I pause in my pacing, the phone still to my ear, and I listen to nothing but dead air for ten seconds before I snap out of it enough to hang up.

Seriously? That’s it? He didn’t even stop and ask me if I wanted to stay at Boone’s. I planned to crash behind Tana’s gates. I grit my teeth, knowing I’m about to ride into the shitstorm of the century.

My stomach twists and turns with guilt. Mama better be long gone, because if I track her down, there’s no telling what I’ll say or do. And Creighton . . . I don’t even know what to think. The guilt that I’m the reason his past is smeared across the tabloids fights with the hurt that he didn’t tell me he bought the label and is facing serious legal issues because of it.

This is supposed to be as real as it gets, and yet he said nothing. Why? And why hasn’t he called me today? I stare down at my phone and quickly search for his contact. I tap his cell number, trying to figure out what I’m going to say.

But no need—the call goes straight to voice mail.

I call again.

And again.

And again.

Nothing.

Finally, I call his office. Instead of the receptionist I got the last time, I get a prerecorded message thanking me for my call before offering me the number of the PR department at Karas International. I blink as I lower my phone to the counter.

Seriously, Creighton? What is this?

The only thing I can fathom is that they’ve been overrun with calls about today’s news. For a moment I think about calling the PR department and asking them to have the boss call his wife. But I decide that’s not the best course of action.

My imagination is jumping all over the place. Is he locked inside some kind of super-top-secret meeting that he can’t get away from? Was the Homegrown deal the reason he stood me up when I needed to be back in Nashville? So many secrets, and I’m not privy to a single goddamn one of them.

So much for this being as real as it gets. Because real is telling your spouse that you’ve bought their record label. Real is telling your spouse that the shit is about to hit the fan because you bought their record label.

And from my side of the fence, real is apologizing that I opened my goddamn mouth to my mama and gave her anything to tell the press.

I want to rage at him and apologize all at the same time.

Why is love so damned complicated?

When he still hasn’t called by the time I’m shoving my bags in the Cadillac, rage is winning out. Where the hell is my husband?

The bowling bag is the last thing I put in the backseat. I thought about leaving it, but said screw it. I have a feeling that screw it is going to be my mantra of the day.

Your mama sells you out to a tabloid? Screw it.

Your husband buys your record label and doesn’t mention it? Screw it.

Your husband gets sued after buying said record label and doesn’t mention that either? Screw it.

I slam the car into gear and tear out of the drive. I’ve got one stop to make before I leave town, so I crank the wheel in the direction of Logan’s service station.

I’m pretty sure the tires on the Caddy are smoking when I squeal to a halt. Screw it.

I fling the door open and hip check it shut. Screw it.

I march across the pavement and throw open the door, not slowing to ring the bell for service. The music is once again blaring, so I stalk to the stereo and slap a hand on the power button. Screw it.

Logan’s head jerks up from the Mustang. “Again? What the hell is your problem with Zeppelin?”

“They were all men. That’s enough.” Although I’m not too happy with womankind—or motherkind—today either.

Logan leans back against the cherry-red front end of the car and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Karas again?”

I throw my hands up in the air. “Obviously! Well, him and my mama.”

I pace the garage, stepping over air hoses and metal legs of the huge car lifts as I spill the entire sordid story.

Logan’s eyes are wide when I finish. “You’ve had a rough morning, girl.”

“No kidding.”

“What can I do?”

I recall the reasons I came here to begin with. “Two things, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Anything you need. All you have to do is ask.”

I briefly consider asking him to track down my mother, but decide that’s the worst possible idea.

“Can you sell my Pontiac?”

“Of course. Just tell me where to send the money.”

“I’ll worry about that later.” I pause in my pacing and face him. “I also need you to get a locksmith out to my gran’s and have the locks changed for me. If you get word my mama’s back in town, I want her arrested again for breaking and entering if she tries to get back inside. The house is mine, and I don’t want her in it. Last time she stole stuff, and I’m finished with that crap.”

“Consider it done.”

My temper cooling slightly, I cross over to him, lean up on my tiptoes, and press a kiss to his cheek. “You’re a good man, Logan Brantley. A really good man.”

His cheeks flush red, but he smiles. “And don’t you forget it, Holly Wickman. You call me if you ever need anything.”

He turns and grabs a slip of paper off the workbench and scribbles his number down with a fat pencil. “Nashville ain’t too far, and if you need me, I’ll be there. Just say the word.”

I’m not sure how to take that, so I just say, “Thank you. I’m glad my car died at this particular gas station.”

“Me too, honey. Me too.”

I’m at a crossroads in my life, both literally and figuratively. I can head southwest toward Nashville and hide behind Boone or Tana’s gates. Or I can head northeast, into the shitstorm surrounding my husband. A shitstorm that I helped make worse on a personal level because of what I shared with Mama.

I think about what Creighton said to me just before we hung up last night.

“I support you, Holly. So whatever you decide is best for you, I’m going to support that too.”

As pissed as I am that he didn’t tell me about Homegrown, I owe him the same thing—my support. I ran from him twice before, but this time I’m running straight to him. I’m not saying I won’t ask him what the hell he was thinking by not telling me, but this isn’t a game.

It’s the fight of my life.