Not My Match

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  OTHER TITLES BY ILSA MADDEN-MILLS

  Very Bad Things

  Very Wicked Beginnings

  Very Wicked Things

  Very Twisted Things

  Dirty English

  Filthy English

  Spider

  Fake Fiancée

  I Dare You

  I Bet You

  I Hate You

  Boyfriend Bargain

  Dear Ava

  Not My Romeo

  The Last Guy (w/Tia Louise)

  The Right Stud (w/Tia Louise)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2021 by Ilsa Madden-Mills

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542021890

  ISBN-10: 1542021898

  Cover design by Hang Le

  Cover photography by Daniel Jaems

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Chapter 1

  GISELLE

  Tuesday, August 4

  This night is a death sentence. Pretty soon the executioner is going to pull me off this barstool and drag me straight to the guillotine. I’m so fed up and tired I won’t even struggle. Just make it fast and painless, I’d tell him. And might you spare me a sip from your flask to see me off?

  My esteemed date is Charlie, but he’s insisted I call him Rodeo. A short guy, maybe five-four if you count the Stetson. He’s a belt hitcher, tugging at his jeans from the back, making the rearing horse on his buckle jiggle. The spinning lights from the club grazed that gold buckle earlier, and the ricochet nearly blinded me. Nothing against height-challenged men or country attire, but the weasel is checking out every girl in the Razor.

  Just another nail in the coffin for one of the crappiest days ever, from my car being broken into this morning to my advisor gleefully telling me he would not be recommending me to study abroad. Disappointment, heavy and thick, slams into me all over again. Forget the busted car window and some thief’s poor attempt at hot-wiring my car—I was living for the chance to study in Switzerland. Everything I’ve been dreaming of, hanging on to with bated breath, has evolved around the fellowship at CERN, the European Organization for Nuclear Research.

  A fresh start—dead.

  Goodbye, particle accelerators. Hello, devastation.

  My chest hurts, and I lift a hand and press it there.

  I’m blaming these past few days on the birthday curse. Bad things happen around my birthday, and I’ll be twenty-four in five days, so it stands to reason fate is taunting me as she loves to do.

  “You like?” Rodeo drawls in a lazy southern accent, preening as he gives me a view of his textured olive-green cowboy boots. “Alligator. Flew to Miami to buy these. Custom made by a real designer. They go from casual to dressy in a snap.”

  “Uh, nice.” He’s a fairly handsome guy; I’ll give him that. A face. Teeth. Hair. Arms. Legs. But it’s the sneaky, mean look in his dark eyes that gives me pause.

  Pretty soon I’m going to find my wits and the good sense Mama gave me and get out of this date, but right now, I yearn to finish my whiskey.

  “The texture of the boot comes from the young alligators, since their bellies are softer. More malleable in the tanning process. They raise ’em on a farm, then kill them and make boots. Fascinating process. I’d like to see it in person, to tell the truth. Do you think they put them to sleep or just kill ’em outright with a knock to the head?”

  A second passes. Or a minute. I inhale a breath. “I don’t want to know.”

  “Ah, you’ve got a soft heart, honey.” He waves away that idea and holds his foot up a few feet off the ground, and part of me thinks about giving him a teeny tiny little push. “Now don’t be shy; give ’em a feel. Might be your only chance to feel quality.”

  Quality? Well, isn’t that just rich. I’ve sunk low tonight. A guy who wants to see baby alligators killed is what I attract.

  “I prefer not,” I reply with ice in my voice—not that he notices.

  “Feels like silk.” His eyes linger on my legs suggestively as he inches in closer to me, giving his belt a little hitch.

  A girl pops up next to him on the other side and orders a drink, and I visibly blow out a breath as he gives her the up and down.

  The man is here to get laid. I get it.

