“What’s her story?”
“Recent broken engagement. He’s a dickhead.”
We step into the foyer, and he looks around, taking in the fancy farmhouse decor, rustic metal chandeliers, and wood beams across the ceiling. The place bustles with waitstaff and clientele. He lets out a whistle. “Damn, Jack is raking it in.”
“You’re a good agent.”
The maître d’ sees me and smiles, nudging his head toward the back of the restaurant. Craning my neck, I find her sitting at a booth near the bar, hair down in a sleek fall of blonde, glasses perched on her nose, her laptop open as she types. My lips twitch. The girl likes to write stories about aliens. Or she could be studying. She’s a dichotomy of contradictions, and since the night in the VIP room, I never know which Giselle I’ll get.
We walk to the back, maneuvering past tables, and the closer we get, the antsier I feel, hands tapping against my leg.
“So, friend of yours? Related? How’s your cousin, by the way?”
“Giselle’s a good friend. Smart as a whip and has a big heart. Selena is great. Just moved her up to GM at the club.”
“Is she hot?”
“Selena?”
He laughs. “What’s wrong with you? Giselle?”
Want me to make a list of what’s wrong? My dad is a train wreck, and he isn’t answering my calls; strange men are approaching me at my place and Giselle at Walmart; my teammate isn’t speaking to me at camp; my best friend’s sister-in-law is staying with me; and I want to put my hands all over her so bad I can’t fucking stand myself, so I’m setting her up with you. Yeah, best to not say that.
I push my hands into the pockets of my navy slacks, seeing visions of Giselle cooking breakfast this morning, her lips curved up as I ate most of the bacon she made. Her hair was up in a messy bun, and she kept pushing her glasses up her nose. “Yeah, she’s hot.”
He follows my eyes and shoulder bumps me. “Is that her?”
“Hmm.”
“Niiiiiiice.”
I inhale, unease crawling in my gut. “She’s a serious kind of girl; you feel me? She isn’t a one-nighter.”
“If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you like this girl for yourself.”
“No.” I brush past him and arrive at the booth and slide in next to her while Brandt sits across from us. Her eyes take him in, glancing over his tailored suit, the hundred-dollar haircut, the boyish grin. Her lashes flutter, a blush rising on her cheeks as he shakes her hand.
Well? my eyes ask her.
She nods in my direction, smiles, and adjusts one of my tailored blue dress shirts she’s fashioned into some kind of top, the ends tied together, the top buttons undone, her creamy skin glistening. I hide my grin. She bought clothes from Walmart, but here she is, in mine. I told her to check out my closet and take whatever she wanted.
I keep sneaking glances at her as they chat. Her profile is a soft curve, her lashes long and thick against her cheekbones. She’s wearing makeup, and her pouty lips are a deep-pink color. My traitorous eyes can’t seem to stop looking at her. And since I’m being honest with myself, it’s been going on for a while, maybe since that first night I met her months ago at the community center for Romeo and Juliet.
Maybe it was the overwhelming sense of desperation on her face when she looked at her sister. I knew that gaze, familial love mixed with loss, a yearning to right a perceived wrong. She hurt her sister with Preston and didn’t see a way out. I saw a girl who took a chance on a guy, sacrificed her relationship with her sister, gave up pieces of herself, and was vibrating with the repercussions, wondering how the hell she’d gotten there. Every pleading look she gave Elena was a testament to how badly she wanted to set things right. By the end of opening night of Romeo and Juliet, the shortest engagement in history was over, and she withdrew further into herself, hiding her heartbreak behind closed doors, I imagine, while Jack and Elena fell deeper in love and planned a quick wedding. In our interactions since then, I’ve checked her out but armed myself with restraint, not willing to chip away at the edges of a fragile woman. Instead I wasted my time with brief physical connections that fulfilled a need.
Pushing that aside, I sit back and watch them. He sips on a whiskey and tells her about his days at Princeton, then his family in Boston. His dad’s a heart surgeon, his mom a nurse, his sister a lawyer. He moved to Nashville several years ago, heading up the sports department of a company that also deals with country music stars.
