Not My Match

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  Later, when I was alone in my apartment, I dissected the interaction and came to the conclusion that he stared at me only because I looked washed out and hideous in the strapless silver dress Elena had picked out for me. I’d told her I didn’t have the breasts to hold it up, but she’d insisted.

  Yet inside that church, standing next to my sister as she recited her vows, my thoughts about Devon wandered. Was he attracted to me? Me? It seemed impossible.

  The truth was abundantly clear once his supermodel date showed up to the reception. He never glanced at me again.

  “Oh my God, are you . . . are you . . . Devon Walsh? I’m a huge fan of yours since your Ohio State days! I have your jersey on my wall,” is the screech that comes from Rodeo as he shoves past me to reach the football star.

  The jostle to my shoulder causes me to lose my grip on the bar, and I stumble to the side, knocking into the guy next to me on his stool—again. He flips around with a scowl—oh, I think I know him—and then his beer bottle smacks me in the cheek.

  “Jesus! Are you okay?” the stool guy calls out and tries to steady me, but it’s too late.

  “Wonderful,” I mutter and rear back, causing my heels to teeter on the slick tile. Time seems to stand still as I grapple with balance. My body obeys the laws of gravity—thank you, Newton—and flails forward and down. My knees hit the floor with a slap—

  Right in front of Nashville’s sexiest man alive.

  Damn you, birthday curse.

  Chapter 2

  GISELLE

  “How does it feel?” Devon asks as he presses an ice pack to my right cheekbone. Wincing at the contact, I put my hand up to my face, and our fingers brush as he slides back and lets me hold the pack in place. Butterflies dance in my stomach as tendrils of awareness buzz along the nerve endings where we touched, and I swallow down the feeling. He’s just a guy who happens to be drop-dead gorgeous. He isn’t attracted to me. Whatsoever.

  “Fine,” I say, forcing brightness into my tone. My head does throb, but I’m not sure if it has to do with my face or just the lack of food in my stomach.

  I’m at a table in the VIP room of the Razor, a roped-off area in the back. The place is mostly empty, except for a few guys watching a game in the corner. I imagine this place doesn’t get crowded until much later. Thankfully, the music from the club seems to be turned off in here.

  From his standing position, Devon bends his knees, crouching down to peer into my eyes, as if to make sure I’m lucid. The scent of him hits me, masculine and heady with a hint of sea and summer, some expensive cologne.

  “You hit the floor pretty hard. How are your hands and knees?” This close, the glints of gold in his irises flicker like fireflies, mingling with the velvety forest green. His gaze is lush, mesmerizing, and deep—

  Stop with the adjectives about his eyes, Giselle! Right.

  “Good, just sore from the fall.”

  “You might have a bruise or two tomorrow. Want more ice for it?”

  “No, but thanks.” I want to forget it ever happened. More than anything, I’m wallowing in embarrassment.

  His fingers graze over my knee, not lingering any longer than necessary, flicking at a piece of something. “When you flung yourself at me, I thought you might tackle me,” he murmurs.

  “Hey. I was ping-ponged between two guys and had nowhere else to go.”

  An image of me on my knees, palms on the floor to keep myself from face planting, dances in my head. Devon helped me up—careful, strong hands on my elbows—then barked at his teammate Aiden, the guy on the stool, and told him to grab an ice pack from the kitchen. Then he escorted me to the VIP room, shoving past dancing people. I half expected him to sweep me up in his arms like in one of those romance novels.

  “According to your hype, it would take more than me to take you to the ground,” I say with a small laugh. “If I was going to tackle you, I’d need stealth. I’d hide in your closet in the dark and pop out when you least expect it. You’d open your door, and I’d be hiding in your fancy shirts wearing a hideous mask.” I smile, ignoring the pain from my face. “What makes you jump . . . creepy crawlers? Freddy Krueger? Michael Myers?”

  A rueful laugh comes from him. “Sharks. Their teeth creep me out. Watched Jaws when I was a kid and wanted to throw up.”

  “Beware,” I say. “I’m coming for you soon.”

