Not My Match

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  Nope, can’t have that, and I do what I’ve wanted to since she walked in and I saw her anxious face. I wrap her up in a hug and swing her around until she squeals and yells at me to put her down, flailing her arms.

  Laughing, I leave her there and head to my room, humming “California Gurls” as another napkin sails over my shoulder.

  I’m grinning like a loon. I’ve got this friend thing down.

  I’m lying to myself, but for some reason, I can’t bring myself to care.

  Chapter 12

  GISELLE

  “You missed a cohort check-in this morning, Ms. Riley,” drawls Dr. Blanton as he sits behind his desk in his office the next day. He frowns at my hair, a curl of distaste on his lips. “We discussed the upcoming fall schedule and bounced ideas for thesis papers.”

  I take a seat, even though he hasn’t offered one. “It’s Saturday. I must have missed the email. Thank you for letting me stop by instead.”

  “You could have joined us online. Most of your cohorts did just that.”

  “I’m sorry.” I’m really not. Frankly, it’s inconsiderate of him to expect us to be available for an online meeting in the summer—on the weekend.

  He glowers at me.

  I frown. “Dr. Blanton, look, my apartment burned down this week, and I’ve been helping a friend, and things are a bit scattered.” I cross my legs, regretting that I still haven’t had time to pick up real clothes and wore skinny jeans and one of Devon’s shirts tied in a knot. There hasn’t been time to upgrade my wardrobe to nice slacks and silk blouses.

  Earlier this morning, while Devon went to the stadium, John and I moved Myrtle into a somewhat furnished lower-level apartment near our old place. After that, we got the call that we were cleared to go inside the burned building, as long as we avoided the basement. I raced upstairs and found my pearls under the coffee table, then left my apartment to help clean out hers, planning on going back later this week to retrieve other items of mine. All my clothes reek of smoke, but I’m praying a dry cleaner can remedy that.

  Myrtle’s place was less fortunate than mine—nothing burned, but she was upset at the wreckage on the first floor. She found her journals, books, and special mementos, and we left for her new place. She cried some and cursed a lot, muttering about insurance and renovations.

  But for now, things are shaping up. I have a place to stay, Myrtle is situated, and John’s new place is in the same building as Myrtle’s, and he’s offered to check on her every day. It won’t be a hardship, he told me with a glint in his eyes. Now, it’s time to deal with my professional life. Hence, the visit with Dr. Blanton.

  The room swells with silence, and I shift around in my seat, touching my hair, then dropping my hands. I clench my fist.

  “I’d like to have a new advisor,” I announce, straightening my spine and meeting his gaze.

  He grinds his jaw. I’m sure it’s a cut to his ego. He is the head of the physics department; that’s why I chose him. “I agree. You’re not the caliber of student I usually mentor, your grades are mediocre, your attitude is shockingly lax with underclassmen, and your appearance is less than desired. I will put in a request immediately and see who’s available to take you on. I’m not sure anyone will.”

  And . . . I stand up. Dick. “No, you will not put in a request. I will find my own advisor so I can make sure we have the same goals and outlook for my future.”

  I snatch my computer bag up and head to the door, but his voice stops me.

  “Ms. Riley, the only assignment you had this summer besides teaching was to write a paper. It was due yesterday. You never sent it.”

  I turn and face him.

  “I sent it Thursday.” Right as Devon was going out the door, I pushed send, giddy by the topic of researching dark matter with the Large Hadron Collider.

  He slaps down a thick set of papers. “No, you sent me Sexy Alien Warrior and His Captive Earth Girl.”

  The world spins and my mouth dries as I dart my eyes from my manuscript, then back to his tight face. My hands clutch the back of the chair, and I inhale a deep breath. “Now that I hear it out loud, the title is a bit too on the nose.”

  He flushes. “Ms. Riley! You are not a serious student! You’ve spent your summer writing science fiction, not science fact. This”—he picks up the papers and tosses them in the trash—“is utter nonsense.”

  “Obviously you didn’t read the chapter about Vureck repairing his laser beam using my fundamental knowledge of quantum theory, Dr. Blanton, so I beg to differ. My book isn’t just fiction. It’s written for people who appreciate science facts with their romance.”

