Not My Match (The Game Changers, #2)(53)

Now, Greg is leaning against the wall with three jersey chasers around him: a blonde, a redhead, and the petite brunette from the dance floor.

Greg drains yet another whiskey as he shows the girls a video of him doing the morning weather, a bemused smile on his flushed face. The blonde has taken off his jacket, the redhead is currently loosening his tie, and the brunette is batting her eyes.

Giselle is dancing on the small raised dance floor in the middle of the room. Alone. I scan for Aiden and find him in the back, utter delight on his face. Several other players sit at a table close to the dais, and I watch as Hollis sets down his drink, eyeing Giselle, then gets up and dances over to her. Dammit. Jack’s warning means nothing when a beautiful girl is in VIP.

Aiden gives me a grin, and I want to punch him. How can I be gone for thirty minutes and another of my teammates has zeroed in on her?

I can’t leave her alone, ever.

I’ve moved before I’m aware of it, jostling him out of the way. “My dance,” I tell him under my breath, and he steps back, hands up in the air.

After grabbing Giselle’s hand, I twirl her around and pull her into my chest. She feels fragile when I gaze down at her, smoothing hair out of her face, trying to get a read on her.

“I went to dance, and the girls swarmed in on him,” she tells me, her eyes shiny. “One minute he was telling me about precipitation in the Sahara—not much—and the next . . .” Her eyes dart over to Greg.

She has no clue she’s the most beautiful woman in the room, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her, when another giggle sounds from their side of the room as one of the girls leans into Greg and gives him a kiss on the cheek.

I’m going to kill Aiden.

“Are you upset?”

Her nose presses into my neck as she inhales, and I lose my train of thought.

“Giselle? Talk to me.”

She says nothing, resting her head on my chest, and I exhale, tightening my arms.

“Look, I’m angry for you. I’ll beat the shit out of him,” I say.

“Cumulous clouds are the mother of all other clouds . . . ,” comes Greg’s excited voice.

Her shoulders shudder, and my anger notches up, but I hold it in, tracing my fingers down her spine to rest on the waistband of her skirt, idly brushing at the place where her blouse is tucked in. “Baby, talk to me. How can I make it better?” My hands rub down her back, lingering at the top of her ass before starting at her shoulders again. Her hair brushes against my jaw, and she smells like vanilla, sweet and thick and heady. God. So fucking good.

Her body shivers, and I think she sniffs.

“Baby, don’t cry, please . . .” I try to ease away and tip her face up, and she grudgingly lets me. “You aren’t crying,” I accuse as we stop moving, and I see the glint in her eyes.

She laughs, stuffing her face in my shirt again. “Oh God, no. He’s so awful. I tried, I did, but if he talked about clouds one more time, I was going to stick a fork in his face.”

A grin tugs at my lips. “You don’t want to go meet his mom?”

She guffaws. “My own is enough.”

“Ego bruised?”

“It’s worth you dancing with me,” she says with a smile and tangles her hands in my hair as we start dancing again, and I have no clue if it’s a fast song or slow, but I don’t want her out of my arms.

“Did you eat at least?” I ask a few beats later.

She smiles. “Should have just stayed home and ordered from Milano’s.”

“Nah, it’s your birthday eve.”

“I’d rather sit on your couch and watch Shark Week.”

“Bloodthirsty beast.”

“You like it.”

“I love it.”

She laughs, and I laugh with her. Watching her, the curl on her red lips, the way her eyes linger on me, holding my gaze . . . a sense of urgency flies at me, digging deep and taking up space in my chest. I want to be alone with her—just her, just me . . .

“Come on; let’s get out of here.” Clasping our hands together, I head to the exit, and she follows me.

Before we get there, I look over my shoulder to see if Greg is going to protest, but he’s got his lips on the blonde. My fists curl, which is ridiculous, since she wasn’t really into him, but he’s a giant douche.

She seems to know where my head is, because she tugs me out. “Let it go, caveman.”



A while later we’re deep into Shark Week as we sit on the couch in the dark, eating more cookies Giselle insisted she make.

She hands me another one, fresh from the oven, then wipes at my mouth as I chew.

“What?” I say, swallowing my bite.

“Chocolate,” she murmurs. Her hair is up in a messy bun, glasses back on, her clothes changed out for her shorts and one of my old shirts. I whipped off my jeans and settled on gym shorts and a workout shirt.

She scoots closer and wipes at my lips again. “Stubborn spot.”

“It’s fine,” I breathe, freezing.

“No, let me get it.” She leans in and licks the corner of my mouth. A satisfied purr comes from her. “Yummy.”

I snatch the nape of her neck before she can pull away. “Did you seriously just lick me?”

She pauses, giving me a sheepish look. “I was . . . hungry?”