Not My Match (The Game Changers, #2)(64)

He lets out a breath.

The scarlet-colored dress hits several inches above my knee with a long slit up the back, the bodice a halter top with a plunging neckline and delicate see-through lace on the back. The black one is even shorter with a flirty skirt, skater-girl style. The torso is fitted with a scoop neck and a back that’s open and laces up.

He juts his chin at Myrtle’s. “Everyone adores puppies. He has a daughter, yes?”

I barely recall telling him that.

“Not trying to impress the kid; it’s the man.” I pull out the stilettos—three inches, black, and strappy. “Either dress goes with the shoes. Which one will make a man choke on his chicken leg?”

His jaw pops as he gives me a long look. “Black one.”

I smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. It’s him I want to wear it for, him I want to be at my birthday lunch.

“Sold. Let’s hope he likes it.”

He moves to the bedroom door, his back to me as he mutters, “He’ll love it.”

“Are you jealous?” He can’t expect me not to meet Mike, not when he’s spelled out where we stand.

I follow him down the hall. He doesn’t reply but keeps walking and gets all the way to the front of the penthouse and snatches his keys. He pauses, gathering himself, as he rolls his neck.

He turns to me, and we stare at each other.

Everything from last night—from the club, to Cindy, to him pounding on the wall—rises up and boils like a dark cauldron of emotion, simmering and churning, thoughts I put on hold, but after him touching me on the couch and his stupid dress idea, they can’t be stopped.

“You are, and you can’t stand it.” My voice ripples with hard truth. He wants me—maybe more than just want, and the fierce girl inside me pounces. She’s had enough. She demands.

He takes a deep breath, forest-green eyes on me as he grapples for the door behind him. “I fucking hate it,” he snaps. “From Brandt to Greg to whoever the fuck that guy was last night, I’m—shit, Giselle, they don’t deserve you, and I don’t, either, but I want you, and I’m at a crossroads; it’s go left or go right . . . to you. I’m scared you’re gonna, I don’t know . . . hurt me.” He pulls in air. “I have to go.” And then he’s out the door.

All the air in the room disappears, and I fall back on the chair in the den. Just let me in, Devon. Please.





Chapter 19

GISELLE

The sun is blazing when I pull into Mama’s driveway at one on the nose in the Maserati. It’s only her Cadillac in the driveway, and I let out a deep sigh of relief. Maybe Aunt Clara was busy. Maybe Topher had something to do. Maybe it will just be me and her. With worry about the dynamic between Devon and me, I just want to sit at her house, eat, and go back home and wait for him. Just as I’m about to get out of the car, my phone rings with an unknown number. Thinking it might be one of the kids from class, I snatch it up. Final exams are next week, and they might need me.

“Hello?”

“Giselle Riley?”

“Yes.” I don’t recognize the voice, her tone brusque yet warm.

She laughs. “I apologize for calling on a Sunday. I do admin work on Sunday and thought you wouldn’t mind, especially since you sent me the email with urgent as the header. I’m Dr. Susan Benson.”

My hand clutches the phone. I’d sent an email to her after my disastrous meeting with Dr. Blanton. She graduated from MIT at nineteen, got her PhD at Harvard, spent time in Switzerland, then came back to the US and settled in Nashville. She was on a brief sabbatical when I entered the program, or I would have asked her to be my advisor. “Thank you for calling!” I say, trying to keep my excitement at a decent decibel. “Your research on the spin memory effect is groundbreaking. I’ve read it a hundred times. Being part of that study must have been incredible.”

“Ah, yes, well, I read the LHC paper you sent me. Well done. I’ve seen you teaching your classes this summer.”

“I prefer unconventional methods—”

“Not all learning is done in a classroom. I’m available Monday morning at ten. Can you come in?”

My stomach flutters, and I give her a resounding yes, already making a notation on my phone calendar. Well, at least she sounds promising. It is a good birthday!

After ending the call, I check my hair in the rearview mirror. I put in my contacts, twisted my hair up in a loose chignon, added smoky eye shadow to my lids with liberal amounts of mascara. Red lipstick coats my lips, and I quickly add extra gloss.

Mama meets me at the porch of her two-story colonial dressed in her finest, a pale-blue skirt and blazer, blonde strands artfully swirled in a style similar to mine.

“Giselle Riley, your hair—”

“Is gorgeous!” Aunt Clara says as she pops out the door and does a circle around me. “Can’t even see the spots I missed.”

I sheepishly admit I had it corrected as she plucks at some of the hair, a satisfied sound coming from her. I wonder where her car is.

“I can live with it,” Mama says. “You need to show your wild side.”

I start. “Have you been drinking champagne?”

She narrows her eyes at the car I drove. “Why are you driving Devon’s car?”