Not My Match Page 14

  He smirks, delight on his face as he runs his hands over the sleek hood. “Uh-huh. I bet you go fifty on the interstate in this fine piece of horsepower.”

  “Sixty-five. I’m more of a rebel than you know.”

  “Give me the keys. Devon never has to know.”

  “You don’t know the password.”

  He chortles. “Damn, it takes a password to start this machine?”

  I pop the locks, liking the clicking sound it makes. He’s insisted I drive it every day. “Nope, just a song you have to know before you get the keys from the valet—who knows me now.”

  “What is it? Come on; tell me.” He slides into the passenger seat. “Devon’s password . . . hmmm . . . is it ‘Closer’ by Nine Inch Nails—no, how about ‘Get Ur Freak On’ by Missy Elliot?”

  “You can keep guessing all the way to Vandy, but I hold that man’s secrets to my heart.”

  He smiles as I pull out of the parking lot, dodging the potholes. “Do you now? How interesting.”

  “We are friends,” I say grimly, repeating the mantra in my head. If I keep telling myself over and over, it might just become the truth—on my side. It’s already truth for him.

  He throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, Giselle, that man has been checking you out since the night he met you at the community center for Romeo and Juliet. He didn’t take his eyes off you at the wedding. Looked to me like a man conflicted.”

  I pause, then tell him how Devon showed up at my apartment during the fire, about how I ended up sleeping in his bed after my nightmare, and then about last night at the barn. I break down my gaze levels and describe the best kiss of all time.

  He fiddles with the music, looking for a station.

  “He had a date at the reception,” I say.

  “Want to know a secret?”

  “If you truly have one, I can’t believe you haven’t told me already,” I muse, sending him a wry grin.

  He taps his fingers on his white skinny jeans, his Converse shifting around as he turns to me. “I didn’t really put it together until you said how adamant he is about staying friends, but . . .” He stops, tapping his chin.

  “What?” I groan after he’s let ten seconds pass.

  “When we were getting in our cars to head to the reception, I heard him talking to Lawrence about when this girl Lawrence knew would be showing up, because she was late.”

  “Lawrence knew her? Like he set them up?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe. He arranges dates all the time for some of the guys. Public appearances, galas, that sort of thing.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Quinn.”

  “Oh.” Quinn is Jack’s foster brother and a reliable source. He manages some of the players’ apartments and cars.

  “Anyway, from my perspective, he wasn’t into her,” Topher adds, nodding his head, as if an idea is taking root. “When you weren’t looking, he was checking you out like you were a shiny gold championship ring. I bet he called in a date to put some distance between you and him.”

  I frown, easing onto the interstate, being careful as an eighteen-wheeler roars past us. I haven’t analyzed why he showed up with a girl no one knew, who didn’t have a relationship with Jack and Elena, but then, it’s not unusual to bring a plus-one to a wedding—although technically it was a very small affair. And he hasn’t mentioned a girl he’s been seeing, but then maybe he wouldn’t . . .

  Ugh. I don’t like this train of thought and tell Topher as much.

  He gets quiet for a few moments, then: “Giselle, how are you? No sugarcoating.”

  My hands clench the wheel, and I swallow down the tightness in my throat. “Preston may have broken my heart, but I fucked over my sister. I can barely stand myself.” There it is. The reason why this whole year has sucked.

  Guilt hammers at me as I recall the day it happened. I’d been in town only a few weeks when Preston asked me to meet him at his law office to talk about Elena. He was handsome and oh-so sad with his “I love her, but your sister is ignoring me” routine.

  One minute he was behind his desk dabbing at his tears; the next he was kissing me right as she walked in. In retrospect, I think he heard her in the office and wanted to shock her or screw with her or who knows—only Elena never reacts like a normal person. Instead of blowing up, she told us to enjoy each other, then pretended like it never happened. And like a chump, I let Preston weasel into my life.

  Topher sighs. “I know what it’s like to disappoint those who love you—heck, I’m a gay man in a small town, and my parents won’t even speak to me. She forgave you, yet you’re punishing yourself. You made a mistake. You owned it. You deserve to be happy.”

