Not My Match Read online

  “Bobby Ray Williams met me here three days before my birthday for a tryst. He drove his four-wheeler.”

  “There’s a country song there.”

  “I’d made up my mind. He was the one. I liked him; he was sweet, a good guy who wouldn’t gossip about me to his buddies. His daddy owns some of the land adjacent to ours, and we spent summers together.”

  Real jealousy rides me, and I kick it down. “Uh-huh.”

  “So that night, he comes in the barn, and things get hot and heavy. Lights are off, Coldplay is singing ‘Magic,’ and I can feel it in the air—this is it; it’s gonna happen. He’d brought a blanket, and we put it over some hay bales. We’re mostly naked, and things are going good; I’m all in, and he’s fumbling around—he was a virgin too. And he thinks he sticks it in, but he didn’t; he’s screwing the blanket and the curve of my ass—”

  I rear back. “Say it isn’t so.”

  She grimaces. “Yeah. Before I could say, Hey, you missed your target, an owl flew in—how, I don’t know. It headed straight for Bobby Ray, clawed him good—I mean sunk into his back like it was never going to let go. He rolled off me, fell off the bale, and hit his head on a rake. Thank God the tines were down, but he blacked out for a few seconds, maybe from the blood. He comes to and is puking and yelling, and I’m running from the owl. Finally, I get the doors open, and it flies off. I tell him he has a concussion, and we spend ten minutes just trying to get his pants on—that was fun—then hop on his four-wheeler. On the way to his house, I could barely see and steered us off into a pond.”

  My mouth gapes. “You’re making this up.”

  “Sadly, no. Dragged a hundred-and-eighty-pound grown man from the pond, nearly carried him back to my car—why didn’t we take it in the first place? I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking clearly, and neither was he. Just thought we’d get to his house faster cutting across the field. Anyway, I’m almost to his house when a cop pulls me over for speeding. Well, Bobby Ray gave me a bloody nose when I was pulling his flailing body out of the water, so the cop took one look at the mess in the car—and us—and called an ambulance. Spent the night in the ER.”

  She gives the wreath a sad look.

  “He’s married now with a baby, so I guess he figured out where the vagina is. What’s really funny, and now I can find the comedy, is I never told him he did it wrong. He still thinks to this day that he took my V-card.” She giggles. “Your face is killing me. Let it out, Dev.”

  My face splits in a grin, laughter spilling out as I try to talk in between breaths. “That’s the worst . . . almost-sex story . . . I’ve ever heard,” I gasp, clutching my sides. “Cursed is right. You need to see someone.”

  She executes a curtsy. “I’m here every birthday for your entertainment. When was your first time?”

  “At the drive-in, in the bed of my old truck, with a girl three years older than me. The place was closed, but I had keys to the gate.”

  “Good experience?” Her tone is wistful.

  Honestly, I can barely remember, except that I came too soon but went in again. “Yours will be, Giselle. With a guy who cares about you. Don’t get in a hurry.”

  She stares at the wreath for several beats, her jaw working. “So you’ve said.” She swings her flashlight as she walks over to several container boxes, tearing them open and pulling out dishes.

  “Here, carry this.” She points to a box she’s set some in, and I pick it up and follow her back out, then set the box down in front of a stump by the door.

  She pulls a pair of goggles out from the box while “Body Like a Back Road” blares, and she hums along. “Get that club from the Hummer. Shit is about to get real.”

  I do as she says, swinging the club as I walk back to her, wondering what the hell she’s going to do.

  “Here, hold my beer.”

  “Said every redneck before they wake up in the hospital.” I chuckle as I take it, and she slides on her goggles, sets a white mug on the stump, and picks up the club.

  “Stand clear,” she says. After backing up a few paces, she arches her back, her stance confident and sure as she grips the club.

  “This one is for my asshole advisor. The one who thinks women aren’t as good as men.” Swift and sure, she swings the club. Crack! The cup shatters, the pieces flying through the air.

  I whistle, watching the glass fall. “Damn.”

  A satisfied grunt comes from her as she snatches an old blue vase and slams it on the stump. “This is for Preston. Cheating sonofabitch,” she yells as she connects. The ceramic bursts as it sails across the field.