  I picked him off the app only because there was an emu next to him, and I felt nostalgic. They’re regal, odd birds, their height reaching six-ten by maturity. Daddy used to keep an older mated pair on our farm after a local safari place closed and left them to wander aimlessly. I used to feed, pet, and gaze at them longingly, lovingly, amazed at how fast they ran (up to thirty miles an hour), how they seemed to look at me and see that I was just as strange as they were: a tall lanky girl with oversize glasses, braces, and no friends. Daddy, who recognized my affinity with unique things early on, built them a two-acre enclosure, pond included. To see them play in the water . . . grief swells up and washes over me—for the loss of them and Daddy.

  In hindsight, I realize that Rodeo must have been standing on something—a box or a ladder—when he snapped his bio pic. Taking a sip of my drink, I squint, trying to picture us having sex. I’m five-nine, so how would that even work? I’m really into eye contact, and if we had sex missionary-style, then his head would land somewhere between my breasts and my stomach. He’d have to crane his neck to look up at me. Maybe I’ll buy some Ken and Barbie dolls, cut Ken’s legs off at the correct ratio, and test it out. A shame, but sometimes science requires sacrifice. When you don’t have a clue, testing is important. I never want to be unprepared. My curiosity isn’t because I plan on having sex with Rodeo—heck no, I just love random tidbits to squirrel away.

  “You come to the Razor a lot, honey?” Rodeo asks, attempting more conversation as the other girl wanders off. His dark eyes hold mine over the rim of his frosted mug of draft beer. At least he isn’t ogling my breasts any longer—no, he gave that up when I slipped on my navy blazer and buttoned it up to the collar. A bead of sweat drips down my back. It’s August in the South, over a hundred degrees outside, and if I don’t get out of this club soon, I’m going to pass out.

  “No. I’ve never been here. I don’t get out much. I’m a grad student and teach—”

  He nods, interrupting me. “It’s close to my apartment is why I picked it.” A pause. “It’s hard meeting girls online.”

  At that remark, at the hint that maybe he’s not the jackass he appears to be,
I relax a little. Maybe he was just babbling about watching baby alligators die.

  I infuse my voice with interest and ask the number one question Mama always asks me about my dates. “Are you employed?”

  He fingers his gold belt buckle and chuckles. “Not a desk job like most. I’m the reigning Ride ’Em Till You Die champion for the past three years. I made a million dollars last year in the circuit. You into rodeo guys?”

  “I love horses,” I push out, floundering to find a commonality between us. “I grew up outside Nashville, a small town called Daisy—”

  “Whips, saddles, spurs, bridles—I’ve got it all at home if that’s your kink,” he interjects with a sly tone as he goes from nice to sleazy in a blink, the insinuation of it making me squirm as I shift around on my stool. A dark chuckle comes from him. “You look uptight, but I bet your waters run deep, honey.”

  Uptight. He gets a gold star for that. My ex-fiancé, Preston, would agree.

  He continues, tugging me away from the dark path those thoughts want to lead me down. “And I know what you’re thinking—I’m short. Most girls do at first, but just you wait, ’cause what’s in my pants is a God-given gift. Ain’t had one complaint since I started. Been riding fillies for a long time, and they always come back for more of what I got.” His lids lower as he gives his crotch an endearing, loving look, as if his small head is sentient and listening.

  There you go.

  My first instinct was right. Death sentence. Must escape.

  After turning away from him and looking at the mirror across the bar, I watch as red creeps up my face. My hair is chaos, the blonde strands once in a sleek chignon now dangling next to my temple, the finer hairs sticking to my damp forehead. My pink lipstick has faded, and there are smudges of mascara under my eyes from the heat.

  I push my black glasses up on my nose and swipe at a bead of sweat on my forehead. Why am I even wearing a stupid blazer in the middle of the hottest summer on record? My fingers toy with the top button, loosening it a little.

  Rodeo sees me unbuttoning my jacket, and his eyes light up. He takes a step closer, and now his checkered shirt is brushing against my breasts, and I see his nose hairs. His smell wafts around me: spicy, male, kind of leathery—horsey.

