Keeping Gemma (Holiday Cove 2)

“What the hell? You’re just not talking to me now?” I matched her steps and took a firm stance beside her on the porch as she worked the key in the lock for the deadbolt.

She cut a glance to me and I swear an arctic burst hit me in the chest.

I reached over and stopped her hands that were still twisting the key. “Gemma?” I softened my voice. “Let me help—”

“I can do it!” She exploded, flinging her hands up, pulling the key from the lock.

“Why the hell are you pissed at me?” I demanded, reaching for the keys anyway.

She whirled to face me, her eyes blazing and dark. “Fuck, Aaron. This is insane. Literally insane!” The keys flew from her grasp at the jerky movement and clattered down to the welcome mat at our feet.

I whipped a look around the quiet neighborhood, doing a quick sweep. “Hey, hey, calm down. I know you’re upset, but we gotta keep it together, okay?”

She stared at me another beat, her glare sparking with fire, before jerking over to snatch the keys from the welcome mat. She flipped a couple more keys, muttering something indiscernible under her breath, then jammed the keys back into the knob, twisted, and practically kicked the front door open as soon as the lock clicked free.

I stared after her for a moment, stunned into silence at her tirade, and then followed behind. I shut the door.

“—call me and expect me to drop everything—never even asked—hospital is going to think—” she was ranting and raving from the kitchen and all I could catch were fragments of her mutterings.

I followed the sound of her fury and found her stalking into a room off the kitchen. To my surprise, she stripped her scrub top off over her head and reached behind her to unclasp her bra as she stomped ahead.

My temperature—and my cock—rose at the sight of her bare back.

“Gemma! I get that you’re pissed off. Believe me, I am too. But you gotta slow down and let me explain.”

She had disappeared from my sight, deeper into the dimly lit room, and as much as I wanted to follow and see the rest of her as she stripped out of her work clothes, I knew it wasn’t the best plan. There would be time for that later. When she wasn’t so angry with me. Although, the idea of her fired up and passionate sounded like fun.

I shook my head, clearing the swarm of images and longings away.

She reappeared seconds later, wearing a black tank top that was suctioned to her every curve and line and left a good two inches of her flat stomach above the waist of her low rise jeans. She was in the process of tying her hair up into a short ponytail on the top of her head and looked at me expectantly as her fingers worked to secure the hair tie. “I’m listening. Explain.”

With a sigh I launched into the full story about the call with O’Keefe and his threat—disguised as a throwaway comment—and by the time I finished, Gemma had plunked down at her small kitchen table. All of her wrath and fury had dampened.

Instead, she just looked tired.

“So he knows my name?” She asked, her voice small.

“No. Or at least if he does, he didn’t use it.”

She gave a shallow nod, her eyes drifting to some point on the wall, staring, unblinking as she processed everything I’d told her.

I closed the gap between us and squatted down in front of her. “I’m so sorry, Gemma. Believe me, never, in a million years, would have knowingly dragged you into this shit storm.”

Her eyes flicked back to mine and for a minute we stared at one another in silence. Passing understanding between ourselves without words or movement besides the frantic searching of our eyes as they met. “I believe you.”

“I’m going to figure a way out of this,” I told her, reaching for her hands. “And in the meantime, I’ll keep you safe and make sure nothing happens.”

Gemma stared at me for another beat, and my lips parted, readying to kiss her, but then just like the shifting of the wind, her eyes rolled and she blew out a frustrated puff of air. She stood and sidestepped me on the floor and stalked to the kitchen sink. “See, Aaron, right there, that’s the kind of shit you need to stop doing.”

I straightened faster than the stitches in my side wanted and my hand went to the spot at the stab of pain before I could turn to face her. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“This whole macho protector thing, like I’m some kind of dainty ass flower who can’t handle herself. I’m not some party girl you picked up at a bar who’s had one too many and needs a big strong guy to take her home and make sure she doesn’t get mugged or worse. Hell, I’ve never been that girl. All right? I’m a capable fuckin’ woman who doesn’t need a babysitter.” She stared at me, her eyes ablaze again, daring me to cross her. “So, if you’re looking for a damsel in distress to rescue, like if that’s what gets you up, then you’re in the wrong place.”