  “First, you’d have to get in my penthouse. Hard to get there when there’s a private elevator.”

  I laugh. “Never underestimate the grit and determination of a southern woman with a goal.” I know where he lives. Never been there, but . . .

  His warrior body unfolds as he straightens up to his full height. “There she is, right as rain. It’s okay to fall to your knees. I tend to have that effect on women.”

  I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. Did I mention he’s cocky?

  “But not you, right?” he adds. “Nope, you’re as cool as they come.”

  Wait . . . what?

  My throat feels tight as I try to decipher how his comment settles. I see—oh, I see—exactly what he thinks. He’s put me in the same box as everyone else. It shouldn’t hurt, but it does.

  I swallow thickly. “That’s me. Cold as ice.”

  His forehead crinkles in a scowl. “Hey, hang on a minute; I didn’t mean it like that—”

  “No, I get it. I know what everyone thinks. Unemotional robot. Stuck in her head. Oblivious. Impervious to sexy men.”

  He cocks his head, lips puckering, as if he’s deep in thought, then sticks his hands in the pockets of his jeans, his tell that he’s uncomfortable. I would know. I watch him. “Those thoughts never entered my head. I just meant you’re not like other girls—ah, never mind.” He opens his mouth, shuts it, then says, “You think I’m sexy?”

  “Pfft. No.”

  He grunts, his face unreadable. “Good.”

  “You’re too old for me.”

  He sputters, and I can’t stop my genuine smile at his incredulous face. Oh, goody, I got him. “I’m twenty-eight, for fuck’s sake. There’s what, four years between us?” He rakes a hand through the top of his hair, yet it still settles in a sexy mess, the blue highlights gleaming amid the dark brown. Dammit. He’s effortlessly beautiful.

  I force a nonchalant shrug. “Age doesn’t matter as long as you’re my type—you know, the three Ts: textbooks, tweed, and timid. You have that whole rock star vibe.”

  And those lips. I could write a book about his mouth, the soft-pink color and how the lushness contrasts with the hard lines of his jaw, the overly full bottom lip, the deep V on his upper one.

  “Smart. You should stay away from men like me, pretty girl.” He gives me one of his signature teasing smiles, and yep, we’re totally in the friend zone. He calls everyone pretty girl, even Mama and Aunt Clara.

  “Mmm.” I nod.

  “Is Cowboy your man? He got left behind when I brought you back here, but I can send someone after him.”

  He takes a step away from me, as if to do just that, and I groan. “No, please. I can’t take another minute with him.”

  He stalks back and dips down, bending his knees as he kneels, closer this time than before. His body radiates tension. “Did he do something?”

  I chew on my lips and stare down at my lap, letting the earnestness of his husky voice wash over me. Oh, Devon. He may be an arrogant superstar wideout for the Nashville Tigers, but underneath that surface beats the heart of a good man, so when he says nice things to me, my gut knows it’s not because I’m special. He’d help any girl out.

  “He was . . .” A dick. “Someone I met on this app. I figured if he liked emus, we’d have something to talk about.” I raise my gaze to his, trying to get him to understand my logic, but he’s frowning. “Then he tried to mess with my necklace, and nobody touches Nana’s pearls.” I twist the strand in question, pulling them up to press my lips to them for a second.

  “What else did he do?” he asks gruffly. His eyes land on my n
ecklace as I settle it around my throat, then move to my mouth. I wish I had lipstick on.

  I steady the ice pack on my face and try to will my heart to slow down. Can he hear how fast it’s beating? “He mentioned reverse cowgirl, which sounds fun with the right person, but ugh, not him . . .”

  Oops. Something about Devon makes my tongue loose—or maybe it’s the whiskey. Regardless, that position sounds hot. I imagine it takes strong leg muscles for the female. I run almost every day, so I could hang. Where would my hands go? Behind me on his hips or in front of me for balance? Either way, I’d be faced away from my partner, alleviating inhibitions. If I can get my hands free, there’s access to my own pleasure. It’s settled. Reverse cowgirl is going to the top of my How Giselle Gets Her Groove Back list.