  “Ah!” He points down at the trash. “Romance? That’s what you call this drivel? It’s the most ridiculous application of a student’s bright mind that I’ve encountered. You’re blowing your chance at a doctorate with this hogwash. Do you think your work will ever see the light of day in a serious publishing house?” he huffs.

  “How do you know?”

  He crosses his arms. “I can read, Ms. Riley. I thought your story was your paper. I read the first page and thumbed through the rest. Well, after that, it all made sense—your lack of motivation, your increasing distractedness, your horrible attitude. You don’t have the focus it takes to be part of this esteemed program.”

  My heart drops at his criticism, part of me agreeing with him about my lack of motivation, the other part thinking back to all the diaries and journals of my childhood, dreams I wrote and drew squiggly hearts around, then to the more developed notebooks of my teens, where I first combined my love for Einstein with my thirst for books. My writing kept me sane through high school and my undergrad, little scenarios and science-type meet-cutes that made me giggle, and now, now, he wants to throw it all back in my face and say it’s pointless? My story kept me from being lonely. My story encouraged me to get up every day and try again to be a better person, to take another stab at this degree I’m starting to think I’ll never get.

  I take another step and put my hands on his desk as I face him.

  “You may be a physicist, but you are not my reader. My story is empowering for women—or men! It’s a journey of one woman who starts out scared and afraid but learns to pilot her own ship and earns the love of a tough man. She realizes she deserves love and respect and happiness. And she’s more intelligent than you are, but I digress. It’s inspiring. It gives hope and healing with a side of entertainment, something you know nothing about.” I rack my brain, looking for something to get through the holier-than-thou smirk he’s wearing. “You can’t put me in a box and give me a label and say what I write isn’t important. Writers and readers come from all ethnicities, religions, genders, sexualities, languages, backgrounds, and, most of all, different fields of study. If I want to write a book, you can guarantee the science side of me is leading the way, because that’s the part of me that needs fiction; it craves to mix the two and produce something wonderful. You don’t get it, and it’s your opinion. You lead with your head. I don’t. But I refuse to let you belittle me for what I write.” I dip down, jerk out the papers, and clutch them to me.

  My chest rises as I grapple for control. I suck in air. “I wrote your paper. I accidentally sent you the wrong document. I will send the correct one immediately, sir.”

  He gapes at me, and I dash for the door.

  Better to leave before he can tell me he’s calling me before the committee and throwing me out on my ear.

  I’d fight the chauvinistic jerk all the way.

  I run down the hall and take the stairwell, my brain racing, hands shaking with adrenaline. I’ve never stood up for myself like that, and Jesus, it felt good. I fling open the door and jog out of the building and into the sunshine.

  Half an hour later, I realize I’ve walked past the parking lot where Red is and ended up in a shopping center. I walk into one of the boutiques.

  Shoving thoughts of Dr. Blanton and everything else to the side, I browse the aisles, and when the salesgirl
asks me what I’m looking for, I almost say a tweed blazer and slacks but shut my mouth and ask her what she thinks might go with my hair. She grins, grabs clothes “to contrast,” and tosses them at me as I hang out in the dressing room. She’s young, hip, and full of commentary about my hair. “It’s not that bad,” she assures me and points me in the direction of a salon across the street.

  With my savings account missing several hundred dollars, I walk out and head to the salon. Walking in, I realize it’s no Cut ’N’ Curl but is hard-core ritzy. I don’t know if I’m staying or going when a young stylist walks up and asks if I need anything, and when she says she’s just had a cancellation, it feels like fate.

  She plops me down before a mirror, and I take in my streaky-blue hair. I laugh for a good minute while she gives me a bemused look. My hair really is horrid.

  A person can’t change the core of who they are. There’s no sparkling personality underneath my quiet nature or sexy bombshell lurking inside my lanky frame. My identity isn’t most boring, smart girl, or virgin. I’m just me, and I like me, dammit, even if I did lose myself there for a while after the Preston fiasco.

  Myrtle’s words haunt me . . .

  Do what makes your heart fly. Every breath you inhale must be meaningful.