  I lean farther away, arching until I bump into the person next to me. Without glancing back, I mumble an apology and straighten myself on the stool.

  Rodeo indicates my empty tumbler, his tone low and husky. “You want another drink? That whiskey you sucked down is long gone.”

  Using my foot, I press on the lower part of the bar and scoot my stool away from him. I check my phone and put on a frown. “Actually, it’s getting late, and I need to leave—”

  “Hey, bartender! My little filly here needs a drink,” he calls out and waves his hat around at the busy server behind the bar.

  The petite bartender comes over to us. Her name tag says SELENA, and I’m envious of the confident sway of her hips in skinny jeans, the deep-red lipstick on her lips. Her dark hair is sheared close to her scalp in a pixie cut, her eyes defined with dark eyeliner. We’re like night and day, me in my faded makeup, mud-brown pencil skirt, and low-heeled pumps.

  Selena focuses her eyes on me, dismissing Rodeo. “You sure you want another drink?” The dry tone says, Girl, why are you with him?

  A long exhalation comes from my chest. All I need to do is get rid of him and just enjoy the burn of a good bourbon.

  I give her a quick nod, keeping my eye on Rodeo.

  “Same as before? Woodford on the rocks?”

  “Please,” I say.

  Selena turns around to reach up to the top shelf while Rodeo lets out a whistle under his breath, watching her voluptuous figure.

  She turns back around, pours the drink, and slides it over to me, her face composed and blank. She has to have heard Rodeo, but you’d never know it. She’s cool. I want to be cool. Maybe then I might find the right kind of guy.

  “Thank you,” I say and take a sip as Rodeo watches me with a smoldering look, then reaches out and toys with my necklace. “So this is obviously working between us. You’re hot. I’m hot. The electricity is sparking. I’m already picturing you riding me. Ever hear of reverse cowgirl?”

  I pry his hands off my pearls and push at him as anger rises like a tidal wave, overriding my earlier politeness. When he’s at a safe-enough distance, I take a sip of my drink and slam it down on the bar. After digging around in my computer bag, I grab my wallet, pull out several twenties, and toss them down.

  “You’re leaving already, honey?” There’s a plaintive whine to his voice.

  I turn to face him, teeth gritting. “Yes, and I know what reverse cowgirl is.” I have to answer his question; it’s a thing. If you ask, I crave to respond with the truth. “And there is zero spark. My protons are not attracted to your electrons.”

  “Protons? What—”

  “Plus, it’s incredibly rude of you to suggest sexual acts when you’ve just met me—”

  “Hot damn, you’ve got a temper. Gotta admit angry sex is my favorite. How’s about me and you getting out of here—”

  “Keep dreaming—”

  “And I might even let you stay the night, make you some pancakes in the morning, sprinkle some chocolate chips on them or some organic blueberries. You look like the granola type.”

  I do like organic blueberries, but . . . “This was a drink-only meeting, and I told you that when I messaged you. And please, for the love of everything, stop calling me honey or filly, or I swear I’ll dump what’s left in this glass over your head.”

  My chest rises at my outburst. I just threatened physical violence on a person. This isn’t like me. I never get angry. I let people run roughshod over me time and time again . . .

  His gaze flares as I jerk to a standing position, stumbling a little in my heels as I ricochet off the person next to me. “Forgive me,” I murmur to the fellow, steadying myself by latching on to the bar like a lifeline. I throw a wary glance at my glass. I actually had one before Rodeo showed up, and considering I haven’t had dinner—yep, I’m buzzing.

  “Giselle?” comes a deep voice, dark and sultry, the tone recognizable even over the loud music.

  No, it can’t be.

  My heart flips over, and my entire body flushes as I look past Rodeo to the tall man who’s standing a few feet away on the edge of the dance floor, a questioning look on his movie-star face.

  My hands clench. I should have known I might see him. I just assumed he would still be working out or doing whatever professional athletes do early in the evening. My sister, Elena, mentioned he usually pops by on the weekends, but that’s about it.