“Giselle is getting her doctorate in physics,” I mention.
“Theoretical,” she tells him when he asks which field.
“Like Sheldon on The Big Bang Theory?” he teases. “You don’t seem to lack social skills like he does.” He gives her an appreciative glance, a low look in his eyes as he lingers on the V of her shirt. I shift around in my seat.
She smiles. “I love that show, and yeah, same field. I want to study dark matter with particle accelerators.”
My ears perk up. “Like the Large Hadron Collider? Supposed to be the biggest accelerator in the world. It’s in Switzerland, right?” I lean in toward her. She smells like vanilla today . . . is that a new bodywash or perfume? Heat builds in my spine, tendrils of desire—shit, nope, not going there. I clench my hands under the table.
Her eyes light up. “Yes, in Geneva. It’s called the LHC and sits in an underground tunnel below CERN. It’s twenty-seven kilometers in circumference and built to push ions to near the speed of light. I just want to put my hands on it.” A wistful expression crosses her face. “Maybe kiss it.”
Brandt smiles. “I took a few physics classes.” He tells her about a recent trip to Switzerland, where his family toured CERN. “Have you ever been?”
Her hands twist. “No, I applied for a fellowship to study there this year, but it didn’t work out. Maybe next year.”
What?
She wants to move to Europe? Since when? How long are these fellowships?
I’m still tumbling around the idea of her leaving Nashville when Brandt reaches over the table, showing her pics on his phone of his house.
Brandt nudges me under the table with his shoe, meets my eyes, and looks at his Rolex. Right. My fifteen minutes are up. I ease up out of the seat and tell Giselle I’m going to grab a drink at the bar.
She nods and turns back to Brandt, and I hear him ask about where she lives. She tells him she’s staying with a friend after the fire at her apartment while she looks for an apartment close to Vandy. An exhale comes from me as I walk away. Friend. That’s all she can ever be.
I’m sitting at the bar with my back to them, watching the thirty minutes tick down on my phone. On the dot, Brandt appears next to me, leaning in. “Dude. Definitely want to see her again. Alone. She’s perfect, and those long legs—”
“Did she ask you to dinner with us?”
He slaps me on the back. “I didn’t give her a chance. I’ve got a phone call tonight anyway, new quarterback out of USC.”
Good. No, wait, not good. He should stay.
“She didn’t give me her number. You’ll get it for me?”
My skin prickles. “If she wants.”
“She will,” he says confidently. “We had a nice convo. I’m already picturing her in a bikini at my pool.”
My jaw pops. “Uh-huh.”
With a wave back at Giselle, he leaves, and I head back to the booth, sliding into the seat he vacated.
“Well?” I ask, tapping my fingers on the table until I stop and tuck them in my lap. I don’t know why I’m nervous. She’s the one who had the meetup.
She’s got the menu up and is studying it, a little pucker on her forehead. “Pasta or salmon? You got a favorite? Oh, dang, they’ve got emu burgers on here. Gross.”
“He wants your number,” I say, cataloging her reaction.
She cocks her head. “Crab mac and cheese or creamed spinach as a side? Maybe I’ll get both—”
“Giselle. Are you going to see him again?” My shoulders
feel tight, and I roll my neck.
She sighs and sets down the menu. “He played lacrosse in college.”
I’d forgotten. “He did. Big star in the Ivy League.”
She takes a sip of her soda, and when she speaks, her words are careful. “He’s not my type.”
“He’s perfect! He’s mentioned a few times he wants to settle down and have kids!”
Her finger traces the condensation on her glass. “Meh.”
I gape at her. “Seriously? He’s handsome and has a j-o-b. Your mama would love him. What’s wrong with him?”
Pale-blue eyes rise and drift over my forearms, where I rolled up my tailored shirt, her gaze lingering on my tattoos.
“Too slick, too much lacrosse.”
“He likes physics.”
“So? You do too. You know what the LHC is. You quote Carl Sagan.” She pauses, that frown on her forehead growing. “There was no . . . zing. Like with Myrtle and John.”
“Zing?”
