Not My Match (The Game Changers, #2)(75)

“It’s a memory. I’m going to put it in a shadow box with a miniature Maserati inside.”

“Shadow box?”

“A display case for treasured keepsakes. Don’t you have some with sports memorabilia in it?”

No. My dad didn’t do those things. Whatever I have is kept packed away.

I grin. “I kept your underwear. Never did find your bra. Too dark, and I was afraid an owl might get me.”

“Poor Bobby Ray. I meant to introduce you to him yesterday, but it didn’t feel right.”

“Hmm, don’t want to meet the guy who almost got what I have.” I kiss her lips, and she sighs into me, her arms wrapping around my shoulders. “I can’t wait to see you later.”

“Same,” she murmurs.

“Mr. Walsh?” comes a scratchy male voice on my right, and I pivot, putting Giselle behind me.

“What?” I growl.

It’s not the guy who was here last time, but he fits the description of the man from Walmart—and I know exactly what he wants. He shuffles his feet, and I narrow my eyes, body tense and ready to take him down if he so much as moves a muscle.

He holds his hands up, his gaze darting from me to Giselle. “No disrespect, sir. I’m just a guy doing a job.”

“You’re a bad guy!” Giselle snaps and steps around me to confront him. “And don’t think I don’t remember you, Harold Pittman. You used to work at the body shop on Main. It took me a while because you look different, but I figured it out.”

The man exhales. “I lost that job, Ms. Riley. My cousin got me this one. It’s not the best, but it puts food on the table.”

“So you’re, what, an enforcer? I played volleyball with your niece!” She crosses her arms.

What the hell . . . I frown. “You figured out who he is?”

She nods.

Harold holds his hands up. “I swear. I’m just a messenger.”

“For bookies,” Giselle mutters. “Harassing women and approaching an innocent man just because he’s Garrett’s son. Despicable.”

He pales and looks at me beseechingly. “Please. I’m just looking for Garrett. He owes my boss fifty grand, and if he doesn’t get it, then I’m the one in trouble.” His shoulders slump. “I honestly don’t like approaching you, sir. Not what I’d like to be doing today.”

The doorman has noticed us and comes over, but I hold my finger up to let him know to stay but not interfere yet.

“I assure you no harm will come to either of you,” Harold continues, his throat bobbing. “It’s just a large sum of money—”

“You used to change my oil and rotate my tires, Harold! There are plenty of places to work with your skills. Is this how you want to be remembered? As some kind of hit man?”

Harold looks mortified. “Not a hit man, Ms. Riley. Please understand.”

As fascinating as this is, I pull Giselle back until she’s behind me. “Stop looking for my dad. He’s moved.” I pull a card out of my wallet and thrust it in his hands. “That’s my guy. Call him, and he’ll settle the bill today. I won’t pay any more after this; you got me?”

He flicks the card through his fingers, obvious relief on his face. “Thank you.”

He turns to leave, and I call out, “I have friends in high places. Politicians and cops love me. I see your face again, and we’ve got problems.”

He gives me a jerky nod, still eyeing Giselle. “I hope I never see y’all again. Please don’t tell Cynthia about this.”

“Call her, Harold! You don’t have to be an assassin! She’ll find you a real job!”

He pales and sends a final harried look over his shoulder, then dashes across the street to his vehicle and leaves, truck tires squealing.

“Giselle, that man is scared of you,” I muse as relief rolls off me, a burden lifted. No matter how screwed up my relationship with Dad is, I want to take care of this debt for him. He’s struggling every day with his addiction, and maybe somewhere out there, he’s figuring himself out. I tap out a quick text to Lawrence to let him know they’ll be calling.

Giselle laces her fingers in mine. “I can’t believe Harold has sunk this low. He used to be the nicest man.”

I pocket my phone and stare down at her. “You really are crazy.”

“I prefer southern.”

My lips twitch. “Beast.”

“I’ll show you fierce tonight. BDSM is a particular interest of mine—I think. No ball gags or Saint Andrew’s Cross, but maybe some spanking—”

I groan and plant a kiss on her lips. “How the hell did any man ever let you get away?”

“Fate,” she says simply and searches my face. “You okay?”

As long as I have you.

“It’s a relief, actually, to have his debt paid. Go get your new advisor. I’ll bring Milano’s. Just text me what you want.”

I open the door to Red, she gets in, and I shut the door. She rolls down the window and calls out as I’m walking to the Hummer. “Tonight is episode ten on Shark Week about an eighteen-footer in the Guadalupe waters—”

I jog back over and kiss her before she can finish. “No.”

She laughs, and I walk backward and watch as she pulls away. I stand there until she disappears in the traffic.