Not My Match Page 18

  His chest brushes against mine as he presses a hot kiss to my neck, sucking at the skin. I pull his head to me, wrenching his mouth off my neck, truth staring at me, his eyes brimming with lust and promise.

  I’ve made comments to him, flippant ones, about having sex just to get my virginity out of the way, but realization and clarity, and him right now, paint the truer picture. Having sex just for the sake of sex—no, that isn’t who I am, and it never was; otherwise I wouldn’t be a virgin. At any point, I could have given in to Preston’s demands, but I never went there, because it wasn’t right, a small kernel of wisdom that just knew. For months, I floated along with him, trying to extricate myself from him, not sure why and pretending like nothing was wrong. Part of that was guilt over Elena, but the rest was me, all me. He wasn’t right for me. Neither was the lacrosse player from high school or the kind of boyfriend in college.

  Is it Devon? Yes, this moment, his heavy-lidded gaze on me, the visceral need that’s pouring off him, it feels damn perfect—if I want my heart broken.

  My body wars with my mind, wanting him, the heat between us so hot it feels tangible. If I say yes, if I wrap my arms around his neck and pull his lips to mine, we’d be rolling around on the floor in a heartbeat. He’s ready to pounce, hanging back by a tiny thread. Desire, dark and beautiful and intoxicating, swirls low in my body, aching and pulling. He’s right here, waiting for me to answer, his chest twitching as he holds himself incredibly still. One little nod, and he’d do all those wonderful things to me, and then I’d be a nonvirgin—and very unhappy the next day. Still, still, I want him, and my body screams that it’s worth it to hold him and kiss him and feel he’s mine, if just for one night. My fingers twitch to delve into his dark hair, kiss him, and get lost. My chest inches closer to him, feeling that warm connection that drags me to him like a magnet.

  I’d fuck you and walk away.

  Yes, my body demands. He’s the only man you’ve ever truly felt this way about, who you dream about, who you’ve made the hero of your book.

  “No,” I push past my lips, the hardest word I’ve ever said.

  His breath hitches, and he shuts his eyes, breathing rapidly as he hovers over me.

  Gathering strength and fortitude, I shove at him and dart under his arms. Space. I need space. My control is nonexistent when it comes to him. I have to get out of here. Out of this penthouse. I need to go for a walk around the block or get into Red—no, Cindy and family are there—or just get back on the elevator, ride up and down, and pretend I’m at a fair. I could sleep there, put down a pillow and a blanket, bring my laptop, and jump back into my story—

  “Stop overthinking. Get dressed,” he tells me, breaking into my thoughts.

  “What?” I call out to him as he stalks to his bedroom door. “I’m going to ride the elevator! Why would I get dressed?”

  He pivots around, his jaw popping, hands fisted. “We’re getting out of this penthouse,” he snaps. “Meet me out here in five minutes.”

  “It’s late!”

  “I don’t care!”

  I look down at the peek of his . . . member . . . from his towel. My throat dries. The top is all I see, mushroom shaped and thick and hard—holy shit, will my hand even wrap around that?

  His lids open and follow my gaze. He places his hand over . . . it. “Ten minutes!”

  He slams his door.

  Chapter 16

  GISELLE

  Just pretend like that little showdown never happened. That’s the ticket, I tell myself as we walk down a mostly quiet street to a diner across from the penthouse. A few people are out, darting in and out of upscale bars and moving on. Happy, probably tipsy groups that I gaze at longingly, wishing I had those kinds of connections. Myrtle isn’t the kind who participates in bars, and shoot, I miss my sister most of all.

  Devon opens the door to the diner for me, and I ease past him and take the place in. It’s cute yet classy, decorated to resemble a fifties café, with red booths, black-and-white tile, and pictures of old movie stars on the white walls. People dressed in all manner of clothing, ready to eat after partying downtown, pack the inside, and I wonder how long we’ll have to wait to be seated—how much longer I have to endure the silence between us.

  In my peripheral I eyeball him while he talks to the server at the door. He came out of his room in jeans and a long-sleeved green shirt that might have exactly matched his eyes. Pfft. He took one look at me, because I hadn’t moved since he’d left, and stopped in his tracks.

