Not My Match (The Game Changers, #2)(45)

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.