Not My Match

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  Frowning, I head to the kitchen, looking around at the sparkling-clean counters.

  “Mama? Didn’t you cook?”

  “Don’t be mad, Giselle,” she says gently, crooking her arm in mine.

  “What have you done?” I breathe.

  My eyes bounce around the room and snag on the window, a hiss coming as I see the large white tent set up in her spacious backyard. People mill around underneath, a band is setting up on a raised platform, and smartly dressed caterers are setting up a buffet table. There’s even a champagne fountain. I blink.

  My gaze skirts the yard, taking in the twinkle lights, the cloth-covered tables, the pink and more pink flower arrangements.

  “Everyone parked across the street at Wilma’s,” she says brightly. “She has that long tree-lined private drive. It’s a hundred or so people. You didn’t get to have a wedding, so I did the next best thing.”

  “Surprise!” Aunt Clara jumps in.

  “I told them to tell you,” Topher says, coming in from down the hall dressed in khakis and a pressed shirt, lime-green Converse on his feet.

  “You won’t even see it coming when I kill you,” I mutter, waving my hands at the three of them.

  “Guess you’ll have to put rat poison in my tea, too, then,” comes a girlie squeal from behind me, and I turn to see Elena. I run to her, laughing; then I squeeze her in a hug. She’s beautiful in a black pencil skirt, a white blouse, and heels, her auburn hair in deep waves down her back. Jack looms behind her, his broad shoulders against the doorjamb, an intense, utterly smitten look on his face as he stares at Elena.

  I squeeze her arm. “Oh my God, you came back early? You didn’t tell me!”

  “We always planned on coming back today.” She takes my hands. “Jack wouldn’t get in the water anyway. The man can’t swim.”

  Jack wraps his arms around her and pulls her into his chest. “Other things to do anyway.”

  Mama and Aunt Clara move to the window, talking about someone outside, so I take the opportunity to say what I want before this party gets started. I lean in toward the couple. “By the way, your husband here warned the whole team to not flirt with me. He told Devon I was a virgin.”

  She gapes, then glares at Jack. “That was a secret!”

  “You told him,” I accuse. “Apparently, no one keeps my secrets.”

  Jack winces and holds his hands out, not an ounce of remorse on his face as he gazes at his wife. “Sweetheart, I trust my best friend to keep her safe. You know the kind of men we hang out with.” She sighs and tells him they’ll discuss it later, then kisses him.

  I tap my foot. “Well . . . I’m living with him.” Take that.

  Jack’s eyes flare, and he starts to speak, but I cut him off. “I love you, Jack Hawke, but you keep your nose out of it. He’s important to me. He was there the night my apartment burned and I came down the fire escape—”

  “What?” Mama screeches. She’s sneaked up on us. “I thought you walked out with Myrtle!” She clutches her chest. “You’re living in sin with Devon?”

  “Not enough sinning,” I mutter, and Aunt Clara titters, the feather in her hair bobbing.

  “I thought he would have nailed you by now,” she says on a giggle.

  “He hasn’t?” Topher asks. “I was sure Greg would push him over the edge.”

  Mama slaps both their arms in one movement. “She’s a virgin! Didn’t you hear?”

  “Bionic ears,” Elena tells me with a wry grin. “Rookie mistake, sis.” She pauses. “And when were you going to tell me you’re writing a romance?”

  I’m sputtering for a reply when the band taps out a drumbeat, and Mama gets on one side of me, Elena on the other, and Jack and Topher behind me as they drag me toward the back door.

  “That’s our cue,” Mama grouses, her eyes taking me in. “Act surprised.”

  I dig my heels in. “I should fix my makeup first—”

  “Stop that. Daisy Lady Gang is going to find your perfect match, dear,” Aunt Clara winks at me. “Mama invited every eligible bachelor in a fifty-mile radius. If Mike doesn’t work out, she’s got backups. Uncle Farly’s daughters are here, and they’re on the prowl. Up front, they are marginally attractive but hussies. You’ve got to beat them out of the first picks. I told Cynthia not to invite them.”

  “They’re family,” Mama mutters. “Had no choice. And nobody is as pretty as my girl,” Mama adds. “Oh, I see your preschool crush, Jude. Looked him up on the internet. He’s not handsome—but single. Come on, dear.” She opens the door, and I grudgingly head down the steps with her.