  “Why aren’t you dressed?” He argued with me when I told him I wasn’t going.

  He told me he was hungry—after all those cookies—and tossed a hoodie at me. I came because I liked the way he wanted me with him, that little thrill, so I stuck my feet into flip-flops and went.

  I think he wants out of the heat of what’s between us, but I can’t figure out why he needs me to come with him. Isn’t that just the opposite of what he should want? Men. And they say women are mercurial? Please. I tuck my hands in the front pockets of the hoodie, sniffing the smell of him in the dark fabric, swooning—nope. No swooning. Focus. The smell of waffles and butter and syrup teases me, and I sigh and look around the place.

  Maybe food is the right thing. Can’t have sex? Try eating. And now, I’m back to man logic. Is this how all men shore up their sexual urges? I picture Devon with a mound of pancakes in front of him, stuffing them in his mouth.

  “Why are you smiling?” he asks as the server leads us through a myriad of tables to one in the back.

  “Random thoughts.” I slide into the red booth, and he takes the seat across from me. After grabbing the menu from behind the napkin dispenser, I place it in front of my face. He leans over and thumps it, and I lower it. “What?” I ask rather crossly.

  He studies me, eyes ghosting over my hoodie. A small smile tugs at his lips. “Cindy.”

  I huff out a laugh. We had a tiff, but the effects of it seem distant now. He was honest with me, gave me a choice, and now it’s done. Okay, moving on.

  “She’s somewhere celebrating by eating other insects. Familial bliss.”

  After pulling out my phone, I show him the image of him sprawled out on my bed, the spider resting on his bicep.

  “Happy birthday, Giselle.”

  My breath whooshes out of me. “Oh, I didn’t even realize . . . wow . . . I guess it is.” It was my birthday when he and I cornered Cindy and took her to the basement. When I said those words.

  I straighten my messy bun, which is all over the place after our antics, so I tug out the rubber band, slip it on my wrist, and rub my scalp. He’s still watching me, and I’m twitchy and push my glasses up my nose.

  He takes my hand on the table, his thumb brushing over mine, almost idly, as if he doesn’t realize it. “Giselle, I freaked out—”

  “What can I get you to drink?” the waitress says, and we both blink and look at her.

  Relief washes over me. I don’t want him apologizing for how he feels! I don’t want him worried about me. I am fine. Totally. We are friends. Who must not, under any circumstance, fuck.

  I order a Coke and Devon water.

  Even with the baseball hat and long sleeves covering his arms, she catches on quick. “Wait. Devon Walsh?” Her eyes dart over the long hair sticking out of his hat, and her voice goes girlie, her body vibrating. She’s about my age, dressed in a short red skirt, a black top, and a ponytail. Pretty.

  Without an ounce of shame, she melts into the seat next to him. Devon sends me an annoyed glance and shrugs, then signs an autograph on a napkin. He pushes it back to her. She insists on a photo, and I wince for him as she ignores his attempts to get away and puts her head next to his and takes a pic with her phone. Unlike Jack, who hates attention, Devon isn’t rude. No, he has a smooth finesse that he’s gotten down to an art over his years in the spotlight. He takes her elbow and motions for her to get up, all with a fake smile on his face, telling her to please not tell anyone else and promising h
er a huge tip to make it worthwhile.

  She dances away, a dopey grin on her face.

  “At least she didn’t kiss your neck,” I say.

  “Some are easier to handle.”

  “Hmm.” I stare down at the menu. I’m going to eat everything on here if it helps me not want to chase after that sweet waitress and pluck out her eyeballs.

  “Jealous?”

  “You’re a superstar,” I deflect with a shrug, glad I squashed my urge to say hell yes.

  “And you’re a scientist who’s writing a book. Yeah, you’re just a little nobody.” He grins and throws a napkin at me, and everything feels back to normal.

  A few minutes later, we’re both devouring chicken and waffles, until he pushes his plate away. We talked nonstop for most of the meal, him about his dad and how he took care of him growing up. He told me how he and Jack became best friends during summer camp freshman year.

