachel makes me want to say yes—to protect her, even if it goes against every self-preservation instinct.
“All right,” I finally concede, my voice gruff. “I’ll do it. I’ll be your pretend boyfriend.”
Her face lights up, and she reaches across the table and takes my hand. As our palms meet our fingers automatically intertwine, and the zing and residual tingling in my fingertips makes me tense up. Quickly, I shove it aside, burying it beneath layers of practiced indifference, as I’m sure she doesn’t mean anything by the gesture.
“Thank you, Travis.” Her grip is firm, and her skin is soft. The heat from her touch seeps into mine, sending signals to parts of my body that have no business waking up in the middle of the Bluebonnet Café.
Swallowing hard, I fight against a sudden surge of attraction. I need to treat this like a business transaction, plain and simple. A mutually beneficial arrangement, nothing more. Yet my body seems intent on betraying me, responding to her in ways I haven’t experienced in years.
“Let’s set some ground rules,” I say, releasing her hand. “And I have one condition.”
“Okay.” She leans back in the chair. “Shoot.”
I take a deep breath, preparing myself for what I’m about to reveal. Showing any sign of weakness has never been easy for me. But she needs to understand my motivations for agreeing to this.
“We spend some time at my ranch after this weekend’s festival. Sounds like my mother’s similar to yours. She’s been staying with me since things went south with my ex-wife.” My grip tightens around the coffee mug I hadn’t realized I’d been holding on to as if somebody were going to rip it out of my hands.
The betrayal, the public humiliation, the suffocating presence of my well-meaning but overbearing mother. I’ve built my life around control and independence, and in one fell swoop, it all came crashing down when Amelia left me high and dry. Then, Mom said she didn’t like living at the old homestead without Dad and moved into my spare room.
“Travis,” Rachel’s tone softens, her eyes locking onto mine with genuine concern. “You don’t have to?—”
“Let me finish,” I cut in, unprepared for her sympathy. “My mother’s got this notion no woman is good enough for me, although she wants me to date. And she’s suffocating me. Every damn day, it’s something else. If she sees I’m with someone, maybe she’ll back off. Find her own space again. So, this fake dating arrangement might work out for both of us.”
I didn’t mean to reveal so much. Still, something about Rachel’s presence makes it impossible to keep my usual barriers intact. Her steady gaze anchors me, soothing the restlessness that constantly buzzes beneath my skin.
Rachel nods slowly, her eyes never leaving mine. “I get it. It seems our situations aren’t that different.”
Her understanding surprises me. I expected questions, maybe even judgment. But there’s none of that in her expression, just a quiet acceptance and probably relief that we both have something to gain from this short-term arrangement.
“Anything else I should know?” I ask, attempting to steer my thoughts away from how her hair catches the afternoon sunlight raining in through the big windows along the south-facing wall.
She smooths down her apron. “Yeah. No falling in love with me, Kincaid,” she teases.
Love is the last thing I need or want. Been down that road before, and it left me scarred and bitter. “Wasn’t planning on it, Anderson.”
Rachel places both elbows on the table. “Careful, cowboy. Your charm might be contagious.”
My body hums with awareness, responding to the playful lilt in her voice. I tamp down the urge to pull her close, to discover if her lips taste as sweet as they look. Instead, I chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “Wouldn’t want you catching a case of irresistibility.”
“Please, I’m already immune.” She winks. “Besides, I’ve got other talents.”
I lean closer, drawn by the challenge in her tone. “Oh yeah? Like what?”
“Well, for starters, I can balance five plates on one arm.”
I admire the graceful line of her neck when she tilts her head. Heat surges through my veins. “Impressive. Any other hidden skills?”
“I make a mean apple pie.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “And I’ve been told I’m pretty good at keeping secrets.”
The scent of her perfume –soft and floral– clouds my senses. Desire coils low in my gut. This fake relationship is already becoming a dangerous game.
“Good to know. We’ll need that for our little charade.”
Rachel straightens and smooths her apron again. “So, how should we play this? Sickeningly sweet or subtly smitten? Or totally, completely, madly in love?”
Immediately, I envision us together on the back of my horse and find the image far too appealing. “Let’s aim for somewhere in between. Believable, but not nauseating.”
“Got it. So, no dramatic declarations of undying love in the town square?”
“Save those for the second date,” I quip, enjoying her laugh a little too much. It’s a light, airy sound that I want to hear repeatedly.
Rachel grabs her notepad and stands. “All right, but don’t expect me to swoon. I’m made of sterner stuff.”
I smirk, leaning back in the booth to look at her. “Swooning’s overrated. I prefer a woman who can hold her own.”
Rachel cocks an eyebrow, her lips curving into a teasing smile. “Oh, I can do more than that, cowboy. I might just sweep you off your feet.”
“Is that a dare?” The words roll off my tongue, thick with innuendo.
She plants her hands on the table, bending forward, and the movement accentuates her curves, drawing my gaze straight to her cleavage. I allow myself a peek before raising my eyes to hers again.
“Maybe it is. Think you can handle it?”
Damn, this woman is dangerous. And here I thought she was quiet and demure, a newcomer to Cupid’s Creek, just trying to find her place. “I can handle anything you dish out.”
“We’ll see about that.” Rachel’s voice is husky. “Give me a few minutes to tend to my tables and I’ll be back.”