“Physical chemistry was zero.” She cups her chin. “I’d be bored. I like . . .” Her eyes brush over my hair, the diamond studs in my ears . . . “Someone who’ll keep me on my toes.”
“Poor Brandt. I don’t think anyone has ever said he’s boring.” It’s been a long shitty day, but I grin, feeling light, and I can’t bring myself to feel bad for him. “Pasta is good. The bolognese sauce here is divine.”
She smiles. “Sounds good. And I’m telling Jack to take the emu off the menu.”
We’re eating dessert, sharing a chocolate soufflé, when she brings up the man at Walmart. “Is your dad in some kind of trouble?”
Just the idea of telling her my theories about who they are makes my skin crawl. I settle for “Maybe.”
“Tell me about where you grew up,” she asks quietly.
I wince. “Glitter City in NorCal. Funny name for a dump of a town. Best thing I ever did was leave.”
“Never went back? No friends or relatives?”
“Nah.” I set my spoon down and wipe my mouth. “My mom ran off and never came back.” I pause, fiddling with my water glass. Giselle’s family is apple-pie American, with a mom and aunt who dote on her. We’re like oil and water, soft and hard, bitter and sweet. “My dad owned a bar, but the bottle eventually ruined him. Spent most of my free time playing football or mowing lawns and working at the concession stand at the drive-in.” A long breath comes from me. “Every time I see an old drive-in movie, I think about me as a kid.”
I don’t tell her about the two weeks our electricity was turned off, leaving me scrambling and borrowing money. Later, I discovered receipts from an ATM in Vegas, and Dad and I had a big blowup. He threatened to toss me out, and I wanted to slug him. I was all he had. Woman after woman walked out on him, yet I remained, picking up pieces and gluing them together.
The space between us swells with silence, and when I look up, she’s chewing on her lips.
Rubbing my neck, I say, “I didn’t grow up like you did. Family, people that stick, you know?”
“You turned into a wonderful human,” she says, and her face is earnest—and sweet, so damn sweet.
My chest shifts ever so slightly, tugging at me, making me feel. I take a breath. It feels hot in here. Like maybe I can’t breathe. “Better than Hemsworth?”
“Well, he did buy me a villa in Switzerland, but he can suck it. You’re the man.”
She frowns, then reaches across the table and rubs her fingers across the side of my neck. Her lashes flutter as she looks at her hand, then wipes it with her napkin. “Lipstick. Red. Not sure how I missed it earlier.”
I roll my eyes. “Some random ran over to me when I met Lawrence before I came here. He always wants to meet at a bar to talk business.” I decided to hire him after all. At this rate, I might need him. He does more than just PR; he looks into people, and right now he’s running checks on my dad.
She sighs. “You don’t even have to encourage them, do you? I bet she slipped you her cell—”
“Hotel key.”
Her chest rises. “Ballsy. I should write this down.”
“You don’t need ploys. Stay you, Giselle. Smart and funny and—”
“Virginal.”
I sigh. “That’s not what I meant. You don’t need to be flirty. Just wait for the right guy—”
“Seduction 101 with Devon Walsh. You give blow job lessons?”
I bite down my groan, my body tightening at the image her words paint in my head. Her on her knees, starry-blue eyes looking up at me, her lips wet and wrapped around—
“Do you want lessons?” Keep your face blank, dude, totally blank.
She rakes her gaze over me, expression closed. Girl is cool. Her face cracks in a grin. “Ah, I’m just messing with you. I don’t need lessons. I have books for that.”
“Books?”
“Mmm, ordered a few on Amazon. Hope you don’t mind I used your address. The Ten Best Sexual Positions for a Female’s Enjoyment and How to Give Head without Biting His Cock Off should be here tomorrow.”
“You’re joking.”
“Of course,” she deadpans, a half smile tugging at her lips, verging on full blown.
“Wait. You’re serious? I can’t tell.”
“Forget that. Let’s go somewhere. I have what we need for our bad weeks. I’m gonna show you how us southern girls deal,” she says and slides out of the booth while I lay out the cash plus tip on the check.
She purses her lips. “We’ll need the Hummer for sure. Glad I took an Uber here.”
