Not My Match (The Game Changers, #2)(59)

Chapter 16

GISELLE

Just pretend like that little showdown never happened. That’s the ticket, I tell myself as we walk down a mostly quiet street to a diner across from the penthouse. A few people are out, darting in and out of upscale bars and moving on. Happy, probably tipsy groups that I gaze at longingly, wishing I had those kinds of connections. Myrtle isn’t the kind who participates in bars, and shoot, I miss my sister most of all.

Devon opens the door to the diner for me, and I ease past him and take the place in. It’s cute yet classy, decorated to resemble a fifties café, with red booths, black-and-white tile, and pictures of old movie stars on the white walls. People dressed in all manner of clothing, ready to eat after partying downtown, pack the inside, and I wonder how long we’ll have to wait to be seated—how much longer I have to endure the silence between us.

In my peripheral I eyeball him while he talks to the server at the door. He came out of his room in jeans and a long-sleeved green shirt that might have exactly matched his eyes. Pfft. He took one look at me, because I hadn’t moved since he’d left, and stopped in his tracks.

“Why aren’t you dressed?” He argued with me when I told him I wasn’t going.

He told me he was hungry—after all those cookies—and tossed a hoodie at me. I came because I liked the way he wanted me with him, that little thrill, so I stuck my feet into flip-flops and went.

I think he wants out of the heat of what’s between us, but I can’t figure out why he needs me to come with him. Isn’t that just the opposite of what he should want? Men. And they say women are mercurial? Please. I tuck my hands in the front pockets of the hoodie, sniffing the smell of him in the dark fabric, swooning—nope. No swooning. Focus. The smell of waffles and butter and syrup teases me, and I sigh and look around the place.

Maybe food is the right thing. Can’t have sex? Try eating. And now, I’m back to man logic. Is this how all men shore up their sexual urges? I picture Devon with a mound of pancakes in front of him, stuffing them in his mouth.

“Why are you smiling?” he asks as the server leads us through a myriad of tables to one in the back.

“Random thoughts.” I slide into the red booth, and he takes the seat across from me. After grabbing the menu from behind the napkin dispenser, I place it in front of my face. He leans over and thumps it, and I lower it. “What?” I ask rather crossly.

He studies me, eyes ghosting over my hoodie. A small smile tugs at his lips. “Cindy.”

I huff out a laugh. We had a tiff, but the effects of it seem distant now. He was honest with me, gave me a choice, and now it’s done. Okay, moving on.

“She’s somewhere celebrating by eating other insects. Familial bliss.”

After pulling out my phone, I show him the image of him sprawled out on my bed, the spider resting on his bicep.

“Happy birthday, Giselle.”

My breath whooshes out of me. “Oh, I didn’t even realize . . . wow . . . I guess it is.” It was my birthday when he and I cornered Cindy and took her to the basement. When I said those words.

I straighten my messy bun, which is all over the place after our antics, so I tug out the rubber band, slip it on my wrist, and rub my scalp. He’s still watching me, and I’m twitchy and push my glasses up my nose.

He takes my hand on the table, his thumb brushing over mine, almost idly, as if he doesn’t realize it. “Giselle, I freaked out—”

“What can I get you to drink?” the waitress says, and we both blink and look at her.

Relief washes over me. I don’t want him apologizing for how he feels! I don’t want him worried about me. I am fine. Totally. We are friends. Who must not, under any circumstance, fuck.

I order a Coke and Devon water.

Even with the baseball hat and long sleeves covering his arms, she catches on quick. “Wait. Devon Walsh?” Her eyes dart over the long hair sticking out of his hat, and her voice goes girlie, her body vibrating. She’s about my age, dressed in a short red skirt, a black top, and a ponytail. Pretty.

Without an ounce of shame, she melts into the seat next to him. Devon sends me an annoyed glance and shrugs, then signs an autograph on a napkin. He pushes it back to her. She insists on a photo, and I wince for him as she ignores his attempts to get away and puts her head next to his and takes a pic with her phone. Unlike Jack, who hates attention, Devon isn’t rude. No, he has a smooth finesse that he’s gotten down to an art over his years in the spotlight. He takes her elbow and motions for her to get up, all with a fake smile on his face, telling her to please not tell anyone else and promising her a huge tip to make it worthwhile.

She dances away, a dopey grin on her face.

“At least she didn’t kiss your neck,” I say.

“Some are easier to handle.”

“Hmm.” I stare down at the menu. I’m going to eat everything on here if it helps me not want to chase after that sweet waitress and pluck out her eyeballs.

“Jealous?”

“You’re a superstar,” I deflect with a shrug, glad I squashed my urge to say hell yes.

“And you’re a scientist who’s writing a book. Yeah, you’re just a little nobody.” He grins and throws a napkin at me, and everything feels back to normal.

A few minutes later, we’re both devouring chicken and waffles, until he pushes his plate away. We talked nonstop for most of the meal, him about his dad and how he took care of him growing up. He told me how he and Jack became best friends during summer camp freshman year.