  “Yeehaw!” I yell.

  She pauses to take a drink of her beer, and my eyes eat her up.

  “What?” she asks, threading the club through her fingers.

  “You’re like every guy’s wet dream for a farm girl—you know that, right? It’s dark, we’ve got a barn, country music is playing, and your shorts are killing me.”

  She moves her hips, making the frayed fringe swish. “I’ve washed them. I bought others, but these are my favorite.”

  “You played sports, didn’t you?” I ask, taking her bottle, watching her line up with what looks like a candy dish on the stump. Confident. Efficient. Graceful. Hot.

  “Volleyball. Considered a scholarship once, but I knew it would screw with my grades in college.”

  “I went the other direction, chose getting drafted over a diploma. Never was a good student. The game took most of my time.”

  She cocks her head. “Does it bother you that you didn’t finish?”

  “Football, it’s always been enough . . .” I toe at a piece of gravel.

  “But?” She leans on the club.

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. I’m set for life, but I wish I’d tried harder. Regrets, maybe?” I shrug. “It does feel like everyone around me is more educated—even Jack graduated with honors.”

  “What does this insecurity stem from?” She’s lowered the club, giving me her full attention.

  I grin, deflecting. “I don’t see a couch around here, Dr. Riley. Stop trying to analyze me, and hit something.”

  She studies me. “You quote Carl Sagan, and you own a business. You have the best stats for a wide receiver in the league. Has someone said you aren’t intelligent? Has someone made you feel less than? Give me their name. I’m going to smack them around.”

  “Savage, aren’t you?” I grin.

  “When someone hurts you, yes.”

  I smirk.

  “It was a woman. I just feel it. Who was she?” She’s got her mouth pursed, a hand on her hip, and I don’t doubt for a second she’d hunt down my ex. “Come on; tell me. I told you about Bobby Ray, and you skirted over your first time. You owe me a story. I’ve told you so much!”

  I open my mouth, then shut it, pacing around. I should tell her; it’s Giselle, and she’s brought me to a special place, and I like her . . . shit, no, I don’t like her like that—I can’t, I just can’t. I chew on my bottom lip.

  “Dev?”

  I throw my hands up. “Her name was Hannah. I met her first semester of my freshman year at a frat party. She played hard to get, and I chased her, waited for her after her classes, texted her, all that stuff. I thought I could just get her out of my system, but she was different.” A long exhalation comes from my chest. “Smart, working on a premed degree, and money, lots of family money. She was not my usual, though, not a fan of the party scene or into football. Finally, I convinced her to go out with me, and we fell in love. She didn’t care that I lived and breathed football, and I didn’t care that she spent a lot of time studying in the library. We just clicked when we were together. Our plan was for me to get drafted, her to start med school, then get married as soon as we could.”

  A harsh laugh comes from me. “She dumped me at the beginning of senior year for a guy in her premed classes. Some nerd guy with arms like sticks who couldn’t run if a snail was chasing him, but he was really what she wanted; it just took her
meeting someone smarter than me to know I wasn’t her future. They got married on spring break, and I flew to Cabo and got the drunkest I’ve ever been in my life. Spent the entire week covered in tequila and bikinis. Haven’t looked back since. She left me—just like everyone else.”

  I stop, my chest rising. Shit, I just . . . spilled all that out. My throat bobs, and I try to shake off the past. I roll my neck as the silence builds. I raise my eyes to hers.

  No pity there, just acceptance and a nod. “She was not your destiny, Dev. You’re meant for more. She did you a favor. Somewhere out there, a girl is waiting for you. She’s going to rock your world and give you so many little football-playing babies—no stick-armed kids for you. I promise you wherever she is, she still thinks about you.” Her gaze drifts over me, lingering. “Yeah, she messed up.”

  “You gonna let me hit some shit or what? I’m ready.”

  “One more for me.” Leaning over, she wiggles her ass and taps another mug shaped like a pair of boobs. “This is for Myrtle. She needs to get out of the hospital, and her daughter better check on her soon!” The club crashes into the glass and sends it off into the night.