She turns and saunters away, and I watch the twitch of her ass every step as she works her section refilling coffee cups, taking orders, and cleaning a few tables. The whole time she’s away, I find myself missing her. I watch her easy conversations with other customers and whispered exchanges with Sheila. I know they’re talking about me because Sheila’s eyes are pinned on me the entire time. It doesn’t bother me, though, because I know she’s just watching out for Rachel, and I respect that.
When my new girlfriend returns with two cups of fresh coffee and a slice of pie before sliding into the booth opposite me again, she wastes no time.
“So, Travis, tell me about yourself. What deep, dark secrets are you hiding?”
My laughter sounds rusty and rough. “Now that would be telling, wouldn’t it?” Besides, I’m almost positive she’s already heard them all.
“If we’re going to pull this off, we need to know each other, inside and out.”
The double entendre isn’t lost on me, although I know she didn’t intend it that way. “Fair enough. What do you want to know?”
Rachel purses her lips, considering. “Let’s start with the basics. Family? Hopes and dreams?”
I take a swig of my coffee, buying time. “My mother is still around, like I said earlier, but we don’t always see eye to eye. My father passed a few years back.”
The bitterness of the coffee matches the taste in my mouth. Memories of recent arguments with Mom and the ache of Dad’s absence threaten to surface, but I push them down. This isn’t the time or place to unpack that baggage.
“I’m sorry,” Rachel says softly, her earlier playfulness fading.
I shrug. “As for exes... well, there’s only one—Amelia. We were married for two years before she had enough of ranch life.” That was partially true. She hated living on the ranch—considered it too dusty and dirty even after she got the house of her dreams. She despised the early mornings and late nights and that the ranch took most of my time and energy.
Then I caught her in bed with my ranch foreman.
Even now, years later, the betrayal stings. I’d given Amelia everything—my trust, love, and name. I’d given Hank a job, my friendship, and my confidence. Both threw it away for a ride in the hay. To be honest, I’m not sure whose betrayal hurts worse.
Rachel winces. “Ouch. That’s rough.”
“Yeah, well, lesson learned. Trust isn’t something I easily give these days.”
And isn’t that the truth. I’ve kept everyone at arm’s length, convinced it’s safer that way. But sitting across from Rachel, watching her eyes fill with empathy, I feel a dangerous urge to let my guard down.
This is all for show. I need to remember that.
She nods, understanding in her eyes. “I get that. My ex wasn’t exactly Prince Charming either.”
“What happened?”
Her fingers tighten around her pen. “He was controlling. Manipulative. By the time I realized how toxic the situation was, I’d already lost touch with most of my friends and family and hated my job.”
Anger flares in my chest. What the fuck? Why do I even care? But still, a surge of protectiveness washes over me, surprising in its intensity. I barely know this woman, yet the thought of someone hurting her makes my blood boil. I clench my jaw, forcing myself to remain outwardly calm. “Sounds like a real piece of work.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” she mutters and forces a smile. “Anyway, that’s all in the past. I’m here for a fresh start.”
Leaning toward her, I lower my tone. “And how’s that working out for you?”
She glances around the café, taking in the worn linoleum floors and faded curtains. “It’s different. Obviously. Slower. Sometimes I miss the energy of the city, you know? But there’s something nice about knowing your neighbors, feeling like part of a community.”
I’ve spent so much time isolating myself, convinced it’s the only way to avoid getting hurt again. But watching Rachel, seeing the hope in her eyes as she talks about community, there’s a pang of longing in my chest.
“Even if that community is full of nosy busybodies?”
Rachel laughs, the sound genuine this time. “Even then. At least my mother doesn’t live here because I can do without her constant nagging about finding a suitable husband.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I thought you said I qualify as suitable?”
“Oh, you’re plenty suitable on paper. That’s why I asked you to be my fake boyfriend,” Rachel’s gaze trails appreciatively over my shoulders. “Rich, handsome, a rancher. You’re like catnip for small-town gossip. But my mother doesn’t know the real you.”
Shit. I’d agreed to this charade, thinking it would be simple and straightforward. But how Rachel looks at me, like she can see past all my defenses, makes me wonder if I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.
“And you do?” I challenge.
Her smile turns enigmatic. “Not yet. But I intend to find out.”
“Careful, honey. You might not like what you discover.”
“Try me,” she whispers.
Before I can respond, Ruby’s shrill voice cuts through the moment. “Rachel! Stop flirting and get back to work!”
She sighs. “Guess I should get back to it. Wouldn’t want the boss thinking I’m slacking off.” She stands and starts to turn away.
Am I making a mistake? Even in a fake relationship, getting involved seems like asking for trouble. But I’ve already given my word, and I’m not one to back down.
Her jasmine scent lingers, tempting me to reach out and stop her. But I clench my fists, fighting the irrational urge to keep her at my side. “Rachel.”
She stops and looks back over her shoulder.
“Just so we’re clear—I’m doing you a favor. Don’t make me regret it.”
“Whatever you say, cowboy,” she replies, that ‘cat that ate the canary’ grin firmly in place.
She walks away, the sway of her hips unconsciously syncing with the throbbing in my pants.
Yeah, she’s trouble, all right.
But goddamn, regardless of what I just said, I’m looking forward to every second of it.