  “You do too, Topher.”

  When I glance over, he’s squinting at me. “Your hair is drying.” A pair of sunglasses appears on his face. “Yeah, it’s so bright I gotta wear shades.”

  Chapter 11

  DEVON

  The scent of herbs mixed with . . . is that skunk? It hits me in the face when I walk into the penthouse around seven. I toss my keys on the foyer table and step into the den. An older lady sits in my favorite recliner with her face averted, her feet propped up as she snores. A bright-pink walking cane rests next to her. I almost pivot and walk out to make sure I hit the right floor, but my key fit, and Giselle’s laptop is on the coffee table, her books scattered, her bag on the couch. This is my place.

  The lady snorts, pushes at her brown hair, and mumbles under her breath, then appears to drift back to sleep as the door quietly opens behind me. I hear Pookie’s nails clicking on the hardwood. Without looking back at who I hope like hell is Giselle, I murmur, “Why does the apartment smell like a frat house?” I don’t even bring up the stranger. It has to be Myrtle.

  I hear her behind me, kicking off her shoes. A long sigh comes from her. “I picked her up this afternoon from the hospital, and her migraine hit before we even got out of the parking lot. She smokes to alleviate the symptoms. Her dealer is an elderly man from Brentwood, a retired executive from a bank. Nicest man ever. He usually delivers.”

  “Did he deliver here?” I wait for the outrage to hit, but . . .

  “He came to the hospital. No one ever suspects old people, and Myrtle makes her own rules. She acts like a teenager,” she mutters.

  My shoulders relax, and a smile twitches at my lips. It hasn’t passed my notice that Giselle is drawn to interesting characters, from a pot-smoking old lady to emus.

  Another snore comes from my recliner.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t recognize her,” she murmurs, still behind me. My skin is electric, waiting for her to walk past me. Part of me wants to turn around and face her, while the other wants to pretend like last night never happened.

  “Because I was too upset about the girl I thought was still in the damn building,” I say tersely. Still not over that.

  “I’m sorry about the pot,” she says. “I was writing, and she snuck to the windows, cracked one open, and lit up. I’ll grab some air fresheners.”

  I hear her snatch her keys back up, her shoes sliding back on. “Giselle, wait, don’t leave—” Not when I just got here.

  I pivot to her, my words stalling in my throat. “What . . . your hair—it’s blue!”

  Her back straightens, her eyes glinting with steel. “Electric Neon, to be precise. Not all of it, though. Aunt Clara missed a few spots in the back. She said it took a lot of dye, and we might need to put another application on.”

  I shake my head, trying to mesh the image of her this morning with the girl in front of me. I loved her hair, long and thick and down to her midback, silver and gold strands intermingled. “Why did you do it?” My words come out wrong; I see that right away by the quick flash of hurt on her face before she shrugs.

  “You color yours all the time!”

  “But yours . . .” I take a breath. I might be obsessed with her hair. My hands threading through the strands last night, my fingers cupping her scalp. “How lo
ng does the color last?”

  “Forty washes.” She exhales. “Thirty-five now. I stuck my head in the sink and scrubbed for an hour. My fingers are wrinkled up, and my hands need moisturizer. Maybe it will be gone by Sunday.” Her shoulders slump. “It’s still glowing.”

  Yes, yes it is.

  “The doorman didn’t know who I was when I took Pookie out. I had to show him my driver’s license.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “It gets worse. When I went to the library to help some of my students, I sat down, and they asked if they could help me. Didn’t even know I was there to save them from a black hole catastrophe.”

  I grin. “Come here, baby.”

  She crosses her arms. “You don’t call me pretty girl anymore. You haven’t since the night at the Razor.”

  “’Cause that’s for women I don’t know well.”

  “And baby?” She rolls her eyes.

  “Fits you.”

  “It feels as if I should be offended.”

  “Are you?” My eyes drift over her snug lime-green T-shirt proclaiming her as the WORLD’S TALLEST ELF. Another Walmart clearance item.

