Not My Match (The Game Changers, #2)(66)

“Mama, why is Mr. Pig here?”

“Lance White, dear. Widower. Lost his wife in a car accident several years ago, bless her heart. Financially solid. Raised in Daisy, school board member, president of the Rotary Club, looking for his next girlfriend,” is her hissed reply as she shakes hands with another distant cousin on Daddy’s side.

“Likes to be tied up,” Aunt Clara says in my ear. “Pass.”

How do you know? my wide eyes ask.

She shakes her head. “Beauty shop talk.”

Mama darts a look at me. “A submissive man might be the right one.”

No, no, afraid not. It’s alpha for me all the way.

A few minutes later, after meeting two single guys I went to high school with but who never paid me any attention, I’ve got it down. Nod, smile, inquire how they are; then say I’m thirsty and drift off to grab a glass of champagne or nibble on the bounty of food. I’m sucking down my second glass, feeling better but light headed, when Mama and Aunt Clara and Elena steer me to the back of the tent, where a group of people are clustered. The band has started and is playing Bryan Adams’s “Summer Of ’69.”

Mama nudges her head at a tall broad man whose back is to me. She picks at my dress and fluffs my hair. “That’s Mike. Go do your thing.”

I inhale. “Mama, in case you don’t know, I have no game.”

Aunt Clara pulls on my arm, dragging me toward the group. Elena has the other arm. “I had a crush on him too,” Elena says, her eyes going dreamy. “Pitcher for the baseball team, those brown eyes . . .”

“When did you turn into one of them?” I say to her. “My own sister. Betrayed.”

She blushes. “They rub off on you. And I want you to be as happy as I am.”

I eye Mike from behind, taking in the snug gray slacks, the french-blue shirt tucked into his pants, the loafers on his big feet. He’s dressed nice. His hair is still that gorgeous chestnut color, messy with thick unruly waves that he keeps pushing off his face.

“Your cousin Cami is working him, and her boobs are big. You better go get him,” Topher says.

A statuesque redhead, Cami is thirtysomething, single, and gorgeous. Her dress is a green sheath that clings to every voluptuous curve. Older than Elena and me, she lives an hour away from Daisy, but we spent our summers together out on the farm.

“Remember the toad?” Elena hisses, giving Cami side-eye.

Do I? Oh, heck, yeah. When I was ten, Cami dared me to put a toad in my panties. I did; then she teased me that I’d get warts on my “hoo-ha”—her word, not mine. “Toads and warts are a myth, but they do have toxic glands, which could have poisoned me,” I say. “She’s lucky I didn’t give her a bloody nose and an anatomy lesson.”

“She’s meaner than a wet cat in a washing machine with a blowtorch,” Aunt Clara adds. “When she was fifteen, she stole a bottle of my mama’s whiskey, the twenty-three-year Pappy, no less, for a party with some kids and tried to blame me. It’s worth two grand now, but she wasted it with a bunch of teenagers.” She spits. “Blasphemy.”

“Nobody takes Nana’s whiskey but me and Elena! We inherited it!” I exclaim. Champagne has kicked in.

“Shush,” Mama says. “Neither of you should be drinking. Your nana was just a collector.”

We all look at her. Nana loved her whiskey. She nipped on it most evenings on her back porch with me and Elena at her feet while she told stories about the people in Daisy, every skeleton in this town.

I glance at Cami. She’s laughing up at Mike, her eyes lasered in on him. “Someone needs to bring her down a notch.”

“That’s the fighting spirit!” Mama says and drags me the rest of the way to where Mike is, maneuvering her way between him and Cami, muttering “Excuse me, dear,” then nudging Cami’s hand off Mike’s arm and replacing it with hers—like a claw.

A giggle erupts, and I stuff it down as I’m shoved in front of Cami. “Oops, sorry, new shoes,” I say, apologizing for stepping on Cami’s foot with my heel. I really didn’t mean to. Honest.

Cami rears back and gives me the once-over, her eyes low as she rakes hazel eyes over me. I know her snark is coming in . . . three, two, one . . . “Any warts, Giselle?”

“Just the one on your nose,” I say with a sweet smile.

She laughs, light and airy. “That’s all right; do your best, little cousin. I’ve already given him my phone number.” Obviously, she’s aware of Mama’s machinations.

“What cute hair. It looks so much better,” she tells me, a fake smile matching mine on her lips. “You march to your own drummer, don’t you? Nothing wrong with that, of course. I don’t care what anyone says—you’re attractive . . . in your own way.” She waves her hand around at the crowd. “Have to say, your mama knows how to throw a good party. I guess Elena brings in all the football players and hotties. You never could. Wasn’t your ex-fiancé one of her castoffs?”

Her comment has me glancing around. Aiden and Hollis are chatting at a table, heads bent as they devour chicken fingers and shrimp. Aiden looks up and blows me a kiss, and I grin. He points to the other side of the tent and mouths something, but I shrug, not catching on. He uses his fingers to send a message. Holding one index finger up straight, he curls his thumb and a finger from his other hand around it. D? Then he presses one hand together in a quack motion . . . like Pac-Man? Talk? What? I shake my head. He blows out a breath and rolls his eyes.