I check my watch. It’s nine. “Where are we going? I have to be at the gym—”
“Old man.”
“Four years between us,” I remind her as we walk to the exit.
She grins. “Let’s grab beer on the way—can we? Just a couple. You drive; I drink.”
“Anything else, Princess?” I murmur as we walk out to the Hummer.
“Yes, do you have any old golf clubs you don’t use? One will do. If so, we can run and grab it—if not, I’ll make do with what I have.”
“I’m intrigued.” I open the door for her and help her inside the vehicle. Before I realize it, I’m reaching over and strapping her in while she watches me. Can’t help it. My stupid . . . body . . . wants to be near hers.
She smiles so big I lose my breath. “This is going to be the best night of your life,” she murmurs.
“Really?” I stare into her eyes. I’ve never noticed the glints of white, a burst of lightning inside the blue.
A moment goes by. Maybe longer.
“Ten seconds,” she breathes.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
I should just get in the car, but here I am, standing like an idiot. “Am I going to regret this adventure?”
‘“Little filly,’ as Rodeo might say, ‘When I’m done with you, you’ll be begging for more.’”
I laugh.
An hour later, after grabbing beer from my fridge and an old club, we’re bumping over a gravel road in Daisy with Sam Hunt blaring. Our windows are down, and warm air rushes through the interior, each of us lost in our thoughts. She’s braided her hair on each side and changed into a tight green T-shirt that she got on clearance, a Saint Patrick’s Day leftover. READY TO GET LUCKED, it says, which made me laugh when she pranced out in it.
I park next to an old two-story red barn. It’s pitch black, my headlights illuminating the rolling hills and meadows in the distance.
Leaving my lights on, I grab a couple of flashlights, toss her one, and follow her in the barn. Cicadas trill, frogs sing, and leaves rustle in the quiet. A man could get used to the peacefulness of it.
“You gonna murder me out here in the middle of nowhere?”
“And bury you in the cow pasture. They’ll never find you.” She laughs and turns around, watching me as she walks backward inside the depths of the barn. She flicks on a switch, and the buzz of fluorescent lighting reverberates, the glow dim but adequate. The place is big, air
y, and mostly clean, hay stacked in the corner, a tractor parked to the side. Various tools hang on the walls.
“This place belong to your family?”
“Mine.” She smiles. “Elena got the big fancy house in town, and I got the farm.”
“How much is the land worth?” Real estate is pricey in Nashville, and Daisy is close.
“I’ll never sell. I grew up here, rode horses, and followed my dad around. He used to farm, mostly as a hobby. We kept these two emus until they died of old age. The true farmer was his dad. Someday, I’ll build a house out here and have ten kids.”
“Hemsworth. I’m starting to hate him and his damn villa.”
“You keep bringing him up.”
I do? Whatever.
My gaze snags on a faded circle of flowers hanging on a hay bale. “Is that a black wreath? What did you do there? Satanic rituals?”
When I look back at her, she’s on her knees beside some boxes, her flashlight at her neck, eyes crossed, teeth bared. “Death is here,” she growls in a deep voice. “Prepare to be sacrificed!”
I flinch. “Jesus!”
She bursts out laughing, dabbing at her eyes as she gets up and walks over to the wreath, patting me on the shoulder as she sashays past. “If I’d known you were that easy to scare, I would have been jumping out at you when you walk out of your bedroom.”
“I might jump back.”
She bites her lip, amusement in her eyes as she fingers the obviously spray-painted dried flowers. “No satanic demons. This sad wreath is in memory of my twentieth-birthday debacle.” She crosses herself. “May the curse be broken soon.”
I laugh, spellbound by her theatrics. I’m discovering her, layer by layer, every little piece, and I crave more, every tiny detail of who she is. “I sense a good Giselle story. Ugly black wreath, a barn . . .”
She leans against the wall nonchalantly. “It’s a horror story. You might get scared.”
“Giselle Riley, please, what happened here?”
She flashes a cheeky grin, clearly wanting to tell me. “Rascal. You really want to know?”
I want to know every fucking thing. “Yes.”
Not My Match Page 11