  I’m done wondering what Dr. Blanton and my cohorts think, done trying to fit myself into other people’s molds of what I should look like or be. I want my doctorate—that fact will never change—but writing is ingrained in my soul.

  The stylist gives me a look. “Well, what do you want to do?”

  I have a brief twinge of regret that Aunt Clara isn’t here to do it herself, but she’ll understand. Things are moving fast. It feels like something might just slip away from me before I can grasp it and hang on. Urgency rides me, making me tense, as I run through what I want, what I’ve really wanted for five long months. Devon’s carnal mouth, his way of looking at me when he’s pretending he isn’t.

  I want him, but in that direction lies peril and friendship ruined, and I sigh, refocusing. One thing at a time. First, let’s fix this hair.

  Chapter 13

  DEVON

  I walk into the Razor and study the series of texts Giselle sent me an hour ago. I didn’t see them until I came out of my last meeting; then I took off for the penthouse and showered. After rushing around to get dressed, I got here as fast as I could.

  I am in need of your services was the first one, then a series of others when I hadn’t replied.

  I hate to even ask.

  I really do.

  Are you ignoring me after making you watch that movie?

  I laughed out loud at that one (until I read the rest) because we did have a good time last night. After we ate cookies, Giselle put on an angsty, absolutely horrible French film with subtitles, where the main character cried every five minutes. In between cringes, I threw popcorn at Giselle. She threw back. Movie forgotten, we had a popcorn war in my den, and Myrtle was on my side—until our bowl ran out, and Myrtle declared us crazy and went to bed. Afterward, I put on Shark Week to up my street cred (see, they don’t scare me), and Giselle was instantly fascinated. She likes scary stuff. We sat on the couch for an hour and talked about the anatomy of a shark (mostly cartilage). She described how their skin is actually covered in millions of tiny teeth called dermal denticles that point backward and reduce surface drag, increasing a shark’s speed. As the shark grows, it sheds the denticles and grows larger ones. Disgusting—but I like listening to her. She’s the smartest person I know. Later, I helped her put sheets on the couch and got her a pillow. Then I went to bed. Like I should. I’ve got this!

  I bet you’re practicing and you aren’t seeing these.

  Topher has jumped the gun (he thinks I need cheering up for some reason?) and set me up with someone and he’s meeting me at the Razor. NOT AN ONLINE GUY, so relax, but a real boy. Like Pinocchio! Anyway, could use your insight on scoring a homerun on this date. If want to text me some pointers, I’m ready.

  I need to see this guy.

  Random factoid: there’s a meteor shower tonight, big rocks entering our atmosphere at 110, 000 miles an hour.

  “Genie in a Bottle” reverberates through the dark club as I stalk in, say a quick word to the guy at the front, and weave through the Saturday-night crowd. It’s not late, around eight, but the place is filling up. I fire off a text to Giselle: I’m here. Where are you?

  When I don’t get a response right away, I head to the bar, seeing Selena.

  She catches my eye, grins, wraps up her conversation, heads my way, and runs down the recent issues with the air-conditioning and her new hires. My eyes scan the place for Giselle—at the bar, at the tables. For the first time, I wish the place was brighter.

  She gets me a beer, and I take a swig, then check my phone.

  “You heard from Garrett yet?” she asks, leaning in over the bar.

  I grimace. “No. Hey, have any strange guys been in here looking for me?”

  She purses her lips and shakes her head.

  “If anyone comes in, call me.”

  “Your friend looks different,” Selena muses, and my head snaps up from checking my phone again, like it might have changed in the past minute, following her finger as she points to the dance floor.

  I see her seemingly lost in the peppy beat, head thrown back, glasses gone. I guess she grabbed her contacts at her apartment today. Her hair is different, the blue a lighter hue and evenly colored, the silky strands swaying as she holds her arms up over her head and shakes her ass.

  Giselle stumbles into a couple, bounces off, and keeps going, her feet not in sync with whatever her hands are doing.

  “She really can’t dance,” Selena deadpans.

  “Don’t think she cares,” I say on a grin.

  “Is she chasing dolphins?”