  “Your face is red, Giselle. You feeling okay?”

  I clear my throat, shaking those images away. “It’s hot in here.”

  “Take your jacket off,” he says. “You’re making me sweat just looking at it.”

  After setting down the ice pack, I unbutton the blazer, slide it off my arms, and toss it on the table, then notice how damp my white silk shell is. My lace demi bra is clearly defined, but the cool air is a religious experience. I undo the first three buttons of the shirt and wave the delicate lapels.

  “So, so much better.” I groan as my hands tug at the bobby pins in my hair and place them in a neat line on the table. Massaging my scalp, I straighten out the long tangles, moaning at the sensation. “I need Chris Hemsworth to rub my feet, and it just might make this day bearable.” I kick my sensible shoes off and wiggle my toes.

  “Isn’t he married?” Devon mutters. I raise my head from where I was leaning it back over the chair and take him in. He’s moved a foot away and rubs the back of his neck. His eyes linger on my blouse, then slide away.

  “Not in another universe,” I say in a light tone. “Someday I’ll tell you my ideas on the multiverse. In one of those, there’s a world where it’s entirely possible he’s married to me, and we have ten kids.”

  “Damn.” He laughs. I melt.

  “In the Giselle-and-Chris universe, he can’t keep his hands off me, and we procreate like bunnies on Viagra. He’s not a movie star but an architect, and we live in a villa he built for me in the French Alps. I spend my days researching dark matter, baking cookies, and crocheting baby booties. My nights, well, those are devoted to him.”

  His lips twitch. “Where am I in this universe?”

  I cup my chin. “You’re a teenage girl who works at Cinnabon with a penchant for charm bracelets, bubble gum, and pink berets. On the weekends, your dark side emerges, and you sneak out your bedroom window to spray-paint meaningful graffiti on billboards.”

  He gives me a full-blown smile, lush lips curving. The effect is devastating, and I suck in a breath. “Quite the imagination there, Bunny. You amaze me.”

  I blush. “My randomness drives my family insane.” I pause. “I can’t decide if your nickname should be Cinnamon or Pinky. Thoughts?”

  “Neither. I only answer to Badass.”

  “Spoilsport.”

  Devon searches my face. “Back to the online-dating thing. My cousin Selena did that and barely got out of the car with some guy she met. Dangerous to use.”

  I sigh, regretting the loss of our banter. If he only knew that in one of my other universes, he ravishes me on a bathroom countertop. He’s him, sexy with rippling naked muscles, and I’m some girl he picked up on the side of the road as I was running away from an evil bridegroom. I’m wearing a ruined white dress, and I have long pink hair—but glasses, because yes, I must appear intelligent in every universe. He’s in deep lust from the moment I get in his Maserati, and he takes me home—where he makes me his. I chide myself internally. No wonder I can’t keep up in my classes. I live in my own head too much to focus on the facts. There’s no universe where Devon and I are together.

  I blame these vivid thoughts on the virgin issue. It’s taunted me horribly for five months, since Preston’s parting words when he admitted to cheating. If you won’t give it to me, what did you expect, Giselle? You’re frigid.

  I was his fiancée (for almost a month), and I still couldn’t . . . well, want him. I just kind of fell into dating him, then accepted his proposal.

  And now, here I am, trying to prove I’m normal, looking for love in all the wrong places. That’s a country song, I think.

  “Just because you have women all over you doesn’t mean that the average person has it so easy,” I say rather hotly. “I made sure to not come alone, and I wasn’t planning on leaving with him. I had a plan. I have a plan each time.”

  He takes a step toward me, indignation on his face. “You’ve done this more than once?”

  My brow comes down, annoyance sparking at his incredulous tone. “The first guy, Albert, was a handsome accountant. I met him at Starbucks. Things were going fine until he showed me a pic of his ex on his phone and started crying. Apparently she wanted him to put a ring on it, and he has commitment issues. I advised him to talk to her.”

  “How many others, Giselle?”

  I shift around on the chair. “You make me feel like I’m in the principal’s office.”

  “How many?”

  My hand clenches. Oh, he’s so aggravating!