  She raises an eyebrow. “You call all your friends baby?”

  Only you.

  “Of course.” I pull her forward and search her eyes, battling the instinct to taste her lips. Keeping our chests from touching—Look at me; I’m doing good—I lace my fingers with hers, but it’s fine; I got this.

  “I look ridiculous,” she mutters. “Just another girl who thinks changing her hair color will make everything better.”

  “Shh. It’s not that bad. It complements your eyes.”

  “You hate it.”

  “No, it just took me by surprise,” I murmur, tracing my gaze over the bright locks of hair that brush against her T-shirt. “Reminds of Katy Perry in the ‘California Gurls’ video.”

  “Hers was a wig.”

  “I like it any color when it’s down,” I say, my voice husky. “And it matches my butterfly tattoos.”

  A strange expression flits over her face, and we stare at each other. I can’t tell what she’s thinking, probably about her hair, but my head is back at the barn the night before. “I have to tell you something.”

  “Blue jokes?”

  “Thank you for last night, for showing me your special place. It felt good to break things.”

  She gives me a half smile.

  “But I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have kissed you. Then I acted off this morning—”

  “I goaded you into that, and you don’t have to be perky just for me. I certainly don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable in your own home.” She disentangles our hands.

  I frown. “I’m not.” Hell, coming home and finding her here has been in my head all day, a beacon of warmth right in my chest. “I’m sorry for being a grouch.”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “So it was a terrible kiss?”

  “On a scale from one to ten, I’d give it . . .” A billion. “Well, let’s just say, it was—”

  “Scale? Oh, how ironic.” She huffs out a laugh.

  “How so?”

  She opens her mouth, then shuts it and shakes her head, muttering something about gaze levels.

  I stuff my hands in my pockets, and she watches me. “Well. Now that we’ve established the rules, and kissing is over, things will be smooth sailing,” she says.

  “Right.”

  She nods, seeming to come to some sort of decision. “Want me to bake some cookies to get rid of the smell?”

  “Can’t say no to cookies.” I turn with her as she brushes past me and heads to the kitchen. Of course, I follow her; I always do. It’s her gravitational pull, and I’m as pathetic as Pookie, who trots after me. “Can I help?”

  She hip checks me as she pulls a pan from the cabinet. “You could preheat the oven to three-fifty and get the cookie dough out of the freezer. I’ll cut them up and make sure they’re two inches apart. That’s how I roll. Didn’t you see the pizza boxes from dinner?” Her gaze darts to me. “Have you had dinner? I can make you something. Spaghetti? It won’t be a homemade sauce, but Myrtle likes it when I make it.”

  “Nah, I ate with Lawrence.” I’d thought about texting her to see if she wanted to go out for dinner, but worry for my dad kept rearing its head. I drove to his house and did a walk-through. It was obvious he’d been there—his sink was full of dishes—but he was gone. He’s avoiding me.

  I push those things away and focus on her. Lazily, I watch her flit around the kitchen, bustling like she belongs, stuffing pizza boxes in the trash, cursing as they tumble back out.

  I move her to the side. “Here, let me do that.” I pick up the boxes, folding and crushing them with my hands—See how strong I am?—only a pepperoni flies off and lands on my shirt. She erupts in giggles, and when I turn to mock glare at her, my foot tangles in the box on the floor, and I do a little slip and slide before I catch myself on the counter.

  “Oh my God, pizza boxes are trying to kill you!” She crosses herself. “My curse is rubbing off.”

  “I swear this never happens,” I muse with a grin. “Have you watched me play football? I’m a badass.”

  “Mmm, lots of times.”

  I arch a brow, satisfaction and pleasure rushing through me. “So it wasn’t just my national championship game. Whatever happened to the guy you watched it with?”

  “Jealous?”

  “No.” I’d like to meet him and check him out.

  “Meh, he and I never worked out, but I can still see your bio piece they showed during halftime that night. Your hair was clipped short, and you sported a smirk as you flexed your muscles.”