  They pull me under the tent to a mass of people amid pats on the shoulder and calls of “Happy birthday!” and “Good to see you!” Several are family, and the preacher and some of Mama’s church friends are there, along with a few cast members from Romeo and Juliet, and so many men—most I don’t know. One of them, an older man in his late forties, owns the Piggly Wiggly and keeps winking at me.

  “Mama, why is Mr. Pig here?”

  “Lance White, dear. Widower. Lost his wife in a car accident several years ago, bless her heart. Financially solid. Raised in Daisy, school board member, president of the Rotary Club, looking for his next girlfriend,” is her hissed reply as she shakes hands with another distant cousin on Daddy’s side.

  “Likes to be tied up,” Aunt Clara says in my ear. “Pass.”

  How do you know? my wide eyes ask.

  She shakes her head. “Beauty shop talk.”

  Mama darts a look at me. “A submissive man might be the right one.”

  No, no, afraid not. It’s alpha for me all the way.

  A few minutes later, after meeting two single guys I went to high school with but who never paid me any attention, I’ve got it down. Nod, smile, inquire how they are; then say I’m thirsty and drift off to grab a glass of champagne or nibble on the bounty of food. I’m sucking down my second glass, feeling better but light headed, when Mama and Aunt Clara and Elena steer me to the back of the tent, where a group of people are clustered. The band has started and is playing Bryan Adams’s “Summer Of ’69.”

  Mama nudges her head at a tall broad man whose back is to me. She picks at my dress and fluffs my hair. “That’s Mike. Go do your thing.”

  I inhale. “Mama, in case you don’t know, I have no game.”

  Aunt Clara pulls on my arm, dragging me toward the group. Elena has the other arm. “I had a crush on him too,” Elena says, her eyes going dreamy. “Pitcher for the baseball team, those brown eyes . . .”

  “When did you turn into one of them?” I say to her. “My own sister. Betrayed.”

  She blushes. “They rub off on you. And I want you to be as happy as I am.”

  I eye Mike from behind, taking in the snug gray slacks, the french-blue shirt tucked into his pants, the loafers on his big feet. He’s dressed nice. His hair is still that gorgeous chestnut color, messy with thick unruly waves that he keeps pushing off his face.

  “Your cousin Cami is working him, and her boobs are big. You better go get him,” Topher says.

  A statuesque redhead, Cami is thirtysomething, single, and gorgeous. Her dress is a green sheath that clings to every voluptuous curve. Older than Elena and me, she lives an hour away from Daisy, but we spent our summers together out on the farm.

  “Remember the toad?” Elena hisses, giving Cami side-eye.

  Do I? Oh, heck, yeah. When I was ten, Cami dared me to put a toad in my panties. I did; then she teased me that I’d get warts on my “hoo-ha”—her word, not mine. “Toads and warts are a myth, but they do have toxic glands, which could have poisoned me,” I say. “She’s lucky I didn’t give her a bloody nose and an anatomy lesson.”

  “She’s meaner than a wet cat in a washing machine with a blowtorch,” Aunt Clara adds. “When she was fifteen, she stole a bottle of my mama’s whiskey, the twenty-three-year Pappy, no less, for a party with some kids and tried to blame me. It’s worth two grand now, but she wasted it with a bunch
of teenagers.” She spits. “Blasphemy.”

  “Nobody takes Nana’s whiskey but me and Elena! We inherited it!” I exclaim. Champagne has kicked in.

  “Shush,” Mama says. “Neither of you should be drinking. Your nana was just a collector.”

  We all look at her. Nana loved her whiskey. She nipped on it most evenings on her back porch with me and Elena at her feet while she told stories about the people in Daisy, every skeleton in this town.

  I glance at Cami. She’s laughing up at Mike, her eyes lasered in on him. “Someone needs to bring her down a notch.”

  “That’s the fighting spirit!” Mama says and drags me the rest of the way to where Mike is, maneuvering her way between him and Cami, muttering “Excuse me, dear,” then nudging Cami’s hand off Mike’s arm and replacing it with hers—like a claw.