  I take a swig of beer. “Nah, she’s doing Uma Thurman from Pulp Fiction.” Which pleases me more than it should. I love that movie. I make a mental note to see if she wants to do a rewatch with me.

  Where is her date?

  I run my eyes over everyone on the floor close to her, but it’s either groups or couples, and she’s by herself.

  She wiggles her ass, and a guy appears behind her. He’s moving with the music, getting closer to her, and she looks up, takes him in, then moves to the other side of the dance floor.

  I laugh, sobering as she moves closer, and I take in what she’s wearing: a tight cream pencil skirt with a sleeveless baby-blue blouse, the top buttons undone enough to show the flush and sweat on her skin. Her pearls rest in the hollow of her throat—and my dick gets hard.

  “New clothes,” I murmur under my breath, and for half a second it makes me sad, knowing she won’t be in mine.

  It happens again—another guy, this one more determined when he puts his hand on her hip. She removes it, gives him a glare, and stalks off to another spot.

  “It’s always the quiet ones. They’ll surprise you,” comes a deep voice as Aiden slides in next to me. He stares at Giselle.

  “Aiden,” I say, nodding and lifting my beer. “Good to see you.” I mean it. We’ve been avoiding each other these past few days, but we need to get past it.

  He grunts and orders a drink from Selena and swings his gaze back on me, his usual happy face flat.

  “She dances like she’s high,” he muses.

  “Don’t ruin her fun.”

  His shoulders slump. “Dude, she never called me, I don’t have her digits, and you’re pissed at me.”

  I scrub my face. “I overreacted.”

  He exhales. “You blew up, man, over something I don’t really get . . . unless you’ve got something going on for Giselle and you aren’t telling me.” He narrows his gaze. “Is that it?”

  I stiffen. “Do I care about her? Yes. Do I want you talking smack about her in my face? No. Nor do I want you dating her. She is not one of your flings.” My voice is firm and even, and I’m not going to lose my temper, not this time. I
don’t even touch on the Jack issue, because he knows how well that would go over. Those two are friends and enemies.

  Aiden sets his beer on the bar and stands up from the stool. “There’s another guy zeroing in on her. I’m going to help—”

  Before he can finish, I’m up and gone, brushing past him, bumping his shoulder as I make my way to Giselle.

  I hear him laughing behind me.

  Her eyes open when my hands settle on her hips, a retort obviously on her lips until she sees it’s me; then she throws her arms around my shoulders for a hug.

  “Thank God! You didn’t have to come, but I’m glad you did. Topher sprung this on me at the last minute,” she says. I guess she hasn’t checked her phone since she started dancing.

  “Where’s your date?” I say, huskier than I intended, staring down at her. I pull her closer as the music ebbs into a slower song. We fit together, her height perfect against my body. Her arms slide around my neck, and the air in the club feels thick, my lungs tight as her pelvis brushes against mine.

  She nudges her head to the rear upper left of the club, an area lined with cozy leather booths. “Back there. He didn’t want to dance, and I’m in a dancing mood. I told my advisor off.” She smiles. “My date is kind of perfect. He said my hair is the color of a summer sky.”

  My hands tighten around her hips. “Let’s meet him, then.”

  She gets a determined look on her face. “Right. You be the wingman, talk me up, catalog everything, kick me if I say anything atrocious.”

  “Let’s go take a look at him,” I grind out, anger pulsing at this guy she thinks is perfect. I’m not being rational, and I’m aware, but I’m edging toward a steep cliff, step by step, as if pulled by an invisible force. Just don’t fall.

  She whips around, her ass swaying, stilettos on her feet, legs damn near making me groan as I follow her to the back.

  We arrive at the steps to the mezzanine level, the wall lined with red banquettes and cozy sitting arrangements. “Greg, this is my roommate, Devon Walsh.” She runs through the introductions as she slides in right next to him, and I take the seat across from him. She’s telling him how we know each other, but I’m barely listening, sizing him up. She didn’t have to tell me he’s her type; it’s obvious with the boyish good looks, the clean-cut haircut, studious glasses, and suit. Smart, business type, upper middle class—and his eyes are glued to her, following a trail of sweat that’s slowly sliding down her throat to her blouse.