Not My Match (The Game Changers, #2)(76)

“Your car, Mr. Walsh,” interrupts the valet, who’s been holding the door for me.

I start and look over at him. Right. I guess I’ve just been standing here.

My heart flutters in my chest. I miss her already.





Chapter 23

GISELLE

“Giselle? Are you still listening?” Dr. Benson says, and I snap to attention in the seat across from her desk. What was she talking about? Her studies at CERN. Right. “You seem a little distracted.”

Oh, I am. Devon, Devon. His mouth, his hands, his laugh. My mind tangles in memories—me sleeping tucked in his arms under the stars, the slide of him inside me this morning . . . I feel giddy, like I’m flying over rainbows on a real-life unicorn. In other words, in love.

“I tend to ramble, but it’s been a joy speaking with you. I’m glad to be your advisor,” she continues, shuffling papers in front of her, copies of my grades and papers.

“Thank you so much for taking me on.” My relief is obvious.

“You’re welcome.” She studies me, then nods, making notes on her laptop. She’s an attractive woman with bobbed strawberry-blonde hair, stylish yellow glasses, and a svelte figure. Her clothes are well made, a jacket and slacks—the same taupe color as mine. According to her bio, she’s thirty-five. Will I be her in ten years?

“No need to email Dr. Blanton now; I’ll tell him today.” The words come from her with a touch of malice, and I bite back a smile. She’s had her own run-ins with him, I bet. “Women in science need to lift each other up,” she adds solemnly.

“Fix each other’s crowns,” I murmur.

“Or our particle accelerators.”

We laugh.

I stand when she does and shake her hand, my eyes snagging on a framed photo on her desk of her with two boys in her lap. They’re little, maybe three, and look identical. My gaze traces their faces. “Twins. Yours?”

“Nephews. My brother’s kids. Little rascals. One of them stole my phone last Christmas and hid it in his diaper. We didn’t find it until he made a poo. ‘Susu, I poo on you,’ is what he told me, and I couldn’t even be mad, even though I had to put on a hazmat suit to get my phone.” A melancholy expression crosses her face. “I love kids, but raising them alone feels daunting.”

“Oh.” My interest rises. No rings on her fingers. Must be a story there, but I don’t know her well enough to ask . . .

“You’re single, I assume?”

She cocks her head.

I grimace. “Sorry, I blame my nosiness on my upbringing. My mama owns a beauty shop in Daisy, and it’s the usual to grill every woman who walks in. ‘Who are you dating? Is he employed? Does he own a home? When can I meet him?’” I laugh. “She threw me a surprise birthday party yesterday with over fifty eligible bachelors.”

“Ah, it’s fine to inquire. We’re going to be friends.”

“I’d like that.” I sensed an instant camaraderie with her the moment I walked in.

“I’ve had relationships, just none that stuck,” she continues, “mostly because I didn’t have the time to devote to anything meaningful. My first love will always be physics.”

We share a brief moment of rapport, two women who’ve worked diligently to get where they are, with goals and aspirations that sometimes don’t leave room for relationships.

“People say women can do it all, a career and a family, and it’s a pretty picture, but it’s not for me,” she adds. “There are plenty of women who make it work, and I salute them. My own mother worked a factory job my entire childhood, then came home and cooked dinner and read us bedtime stories. I don’t know how she did it.” Her breath hitches. “She passed away recently. I wish I’d asked her what kept her going all those years.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

She picks the picture up and smiles down at it, but there’s a lonely look on her face. “I get my dose of cuteness when I see my nephews.”

We say goodbye, and I’m heading to the door when she calls my name, and I turn around.

“About Switzerland. I have some pull at CERN, close colleagues who are collaborating on various studies. I was half tempted to join them a while back, but I came to Nashville to take care of my mom, and time just got away from me.”

“Ah.”

“Dr. Blanton didn’t approve your application, but I wonder if he puts enough importance on theoretical physics. He’s, well, quite, um . . . old school.” She clears her throat and straightens her jacket. “I don’t want you to get your hopes up for a fellowship, because there’s no availability at CERN at the moment; however, I called some friends last week after I read your paper and shared it with them. They were receptive—and impressed.”

I gasp. “Oh.”

She smiles. “We have a new school year ahead of us, and now that you have me, your chances are better for next year.”

A frisson of excitement washes over me. Next year feels far away, but with my writing and classes and Devon, time will fly. “Thank you so much for recommending me. It would be a dream to go,” I say, then pause and say on impulse, “Dr. Benson, you should come have Sunday dinner at my mama’s. She’ll try to set you up with any man with a job, but it’s worth it to eat at her table.”