  “What’s the best birthday present you’ve ever gotten?” he asks me.

  “You’ll think it’s silly.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  After wiping my mouth, I push the plate to the side and lean in closer, resting my chin on my hands. I push my glasses up. “What?” I ask, noting his weird expression.

  He laughs under his breath. “You. When you get lost in thought, you get a wrinkle, right there . . .” He reaches over and rubs his finger over my forehead.

  I smile. The man does watch me.

  “The best present I got was on my fifteenth birthday—before all that curse business—”

  “Which isn’t real.”

  I wave him off. “Stop interrupting me.”

  He grins.

  “Anyway, I’d been on this reading binge, had read almost every book in the school library. I was hounding Mama for something to read, and Aunt Clara had slipped me some racy books from the public library. She preread them to check for sex, but some weren’t appropriate.” I laugh at the memory of Aunt Clara bringing me Harlequins that just had some light kissing. “So on my fifteenth birthday, Mama gave me a bundle of letters from my dad, copies actually, written to her.” A soft sigh comes from me, and I can only imagine the hearts in my eyes. “He got his medical degree through the army and was stationed overseas and didn’t see her for nine months. Every day, he wrote her a beautiful letter, and it was in his handwriting and just breathtaking to think he wrote for her—he poured out his heart.” Emotion clogs up my throat, and I push it down. “I got to witness how they met—at a bonfire on Halloween—and how he fell in love with her immediately; I read the little spats they had when she was dating other guys while he was gone, his heartbreak, and then I saw how she finally told him she couldn’t live without him.” A laugh comes from me. “Some were missing, of course, and those were the sexy ones. She denies it, but whenever I tease her, she blushes. I saw a glimpse of love, real love, and it . . . it . . . it was so sweet and perfect, but it also set the standard so high for me. And then, he died the next year, so I treasure those letters. I grabbed my copies when I went back for the pearls.” I pause, watching his face. “What about you?”

  “Your butterfly is in my pocket now.”

  Pleasure courses over me. “Really?”

  He grabs my hand. “Really. And I’ve got a gift for you.”

  My eyes dart all over him, and he laughs. “Not on me. Soon.”

  “Giselle?” comes from the table behind Devon, from a couple just taking their seats.

  I lean my head and take in . . .

  Devon lets my hand go as the guy gets up from his seat and takes the few steps over to us.

  “Robert!” I call when it clicks and hop out of the seat. “How are you? How’s your dad? Everything okay?”

  He smiles at me, a dimple in his right cheek winking at me. He looks different since the last time I saw him at the hospital with Myrtle and John. Or maybe it’s just because I was harried there, barely knowing what I was doing. That day, he’d been in slacks and a jacket, but tonight he’s wearing dark jeans and a blue dress shirt, the sleeves folded up. His sandy-brown hair is messy but stylish, and he’s got his glasses on. He’s taller than me, his build lean.

  “Dad is fine. Talked to him tonight. I’m glad they found a place so soon.”

  “I need to call Myrtle and check on her.”

  He smiles. “We all had dinner together,” he says. “She met my sister.” He nudges his head back to his table, and I send her a wave. She looks like Robert, only the female version—tall with lighter hair and a sweet smile.

  There’s a pause, and I start, realizing I need to introduce. “Robert, this is my friend Devon Walsh.” Devon stands and takes his hand in a grasp that looks a little hard to me, if the wince on Robert’s face is indicative. Robert doesn’t seem to know Devon is a football star, and I don’t offer.

  We chitchat for another minute about his dad; then, after flicking his eyes at Devon, he says in a quiet tone, “Let’s have lunch soon. I’d love to talk to you more.”

  Is he asking me out, or is this about something else . . . ?

  I dart my gaze at Devon, who’s watching me, a taut expression on his face. He searches my face, then looks out the window.

  Right, right. He doesn’t care who I date. He wants me to find someone.

  I give Robert my cell, and he gives me his card, which I quickly stuff in my pocket. He tugs on one of the strings from my hoodie, grins, and says, “Looking forward to it.”

  I’m still standing there watching him walk away, trying to decipher if there is any attraction there.