  Laughing, we bump into each other as we maneuver around, and I take her spot at the stump. She hands off the club and presses against me as she helps me adjust the goggles. With a satisfied smirk, she moves away to place another ugly vase on the stump.

  “Where do you find this stuff?”

  “Aunt Clara is addicted to yard sales. She picks them up and brings them here. Her secret boyfriend, Scotty, comes out and gets the pieces and uses them for mosaics.” She pokes me in the arm. “You can’t repeat that. He likes his manly persona too much to admit he does art in secret.”

  I nod my agreement and whack the vase, and it disintegrates and scatters, the sound more satisfying than I imagined. “That felt good.”

  “But you didn’t say what it was for.”

  I cup my hands and call out, “Preston, you suck!”

  “Go again, and do it for you,” she says sternly as she puts a teacup on the surface.

  I swing the club and call out, “Hannah, hope you’re happy! I’m fucking famous! And rich!”

  A bowl appears on the stump. She backs away, and I swing. “Get your life together, Dad!”

  She puts an owl cookie jar up, and we burst out laughing. “Had to,” she murmurs. “It’s fate.”

  “This one’s for you, baby,” I say and whack it. “Curses aren’t real!” I yell.

  We keep up a steady pace, her putting up random glassware, me hitting. By the eighth one, I’m bouncing on my toes like I’m about to take the field, catch the ball, and run it in for a touchdown. “Addictive,” I murmur.

  I shout whatever I feel like, from getting that Super Bowl ring on my finger to the Walmart dude who put his hands on Giselle, even though from the sound of it, she scared him with threats about her mama.

  Another comes, then another.

  I roll my shoulders, loosening the muscles. “What’s next?”

  She places something on the stump.

  Wrapped in purple tissue paper, the item is half the size of the palm of my hand.

  “A gift for you,” she says, her face flushing, her eyes bright.

  “Oh?” I prop the club against the barn, pick up the package, and stare down at it, pleasure mixing with adrenaline, heady and thick. “No one’s bought me a gift for no reason in . . . well, never.” My hands clench around it.

  She moves from foot to foot. “Ah, it’s not much. I grabbed it when I picked up some clothes for Myrtle at this boutique downtown after class . . .” She stops as I quickly undo the paper.

  “Giselle, baby,” I breathe, holding the carved stone butterfly in the palm of my hand. “It’s beautiful.”

  She takes a step toward me and peers down at it. Delicate, with spread wings, the stone is soft and smooth, about an inch thick. “I saw the purple and blue colors mixed together, and it made me think of you. It’s a charm for strength, the lady said—you keep it close and rub when you need to feel centered.” She clears her throat. “You can put it on a desk or wherever, and when I’m out of your hair, you’ll remember tonight and not think I was too much of a pain in the ass.”

  I close my fingers around it, rubbing my fingers over the surface. “I’ll keep it in my pocket every day.”

  Her breath hitches. “You don’t have to—”

  “You aren’t a pain in the ass.”

  “Give me time.”

  I stick my hand in my pocket, curling around the stone. “My guess is your apartment isn’t going to be livable for weeks. The basement has structural damage. You’re about to start fall semester, and you don’t need the extra hassle of searching for an apartment. Stay as long as you want. Be my real roommate.”

  What the hell am I saying?

  She licks her lips. “My family and our friends might think we’re, you know, a thing . . .”

  “We’ll tell them we’re not.”

  “Because we aren’t,” she says on a sigh.

  “Just . . . stay.”

  Stay, stay, stay . . . the word bangs around in my head, ping-ponging around the blurry childhood memories of my mother driving away, lingering visions of every woman after that slamming a door and telling me goodbye.

  I’m not deluded. Part of me knows I’m teetering close to a heady infatuation with Giselle, throwing my inhibitions aside and devouring her piece by piece. Then she’ll wake up and see I’m not good enough, just like Hannah did. Unease pricks, making me itch, and I want to peel the sensation right off my skin.

  “We need rules, though.”

  She swallows. “Yeah?”

  My hands tighten at my sides. Just say it, just say it . . .

  “I’m going to be up front. I find you . . . attractive,” I say gruffly.

