Not My Match (The Game Changers, #2)(26)

“It’s my story, actually. I’m writing it.”

Oh.

“That’s amazing. You’re . . .” So fucking hot . . . “Obviously not only smart but, um, creative.” I pause, inhaling a breath. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about the sex part.”

“You asked. I responded.” Her voice lowers. “I want to lose my virginity before I turn twenty-four, Dev.”

I start. “When’s your birthday?” I ask a few beats later, battling to keep myself from pouncing on her. Hands off the innocent girl. Hands off the innocent girl. Jack will kill you.

“Sunday. Mike Millington’s going to be there.”

“And he is . . . ?”

“My tween crush who’s recently divorced. He’s probably bald with a beer belly.” A long sigh comes from her. “If he’s kind and there’s something there, I don’t know, maybe . . .”

My chest rises, and I’m racking my brain to come up with a reply, but my head is going haywire and wants to say, Well, if you want to get rid of it that bad, then what the hell is wrong with the man you’re in bed with—

A whine comes from the open door.

Pookie runs to Giselle’s side of the bed, and Giselle gets up to scoop her up, climbs back in the bed, and flips over to her side, away from me, as she settles the dog under the covers.

“Good night, Dev,” she murmurs. “Thank you for letting me sleep with you. Just this once. You’re the best.”

Yeah, the best. Right.

I mutter out a reply, heave out a breath, and turn over to face the wall.





Chapter 7

DEVON

When I come out of my room at seven, Giselle is sitting on a stool at the island with her back to me, laptop open, earphones on her head as she types like a maniac.

It’s weird coming out to someone in my domain. Usually girls are gone before the sun comes up—not because I’m a shitty host, but because they don’t feel the need to linger. The light of day isn’t pretty after casual sex.

She balances precariously on the seat as she reaches up to grab a pen, another one of my old shirts riding up. She must have tied it in a knot at the front. Her frayed shorts are on her ass, snug and dipping down far enough that I can see the waistband of a pink thong. I take in a familiar image at the base of her spine.

“Why do you have half a butterfly on your back?” I ask, sliding up next to her so I don’t freak her out.

She turns and smiles and takes the earphones off. “Morning, sunshine! Let’s kick today’s ass. You with me?”

I wince. “God, you’re one of those.”

She throws her arms around me for a quick hug, gets off the stool, and dances away to the stove. “I’ve never needed much sleep. Up at six, and I made you breakfast. Banana-nut muffins. I found the mix in the pantry, so I figured you liked them.” She takes in my track pants and workout shirt.

Quinn, Jack’s younger foster brother, buys most of my groceries. I didn’t even know I had muffin mixes. Normally, I eat oatmeal and a protein bar, then get out of here as fast as I can.

“I was going to make some eggs once you got up.” She smiles, and I feel the tension from last night falling away.

“All right. Bacon?”

She grins, and I grab the food from the fridge. She takes them and starts cracking eggs and whisking them in a bowl she pulled down from the cabinet. “I made coffee.”

“You’re fucking beautiful,” I exclaim as I pour myself a cup and take a long sip, watching her with bemusement as she blushes. I shove down thoughts of alien Devon ravishing her on a spaceship.

After my first few sips, I help by putting the bacon in a skillet and watching it sizzle. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that you evaded my question about your half-assed tattoo. How did it happen?” I’m anxious to hear her talk, and shit, I don’t know, she kind of fascinates me.

She throws in some sour cream and salt and pepper with the eggs. “Got it when I was in college, right after my freshman year. I stayed in Memphis for summer classes, and, well, it was my birthday.”

“Bad shit happens on your birthday.”

“You have no idea.” She sighs. “Anyway, I’d had a beer and was tipsy, and we walked into a tattoo shop. My girlfriend was getting E = mc2, but I picked out a butterfly, had it in my head that it represented change, a metamorphosis.” She attacks the bowl with the whisk. “So, the tattoo . . .” She pauses to take a sip of coffee, then sets the cup down. Her nose scrunches up. “I can’t tell you.”

I turn to her and point the tongs at her. “You have to answer. It’s your thing.”

“I can’t.” She crosses herself.

My eyes narrow. “Giselle Riley, you aren’t even Catholic. What happened? Did it hurt?” Somehow I don’t think pain makes her squeal. She fell to her knees at the club and barely complained; she climbed down a flimsy ladder in the middle of a thunderstorm and never thought twice.

I turn the bacon while she pours the eggs into a hot pan, her face blank. “Hard or soft? I like them soft, but I can cook yours a little longer.”

Oh no, she won’t get out of this that easily.

“I like them any way you want. Now . . . why did you get half a butterfly at the base of your spine?”