  Robert flips around, a cocky smile on his face—okay, back up; when did he get cocky? “Oh, happy birthday!”

  I smile.

  He laughs. “Myrtle told us. Love the hair, by the way. Kate’s, right?”

  Heat rises in my cheeks. Oh. Oh. Myrtle let him read my chapters? Going to murder her. “Um, thanks.”

  I sit back down and stare at the table. It floors me that I managed to meet a guy I barely noticed, but he noticed me, and he just asked me out . . . maybe.

  I look up at Devon, who’s leaving a heap of cash on the table.

  “Let’s go.” His expression is unreadable.

  I nod, and we move through the diner—only I get shuffled back by a crew of drunken guys, and Devon turns and moves back to me, edging himself through them with his shoulders. He stares down at me in the midst of them—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven—oh shit, we’re gonna hit a record. Then he clasps my hand, threading our fingers together.

  “You’re with me,” he says softly. Or was it, “You with me?”

  Either way . . . “Yeah.” I’m with you.

  We hold hands and walk out the door.

  Chapter 17

  DEVON

  “Do you have football camp tomorrow?” she asks as we walk back to the penthouse.

  “Not on Sundays. Only day off.”

  “Good. I’m not sleepy,” she announces.

  “Me neither,” I say, and the truth is I’m not ready to go back to the penthouse, where we’ll be alone.

  “Let’s go for a drive. Not Red, though; let’s give Cindy a chance to leave.”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “You’re worried about your dad, and you haven’t been able to catch him during the day, so let’s do a drive-by. Check up on him. Maybe look for clues.”

  “It’s your birthday, and you want to go see my dad?”

  She tilts her chin up. “Yeah.”

  “All right. Let’s go.” That was not what I meant to say. What if she sees where I came from and thinks differently about me? What if he’s there and trashed?

  I kick those thoughts down as we hop in the Hummer and drive out of downtown and head to my dad’s neighborhood. She’s got the windows down, her hair blowing, belting out “Hollaback Girl” with the radio, and shit, I laugh. I don’t know how she does it, but everything about her is funny. Bemused, I realize she’s one of the best friends I have.
In the space of just a few days, I’ve told her more than anyone else knows about me, besides Jack.

  We sing the chorus together, my fingers tapping out the beat on the steering wheel as I whip into Dad’s driveway and kill the lights. We get out and meet at the front door.

  “You have a key?”

  Feeling nervous, I nod and fish it out of my pants. Before I open the door, I take a deep breath and look down at her. “His place . . . it’s messy.”

  She nods, face composed in a careful expression.

  We walk in, and I flick on the light—the one I changed the last time—and take in the open space. The den is empty, but I can tell he’s been here since the last time. More takeout containers litter the coffee table; an empty vodka bottle sits on the end table. Giselle heads to the kitchen, and I take the bedroom. It’s empty, the bed unmade, clothes on the floor. His closet looks bare, though, as if he’s packed a few things. Weird.

  “Devon,” she calls from the kitchen, and I jog to her, fear inching up my spine.

  She’s holding a piece of paper in her hand and thrusts it out to me. “It’s a letter for you. It was on the counter.”

  “Oh.” I swallow thickly and take it, sitting down at the table, my eyes eating up the words.

  Devon,

  My son. Remember that time you scored your first touchdown in JV for the hometown team? Remember the first girl you brought home—the one you really liked? Or that moment when you walked across the stage to get your high school diploma? You do. You have those memories. I don’t. Not one. I don’t even know if I was there for that first touchdown. Maybe there’s a game I recall, but I can’t see your uniform in my head or that moment when you should have looked up in the stands to see if I was there.

  I close my eyes and clench my fists, memories I don’t want jabbing at me like thorns. No, Dad, I looked, and you weren’t there. And I never brought one girl back. Never.

  You’ve done so much for me—money, house, car, a job—things I tried to hang on to with everything I have, but I messed it up. I gave it a shot, tried AA, but I’m weak. So damn weak. Dotty is done with me, and I don’t blame her. She deserves better. I can’t hold a woman. You’ve watched them come and go, that look on your face, hope. God, hope is cruel.