  “What a nightmare,” she replies dryly, eyes gleaming. “Devon thinks the nerd girl is cute.”

  “Shush. You’re gorgeous, okay? Your ass is fine; your tits are small . . . ,” I tease, “but perfect, and when you walk in a room, men look. They look real hard, Giselle—even me—and you’re not even paying attention.”

  “Oh, I’m catching a clue.”

  I don’t touch that remark. “All I’m saying is we keep our hands to ourselves. We’re friends, and we don’t want to ruin that. Plus, Jack . . .”

  “Meh, we’d probably never mesh in bed anyway.”

  Unbidden, my hands clench. She went there? I take a breath. Steady now . . . “Really? I can assure you, fucking me would be the highlight of your damn year—”

  “Promises you don’t plan on proving.” She pats me on the arm, then stops. “Oh wait, can I touch you there?” Her lips curl.

  I shake my head, reaching for exasperation but finding nothing but bolts of heat at the sight of her. This is an asinine idea, asking her to stay, but . . .

  “Don’t split hairs with me, smarty-pants.”

  “Uh-huh. So what’s off the table?” She steps in closer, her arms curling around my neck. Fire licks up my skin, and I suck in a gasp of air. What is she doing?

  “Giselle—”

  “I mean, sex is a no-no,” she murmurs. “You’ve laid down the law, Sheriff, but what about first base? You already did that. You kissed me the night of the fire—and gotta say, it wasn’t the best. We can’t let it stand. Plus, you told me if I brought Red back safe, you’d tell me why you kissed me.”

  She smells fucking good, and I swallow down the thickness in my throat, my hands of their own volition reaching up and cupping her face. “Because I was angry, and it felt . . . right,” I admit. “Was it that bad?”

  “Just the first time I’ve been kissed in five months, only I didn’t get any tongue.” She plays with a piece of my hair, twisting it around her finger. “I propose we get a real kiss in and call it quits—after all, you let some chick kiss your neck tonight, so they don’t mean much to you. I’m sure there wouldn’t be a spark anyway, but once it’s out of the way, we�
��ll know for certain there’s no zing. Truly, I need it for testing purposes. I plan on kissing Mike Millington at my party, and it would be prudent to have yours as a control to compare—”

  Anger zips over me. “I want to meet this motherfucker. No one’s getting near you if he doesn’t pass my test.”

  “I do love it when you get all growly. What kind of test?” She presses her lips against my cheek, right at the corner of my mouth. It’s not sexy or a come-on but gentle and teasing.

  Regardless. My brain stops. Literally stops functioning.

  Fuck, fuck, she feels so good . . .

  “Dev?” She pulls back, gaze locked with mine as the moments tick down. “Level five,” she murmurs, and I shake my head at her.

  “What kind of test?” I grumble, trying to focus. “The douchebag-slash-asshole-slash-how-bad-do-I-want-to-kill-him test. It’s evolving as we speak.”

  “Clearly.” She rests her head in the crook of my neck, and my arms curl around her waist. I tug her closer, tipping her face up. She looks ethereal in the lights of the car, her blonde hair shining. I sigh. “All right. Come on; let’s get this kiss out of the way and get on with our lives.” My words are light, but my pulse beats like a jackhammer, already imagining how she’ll taste, the slide of her mouth against mine, the satiny feel of her skin under my hands, because I’m going to run my hands all over her, touch her face, her hair, her arms, her tits. I can handle one kiss, for Christ’s sake.

  Can you? a voice cackles in my head.

  “You were right the first time. No touching. I get it. I’ll wait for Mike.” And then she’s twirling out of my arms, with her face averted.

  I’m right behind her, and she whips around, and we bump into each other.

  “Giselle, you’re teasing me.”

  “No, I’m not,” she replies, eyes flashing. “Don’t you get it? I have thought about kissing you more than you may realize, and it’s . . . not returned! We are just friends, not even really that, because you only know me because of Jack and Elena, but in my head—” Her voice stops. “What are you doing?” she gasps as I fiddle with her hair.

  “When I kiss you, I want my hands in your hair. These braids have to go.”