Not My Match (The Game Changers, #2)(10)
I almost want her to. It might make me stop staring at her like an idiot.
Jack is going to flip when he knows I blabbed, but he can fuck right off. He’s on his honeymoon, and here I am doing damage control with his slightly insane family. Perfect.
“I knew it!” she calls. “You’ve been acting off, and now you think I’m even more boring and weird than you did before. I’m going to strangle him when he gets back from Hawaii!” She mimics throttling someone. “I hope a shark takes his throwing arm right off.”
Jesus.
“I never thought you were weird!” Why am I yelling? “And you’re the least boring person I know!” I toss in.
Her eyes sparkle like lightning in a storm. “Oh, I can picture it now, him in the locker room, giving you guys the lowdown, talking about poor innocent Giselle and how she’s never . . .” Her full bottom lip trembles for half a second before she sucks it in and straightens her spine. “It’s wrong. And personal.”
I hold my hands out. “It wasn’t everyone, okay? It’s just me who knows that part.”
She stops in her tracks. “Just you?”
“Only me—”
“Ah! He leaves it with you to make sure everyone falls in line. Do you always take orders from Jack?”
I groan. “He trusts me, Giselle! I’m his best friend! Aiden doesn’t know, which is why you should beware around him. If he knew the truth”—I cringe, not really quite sure what the unpredictable ass might do—“I’m sure he would stay far away.” He better. “I may need to sit him down for a serious talk.” And box his ears.
Red flames on her face. “You’d tell him? Just take out a banner in the paper, Devon; post it on Insta!” Lifting up on her toes, she gets up in my face, which doesn’t take much. She’s tall and willowy. Little puffs of angry air come from her chest. Steely eyes glare at me, and her pouty mouth purses as she pushes a finger into my chest. She smells good—not that heavy flowery stuff, but light and sweet and fresh, like after a soft rain in the spring, and how could I have missed how creamy her skin is, that peaches-and-cream color, translucent—
I shake myself as her words dawn in my thick skull.
“I’d never tell him! Good God! It’s not my place. I just meant . . .” Why can’t I say the right thing around her? She’s always made me uneasy. Too smart. Too something.
My phone goes off again, but I can’t move a muscle. It’s the crazy girl in front of me who has my attention. She pokes me in the chest again, and I grab her finger and tug her in closer.
“You trying to tickle me?” I arch a brow, trying to defuse her anger.
She blinks, as if just realizing how close she is, and licks her lips. “No.”
Her chest presses me, those pert little boobs soft and—wait, what was I saying . . . ? “I’m not going to tell anyone, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s admirable that you’re saving yourself—”
She cuts me off, but at least her voice has lowered, rather hiss-like. “Stop patronizing me. You know nothing about my reasons, Devon.”
“I didn’t want to know,” I mutter as she finally pulls out of my grasp and flips around to start pacing again.
“I wish he’d never told me,” I tell her rigid back.
But boy, did the info cool my jets. When we first met, she was engaged, but since then, the thought of her spread out on my bed has crossed my dirty mind. I’m male. She has a way that gets under your skin, and before you know it, you’re in the shower, thinking about her in those big glasses, pearls, heels, and nothing else—
I shake my head at the unreasonable image. Blasphemy. She’s like a pal. One I can’t touch. There’s a clear thick line drawn between us.
She scoffs as she drifts back over to me, her lips still pursed, and the image is seared in my brain, her heaving chest, the heart-shaped face, the swish of her legs under the skirt. She’s graceful and smooth, as if she took one of those deportment classes on how to carry yourself. Etiquette, probably.
She’s, well, a lady. Nice.
And I’m bad. Very, very bad.
She wasn’t far off with her new-girlfriend-every-month snark. Women flock to me, drawn to the persona and fame, and I pick and choose the ones I want. When it’s over, I send them off happy and smiling.
“You won’t have to worry about keeping my secret much longer. I’m getting rid of it. Pronto.”
An image of some shady guy fucking Giselle pops into my head. Inexplicable anger rushes like a tidal wave, and my hands tighten. I’m ready to rip his imagined head off right now. “Explain.”
She levels me with a stare, and I swear she’s counting the seconds. “I could draw you a picture, but I’m not an artist,” she says. “Imagine a slot, then you take a tab, and you stick it in. No more hymen. It’s over, and everyone can stop discussing me behind my back!”
And with that line, she’s flouncing toward the door. Her ass sways inside her little skirt, which has a long slit up the back. Normally, she’s a dressy-slacks kind of chick, and I guess she wore the skirt for her date—which makes me mad all over again. Nothing has made sense in this room since she let down her hair, unbuttoned that damn shirt, and got angry. Why couldn’t she just be the old Giselle?