  A giggle erupts, and I stuff it down as I’m shoved in front of Cami. “Oops, sorry, new shoes,” I say, apologizing for stepping on Cami’s foot with my heel. I really didn’t mean to. Honest.

  Cami rears back and gives me the once-over, her eyes low as she rakes hazel eyes over me. I know her snark is coming in . . . three, two, one . . . “Any warts, Giselle?”

  “Just the one on your nose,” I say with a sweet smile.

  She laughs, light and airy. “That’s all right; do your best, little cousin. I’ve already given him my phone number.” Obviously, she’s aware of Mama’s machinations.

  “What cute hair. It looks so much better,” she tells me, a fake smile matching mine on her lips. “You march to your own drummer, don’t you? Nothing wrong with that, of course. I don’t care what anyone says—you’re attractive . . . in your own way.” She waves her hand around at the crowd. “Have to say, your mama knows how to throw a good party. I guess Elena brings in all the football players and hotties. You never could. Wasn’t your ex-fiancé one of her castoffs?”

  Her comment has me glancing around. Aiden and Hollis are chatting at a table, heads bent as they devour chicken fingers and shrimp. Aiden looks up and blows me a kiss, and I grin. He points to the other side of the tent and mouths something, but I shrug, not catching on. He uses his fingers to send a message. Holding one index finger up straight, he curls his thumb and a finger from his other hand around it. D? Then he presses one hand together in a quack motion . . . like Pac-Man? Talk? What? I shake my head. He blows out a breath and rolls his eyes.

  “Still a bit odd, aren’t you?” Cami says as I turn back to her.

  “Yes. I’m awesome.”

  “Weird. You’re weird.” Her gaze roams the people around us, snagging on someone behind me, a look of avarice growing on her face. Holy hot guys, I’ll take that one, her eyes say.

  “When you get a chance, send me and Elena the money for the Pappy you stole.”

  She laughs, the sound tinkling, eyeballs still on her target. “Keep dreaming, little cousin. Right now, there’s a sexy man looking at me.” She flicks a strand of bright-red hair over her shoulder and pushes her breasts out.

  A prickling sensation dances over my skin, and only one person makes me feel that way. Stiffening, I gaze over the crowd, searching—

  “And she remembers you too,” Mama’s voice comes from next to me, and I stop and look at her. “You wouldn’t believe how smart she is, a doctorate program at Vandy . . .”

  “Giselle,” Mama says firmly and manhandles (womanhandles?) me in front of Mike. “Meet Mike. I think it’s been years since you’ve seen him.”

  The boyish boy is gone, replaced by a devastatingly handsome man, his face leaner, harder, and chiseled, his hair swept back, deep-brown eyes peering at me over a glass of champagne.

  I’m aware of Mama steering an unwilling, muttering Cami to the buffet table, and Mike smiles, a flash of white, perfect teeth. “Giselle, all grown up. The last time I saw you, you had braces, glasses, and hideous bangs.”

  “You gave me those bangs after you tricked me and handcuffed me to the tree. Last time I saw you, there was a girl climbing out your bedroom window onto that tree.” I point to the huge elm that sits between his house and Mama’s. “She was pissed and yelling. You followed her out and kissed her, and then she went right back in your room.”

  He laughs.

  I nod. “I’m sorry about your parents.”

  “Cynthia has been a godsend. Brings meals over and plays with my daughter. She talks about you constantly—and about having her own grandkids.”

  His shirtsleeves are rolled up, the sparse hair dark on muscled forearms. His shirt hugs the muscles of his chest, and he’s at least six-one, his stance easy and relaxed, an aura of confidence exuding from him. I recall him in school, a slew of girls hanging off his letterman jacket, a charming smile as he fought them off, never giving too much attention to one or the other. Dammit. Mama can pick them. He is sexy.

  “Don’t encourage her. She’ll have us married by Christmas. Unless Cami beats her to it.” I smile.

  He throws his head back and laughs, low and deep. “I’m not interested in getting married.”

  “Hard divorce?”

  His smile vanishes. “Worst mistake I ever made. Right after our daughter was born, Leigh, my wife, ran out on us. Said she missed being single. That was three years ago.” He tells me about the move from New Orleans after his parents passed, deciding on a fresh start. We chat about what I’m doing at Vandy, and he talks about his position as the principal and assistant baseball coach at the high school. He takes his phone out and shows me a few pictures of his dark-haired daughter and her new kitten. She’s adorable with dimples and a big smile.