  “I don’t understand why you need to know, but there was only one other one, Barry, a bit on the slick side. His bio said he was a chemistry major, so I thought, ‘He likes science, and so do I,’ so I swiped right. Turned out he just wanted me to sign up for some pyramid scheme to sell kitchen things like Pampered Chef but not. I passed on being a rep but ended up buying a spatula from him.” I sigh. “I even paid for his latte. Then came Rodeo, and he had that adorable emu . . .”

  “Giselle.” There’s a heavy dose of frustration in his voice, and it makes me lift my chin defiantly.

  “Sometimes you have to go through a bunch of duds, Devon. Don’t pretend like you know a thing about it. You have a new girlfriend every month. Who was the girl at the reception? Pity I never got introduced.”

  A long exasperated breath leaves his broad chest. “Who’d you come with tonight?”

  “Is this twenty questions?”

  A small knowing smile tugs at his lips. “I know you have to answer me. Elena told me about your little question problem.”

  “That little minx,” I breathe. She’s on her honeymoon in Hawaii with the man of her dreams, yet I feel as if she’s right next to me. My beautiful, sweet older sister, whose shadow I’ve never truly been able to escape. I sigh. At least she’s happy, and no one deserves it more than her. Before she met Jack, I ruined our relationship last year when Preston, her then boyfriend, kissed me that awful day in his office—right before she walked in. Is it any wonder that he and I never felt right? We started off wrong.

  A ball of emotion clogs my throat, and I gather myself, trying to push those memories away. It takes effort.

  “Topher drove me,” I say grudgingly. “When I took my car to the shop in Daisy, I walked to the library, and he was closing up. He drove me back to Nashville and insisted on coming with me here since I’d never met anyone at a bar before.”

  Devon wants to know about my car, and I tell him how I came down this morning to a failed attempt to steal my older-model Camry.

  “Are these dates about getting over Preston?” he asks in a careful tone as he gingerly sits down across from me.

  “Best way to get over someone is to find someone new.”

  A few ticks of silence go by, and the air around us resonates with tension, and as soon as I catch on, I sit up straighter and focus. I don’t understand why the space between us feels charged, but it’s crackling.

  “Right,” Devon grinds out as his eyes drape over me, lingering on my blouse before coming up to my face. Our eyes cling until he looks away and scrubs his jaw. “You should get a friend to introduce you to someone—”

  “Uh-huh. You’re my friend. Right?”

&nb
sp; He frowns. “Of course. Why would you even ask?”

  Oh, I don’t know, because I can’t figure you out. Why did you give me a level-five gaze at the wedding? Was it the ugly dress? Was it me?

  “Fine. Who do you suggest I date? He needs to be kind and good in bed—no, scratch that, spectacular. I’m talking fireworks, Devon—mind blowing.”

  His gets up and paces away from me.

  “Did someone say spectacular? If so, I have arrived,” says Aiden as he swaggers in the door and over to the table. About six-two with short brown hair and glittering ice-blue eyes, he’s a farm boy from Alabama with a megawatt smile that makes female hearts patter. Currently, he’s the Tigers’ backup quarterback, but he has his sights set on Jack’s starting position.

  After settling down in the seat vacated by Devon, he hands me a glass of water, the one he dashed off to get after Devon ordered him to. “Word to the wise, I have excellent hearing. Part of my superhuman quarterback skills. Can you define how many orgasms you need? I’m good for five a day and have references.”

  I burst out laughing, and he joins me. He’s about my age, and I’ve never seen him without a grin or a girl. He showed up at my sister’s wedding with two. Twins, no less, and he danced with both of them at the same time at the reception, slow, one in front with her arms around his neck, and one behind him, her hands around his waist. It worked better than I thought it would.

  “You are ridiculous,” I say. He reminds me of a puppy, sweet and rambunctious, begging for you to throw the ball during the day, then curling up next to you at night.

  Devon, on the other hand, is a panther; one minute you think he’s lazing in the sun, twitching his tail, and the next he’s vibrating with barely suppressed power. Like he is now as he scowls at Aiden.