  Most of the cockiness was for show. I was still reeling over Hannah.

  “Impressed by my stats, I see. Why haven’t you ever mentioned that you were a big Devon Walsh fan? I could have signed some footballs, maybe a shirt.”

  She throws a balled-up napkin at me, and I catch it. “Why do I need those when I’m sleeping in your old practice clothes?”

  My body tightens at the image of her in a bed, my shirt bunched around her hips, a peek of her thong showing. Heat rises, my pulse kicking up. “What about when we first met? You never brought up recognizing me.”

  Her head dips as she avoids me, pretending to inspect the granite on the countertop. She pushes up her glasses on her nose.

  “Giselle?”

  “Haven’t you put it together by now, Dev?” A pink flush starts at her throat and eases up her face.

  I inch closer. “No, I haven’t.” Seems I’m in uncharted waters with you, baby.

  We do that staring thing again where I can’t take my eyes off hers, cataloging the microexpressions on her face, and then I get tangled up on a small heart-shaped freckle above her lips, that full sweet mouth that’s perfect for—

  Myrtle lets out a big snore.

  “Are you going to make me use your name again?”

  She scrunches up her face and throws another napkin at me. “My OCD for questions isn’t foolproof. I can not tell you.”

  “Still waiting.”

  “Fine! I saw you play in college, had an instant crush, went and tried to get a similar tattoo, then met you years later and couldn’t get the nerve up to tell you that I not only held my breath the night you got drafted and watched most of your games in the NFL—even when you played for Jacksonville—who I can’t stand! Then you got traded to Nashville, Elena started seeing Jack, and there you were at the community center, in the flesh, and I couldn’t even think of what to say, so I pretended like I wasn’t a fan. Happy?”

  “Fucking delirious,” I murmur.

  She laughs. “Really?”

  “It’s a layer to you I had no clue about. Smart girl who digs football, and I’m your favorite player. What else could a guy ask for?”

  “Cookies?”

  I laugh.

  We’re close, our shoulders touching as we hover over the island and look out into the den. I’m watching Giselle, d
rinking in her delicate face, the way her shirt clings to her chest—and she’s looking at Myrtle. She leans into me and whispers, “Besides all that, you are very handsome. Eyes like a rain forest. Hot bod. Athletic grace. A black panther. Also, you might be the inspiration for a hero in my book—”

  “Vureck?”

  “You remember?”

  I smirk, following her eyes to the lady on the recliner. “I see what’s going on. You’re buttering me up. Myrtle has no place to go, does she?”

  She plops onto the stool and cups her chin. “Her place won’t be ready until tomorrow morning.” She gives me a look. “You mad now?”

  I pick up a bright-green apple she bought and throw it in the air. No one’s ever set fresh fruit in my kitchen before. “We only have two beds.”

  She nods. “She can take my room, and I’ll sleep on the couch. You’ll never know she’s here.”

  “No, I’ll take the couch.”

  She gapes. “You’ve done too much already! I will not take your bed. I insist on the couch.”

  Visions of her in my bed with me dance around me—until I push them away. “All right.”

  A small frown puckers her forehead. “I’ve moved in with a nervous dog who pees in your expensive shoes, invited a guest, let her smoke pot, and inadvertently nearly caused you to break a leg. You’re living with a curse-ridden maniac.”

  I grin, and before I can stop myself, I kiss her temple (friends do that) and slide away. “Anything to keep you from being blue.”

  She gives me side-eye.

  I laugh and head to my bedroom to change. “You really blew my mind when I saw you, Smurfette.”

  “Hey, you said you’d help me make cookies,” she calls, and I dash back in the kitchen, grab the package of cookie dough from the freezer, turn the oven on with a flourish, then smirk at her. All without slipping. “We have any ice cream for the cookies? Blue Bell brand is my favorite.”

  A soft sigh comes from her, and before I can stop, again, I’m back and right in front of her.

  She picks up a strand of blue and glares. “The new hair was supposed to be part of how Giselle gets her groove back, but—”