  “She looks like you,” I say wistfully.

  “You want kids?”

  I nod. “I want it all—career, kids, a big house in the country. You want more kids?”

  “I love Caroline and can’t imagine my life without her, but not really.”

  A waiter walks past with drinks, and I grab two—one for me and one for him—after setting our empties on the tray. He takes it with a smile, his gaze glancing over my shoulder before coming back to my face. “So who’s the big guy giving me dirty looks?”

  I freeze, and he puts his hand on my shoulder. “No, don’t look. He’s behind you, blue suit, dark hair with blue glints, diamond ear studs, built like he can bench-press a few hundred pounds.”

  “Devon Walsh,” I say, butterflies going crazy, recalling those last words to me.

  “I thought your ex was the lawyer . . . oh, wait, that Devon Walsh?”

  “Yep.” I suck down a sip of my drink, a hot feeling starting at my toes and rushing to my face.

  “Something there?” He eyes me carefully, a hint of disappointment in his voice.

  I exhale, thinking over the past week. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. We’re living together.”

  His eyes widen. “You’re dating him? Holy shit. Is Cynthia trying to get me killed?”

  “Not dating.” I bring him up to speed on the fire and my new roommate status, and before I realize it, I’m telling him about seeing Devon on TV in college, then Elena and Jack introducing me to him, then Cindy the spider, and the “fuck and walk away” conversation. I stare at my drink. Too much alcohol. “I can’t believe I just told you all that.”

  “Ah, we’re old friends. Let it out.” Mike takes a covert glance behind me. “You said he gave you his Maserati?”

  “Borrowed. Why does everyone make a big deal about that? It’s a car.” Okay, a very expensive car.

  He laughs, watching a scene behind me. “He just told Cami to get out of his face. I read lips well. All teachers do.”

  “You should call her, you know.”

  He blushes, and I find it endearing. “She only wants one thing.”

  “And it’s not a Christmas wedding.”

  “Is that what you want?” he asks.

  “I’m in no hurry. I just want . . .” To have the man I’m crazy about. And whatever comes after that.

  “Devon?”

  “Is it so obvious?” My shoul
ders slump.

  He gives me that boyish grin that used to make me melt. “I said his name, and hearts popped out of your eyes.”

  I roll said eyes. “You’re teasing me.”

  He pulls on my hair, making some of the strands fall by my face. “Keep looking at me,” he says softly and takes my drink and places it on a nearby table with his. He grasps my hand and leads me to the area that’s been designated as the dance floor. We walk past where I sense Devon is, based on the way my heart is hammering and the sweat dripping down my back. The tent has woven fans spinning every few feet, but they’re not doing much to cool me off.

  “What are you planning?” I whisper as Mike puts his arms around my waist and twirls me around as we dance to “I Want to Know What Love Is,” by Foreigner.

  He bends his head down, eyes gleaming. “I’m a huge football fan, and the chance to mess with the Devon Walsh cannot be passed up.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.” My hands curl around his neck as we sway around other couples.

  “I didn’t say I was a Nashville Tigers fan. I’ve spent the last ten years in Louisiana. Last year, your guy demolished my Saints. We never had a chance. Devon is vicious. Nobody can tackle the guy. Consider this payback.”

  “Competitive men are fascinating.”

  “And you’re a beautiful woman.” His voice is husky as his arm tightens around me. “Now, smile up at me, because he’s about to blow a gasket. Also, your mama is swooning—legit, her hand is on her heart as she watches us. Your sister is slyly taking pics of us on her phone and is already picturing the montage to show our children. Clara is mentally measuring me for a tux on our wedding day. In between ‘Come hither’ looks at me and Devon, Cami is seething and tossing back drinks.” He laughs. “Definitely calling her.”

  I start giggling.

  He grins down at me. “Your mama had me ready to meet you the moment she walked over with her chicken and dumplings and said she taught you how to make them. Leigh never cooked. She never got out of that sorority-girl phase.” A brief look of sadness crosses his face, and I squeeze his arm.