  Devon Walsh, superstar football player, arches a dark brow at me, the one with a silver bar at the edge. I run through my mental checklist. Voted Nashville’s Sexiest Man of the Year. All-Pro for three years straight. Best friends with my new brother-in-law, Jack. Owns the Razor. Wicked lips. Beautiful tattooed body. Hot.

  “Is everything okay?” he asks as his gaze drifts over me, starting at the top of my half-down, half-up hair and moving all the way to my pumps. I squint, and even though it’s not possible in the dark club, it feels as though he’s put a spotlight on my form as he surveys every inch of me.

  “Fine,” I call, tossing up a hand. “Couldn’t be better! Good to see you! Bye!”

  Leave. I want no witnesses to this debacle.

  “I see.” His discerning eyes flip to Rodeo, and that maddening eyebrow goes up again. “Are you on a date?”

  My entire body rebels at the questioning, teasing tone in his voice, and I stiffen all over.

  He thinks I’m with Rodeo.

  I did meet him here, but . . .

  “Yes, we are,” Rodeo calls and throws an arm around me as I wrestle unsteadily out of his grasp.

  A small frown etches itself on Devon’s forehead as he sticks his hands into the pockets of his low-slung designer jeans. Maybe he sees I’m close to passing out from heats
troke or that I’m about to murder one of his patrons.

  My insides feel like jelly, and it has little to do with the whiskey and more to do with Devon, although I’m not interested in him like that—just curious. Yes, he’s hotter than a Bunsen burner, but we’re friends—well, not real friends. Okay, whatever, I’m overthinking this, and my brain is not firing on all cylinders. We’re acquaintances, if you really want to split hairs, and when he looks at me, I’m firmly in the “you’re Elena’s sister, and she’s married to my best friend; therefore, I am friendly” category.

  That doesn’t stop me from appreciating his chiseled, bladed jawline and the deep-green eyes that are framed by thick black lashes. At six-two or six-three (I itch to measure him), his body is toned to perfection by time in the gym, his shoulders muscled inside a tight black T-shirt, his chest tapering to a trim waist and long legs, with faded Converse on his feet. Rolex on one wrist, a black leather cuff on the other. One part civilized, the other side all bad boy and oh-so decadent.

  His skin is a pretty tan color from the sun, a sharp contrast to my own milky paleness. His hair is mink brown and thick, mingled with royal-blue highlights, the top long and swept back off his face with lots of volume, the sides clipped close to his scalp. He uses more hair product than I do. When I first met him back in February, he wore a gelled faux hawk with purple tips, but he changes his hair more than any girl I know.

  Diamond studs wink from his earlobes, just another way we’re opposite. I let my holes close up when I was eighteen and never went back to have them repierced. Two full sleeves of roses mixed with fluttery gold-and-blue butterflies dance along his forearms. Those, I like. A lot. Nervous, I stroke the pearls around my neck.

  “Giselle?” he asks.

  My brain jerks to a halt as I realize I’m ogling him. Sputtering, I rack my brain for an intelligent response—come on, Giselle, you’re working on a PhD in physics; you have a plethora of words in your arsenal. Tell him Rodeo isn’t your date!

  But all I can think about is the last time I saw him—Saturday at Elena and Jack’s wedding, where he was the best man to my maid of honor. He wore a mouthwatering fitted gray suit, the fabric so devastatingly soft I bit my lip when he took my hand and looped it through the crook of his arm. Did his fingers linger on mine longer than necessary? Maybe. He probably didn’t notice. He was just doing his job as Jack’s best man. He did stare a hole through me. A level-five gaze, which involves intense eye contact lasting ten seconds, meaning I either had a giant zit on my nose, or he really liked what he saw. I asked him—well, whispered—as we walked down the aisle toward Jack and Elena if he was feeling unwell. He said he was fine—curtly—which was strange, because Devon is the opposite of grumpy.