Not My Match (The Game Changers, #2)(24)

We head back to the kitchen, and he tells me to sit at the black-and-white island in the center while he grabs me a water bottle from the built-in stainless steel fridge, then checks out my ankle. He props it up on a stool rung and bends down to run light hands over my skin. Warm tingles dance over me, and I bite my lip. I’ve known him for months, but he’s never touched me this much. Finally, he sets my foot gently down and moves away.

“Keep the ice pack on it tonight while you sleep.” He sets one down on the counter.

I huff out a laugh. “We’re like characters in a book—me the damsel in distress, you the dashing hero. Twice in one day.”

“Hmm.”

I suck down a drink of water while he leans against the fridge, his lashes lowering every so often as he does that thing where he looks at me—but doesn’t.

The city outside is quiet, the kitchen is silent, and time feels frozen: just us—in this beautiful penthouse.

Is it odd that neither of us seems to notice we’re wet from the rain?

We stare at each other, and heat builds and rises inside me, a yearning to touch him that makes me feel light headed. I’m losing my mind. He doesn’t want me like that.

His green eyes flicker over me, lingering on my body.

I’m afraid to move, almost paralyzed, as if he’s a predator and I’m delicious prey. I’m aware of every excruciating detail of him, the span of his broad shoulders, the long tan column of his throat as he drinks his water, the roped muscles in his forearms.

“You were right, you know,” I murmur. “I’m glad I’m not alone tonight.”

“Ah.” He bites his lower lip, his teeth digging into the plump skin.

“Thank you.” I push my glasses up. “I shouldn’t be here long—just until I get things figured out with my insurance.”

“All right.”

More quiet. More staring at each other.

What is he thinking?

“I should shower,” I blurt.

His gaze drifts lazily over me. Again. “Me too.”

Oh Lord. I cling to the edge of the granite, imagining him under a spray of water, the droplets slicking over his skin—

Nope. Must stop.

“Why did you kiss me?”

He frowns and straightens, seeming to shake himself. “Why not? See you in the morning.” And then he’s striding down the hall to the last room and shutting the door behind him.





Chapter 6

DEVON

Sleep refuses to come, even after a hot shower and fifteen minutes of watching The Office. All the usual tricks. I check my phone aimlessly, wincing at the late hour, then toss it aside. Training camp will be here in a few hours, and I should be exhausted—but my blood pumps overtime, my heart rate still erratic. That moment of thinking she was still in her apartment in the fire rushes back, and I let out a heavy exhale and scrub the bristles on my jaw. I was out of control, ready to barrel through the firemen holding me back, just to get to her. I wanted to rail at her. I wanted to throw her over my shoulder, spank her ass, then . . . fuck her hard and fast until she got some sense.

Jack’s face appears in my head. Keep your eyes on her. She’s a virgin, he told me at his engagement party a few months ago. At the time, he was scowling as he watched her talk to a group of rambunctious players. The guys like talking to her . . . I mean, why wouldn’t they? She’s smart and sexy in an understated, unassuming way, a sharp contrast to the blowsy jersey chasers who dance attendance on them. She’s a bit aloof and reserved, too, as if she’s holding part of herself back. Little does she know that to an alpha male, that means challenge.

But shit, why, why did he have to tell me that?

I mull it over, trying to get to the bottom of it as I kick my covers.

Maybe he thought you needed to know, a sly voice says.

And here I am, with her just a bedroom away.

A scream pierces the quiet, and I jerk out of bed and dash to her room, flinging open the door as I reach it. I was worried she’d have bad dreams. Risking her life for a string of pearls—shit. What a crazy girl.

Pookie stands on the bed and shivers, all six pounds on alert as Giselle tosses and turns.

“Giselle?” I murmur, not wanting to startle her as I sit on the bed. “Babe, you’re dreaming.”

She cries out again, unaware, and flails at the duvet, twisting around as a tear falls down her face.

Forget this.

After untangling her from the comforter, I cup her shoulders and ease her up to my chest. She makes all my protective instincts flare to the surface.

“Dev,” she whimpers. “What’s happening?”

“Bad dream. You’re sleeping with me.” Makes perfect sense.

I sweep her up, and she clings to me, her arms tightening around my shoulders as her face presses against my chest. “I’m sorry. God, you must be sick of me.”

“Not yet.” I walk with her down the hall. Nothing wrong with this. Nothing.

“I keep seeing Myrtle in my head. She’s . . . she’s falling down the stairs, and it’s my fault. Her knees are bad.” Her breath hitches. “I should have walked her all the way out the door.”

“Shh, I got you.” She’s worried about Myrtle when she should be thinking about herself.

I ease her down on my bed, keeping my gaze averted from her toned long legs, the shapely curve of her hips peeking out from one of my old shirts, the fall of her damp hair curling around her shoulders. Nope. This is so she can sleep. This isn’t weird.