Not My Match (The Game Changers, #2)(3)
“Keep dreaming—”
“And I might even let you stay the night, make you some pancakes in the morning, sprinkle some chocolate chips on them or some organic blueberries. You look like the granola type.”
I do like organic blueberries, but . . . “This was a drink-only meeting, and I told you that when I messaged you. And please, for the love of everything, stop calling me honey or filly, or I swear I’ll dump what’s left in this glass over your head.”
My chest rises at my outburst. I just threatened physical violence on a person. This isn’t like me. I never get angry. I let people run roughshod over me time and time again . . .
His gaze flares as I jerk to a standing position, stumbling a little in my heels as I ricochet off the person next to me. “Forgive me,” I murmur to the fellow, steadying myself by latching on to the bar like a lifeline. I throw a wary glance at my glass. I actually had one before Rodeo showed up, and considering I haven’t had dinner—yep, I’m buzzing.
“Giselle?” comes a deep voice, dark and sultry, the tone recognizable even over the loud music.
No, it can’t be.
My heart flips over, and my entire body flushes as I look past Rodeo to the tall man who’s standing a few feet away on the edge of the dance floor, a questioning look on his movie-star face.
My hands clench. I should have known I might see him. I just assumed he would still be working out or doing whatever professional athletes do early in the evening. My sister, Elena, mentioned he usually pops by on the weekends, but that’s about it.
Devon Walsh, superstar football player, arches a dark brow at me, the one with a silver bar at the edge. I run through my mental checklist. Voted Nashville’s Sexiest Man of the Year. All-Pro for three years straight. Best friends with my new brother-in-law, Jack. Owns the Razor. Wicked lips. Beautiful tattooed body. Hot.
“Is everything okay?” he asks as his gaze drifts over me, starting at the top of my half-down, half-up hair and moving all the way to my pumps. I squint, and even though it’s not possible in the dark club, it feels as though he’s put a spotlight on my form as he surveys every inch of me.
“Fine,” I call, tossing up a hand. “Couldn’t be better! Good to see you! Bye!”
Leave. I want no witnesses to this debacle.
“I see.” His discerning eyes flip to Rodeo, and that maddening eyebrow goes up again. “Are you on a date?”
My entire body rebels at the questioning, teasing tone in his voice, and I stiffen all over.
He thinks I’m with Rodeo.
I did meet him here, but . . .
“Yes, we are,” Rodeo calls and throws an arm around me as I wrestle unsteadily out of his grasp.
A small frown etches itself on Devon’s forehead as he sticks his hands into the pockets of his low-slung designer jeans. Maybe he sees I’m close to passing out from heatstroke or that I’m about to murder one of his patrons.
My insides feel like jelly, and it has little to do with the whiskey and more to do with Devon, although I’m not interested in him like that—just curious. Yes, he’s hotter than a Bunsen burner, but we’re friends—well, not real friends. Okay, whatever, I’m overthinking this, and my brain is not firing on all cylinders. We’re acquaintances, if you really want to split hairs, and when he looks at me, I’m firmly in the “you’re Elena’s sister, and she’s married to my best friend; therefore, I am friendly” category.
That doesn’t stop me from appreciating his chiseled, bladed jawline and the deep-green eyes that are framed by thick black lashes. At six-two or six-three (I itch to measure him), his body is toned to perfection by time in the gym, his shoulders muscled inside a tight black T-shirt, his chest tapering to a trim waist and long legs, with faded Converse on his feet. Rolex on one wrist, a black leather cuff on the other. One part civilized, the other side all bad boy and oh-so decadent.
His skin is a pretty tan color from the sun, a sharp contrast to my own milky paleness. His hair is mink brown and thick, mingled with royal-blue highlights, the top long and swept back off his face with lots of volume, the sides clipped close to his scalp. He uses more hair product than I do. When I first met him back in February, he wore a gelled faux hawk with purple tips, but he changes his hair more than any girl I know.
Diamond studs wink from his earlobes, just another way we’re opposite. I let my holes close up when I was eighteen and never went back to have them repierced. Two full sleeves of roses mixed with fluttery gold-and-blue butterflies dance along his forearms. Those, I like. A lot. Nervous, I stroke the pearls around my neck.
“Giselle?” he asks.
My brain jerks to a halt as I realize I’m ogling him. Sputtering, I rack my brain for an intelligent response—come on, Giselle, you’re working on a PhD in physics; you have a plethora of words in your arsenal. Tell him Rodeo isn’t your date!
But all I can think about is the last time I saw him—Saturday at Elena and Jack’s wedding, where he was the best man to my maid of honor. He wore a mouthwatering fitted gray suit, the fabric so devastatingly soft I bit my lip when he took my hand and looped it through the crook of his arm. Did his fingers linger on mine longer than necessary? Maybe. He probably didn’t notice. He was just doing his job as Jack’s best man. He did stare a hole through me. A level-five gaze, which involves intense eye contact lasting ten seconds, meaning I either had a giant zit on my nose, or he really liked what he saw. I asked him—well, whispered—as we walked down the aisle toward Jack and Elena if he was feeling unwell. He said he was fine—curtly—which was strange, because Devon is the opposite of grumpy.