I’ve done something bad. It hurts to even write the words down, but I can’t do it to your face. I can’t talk to you when you know that I owe people a lot of money, bookies, and not the legal ones.
Emotion rips at me, anger rising. My shoulders bunch as Giselle comes behind me, her hands moving over my neck and down to my arms. I shift and lean into her, my chest rising.
I have friends who are putting me up. You’re a good kid with a big heart, but leave me be. Please, don’t set this letter down and try to find me. I don’t want to be found, so please listen to me when I say stay put.
My breath hitches, a desolate emotion replacing the anger. He’s left me. He’s fucking left. I’d pay his bookies, I could get him in rehab if he’d just go, I’ll spend more time with him, I’ll make it right . . .
“I know,” Giselle whispers, and I realize I spoke aloud. She leans over me, running her hands through my hair—soft, easy strokes. “You love him.”
I’m sober as I write this. Woke up and promised myself I’d get the words down before the first drink kicks in. I want to say the right things to you, to make sure you know that these years in Nashville, the times we talked—I remember those moments, but when the end of the day is here, all I have is a thirst for the bottle. You’ve done more for me than a son should have. Just . . . don’t give me anything else. I’ll only hock it or drink it. I want to be better, but another side of me doesn’t. It’s a battle every single day.
You’re the best part of me.
Forgive me for not being the father you deserve.
I’ll call you when I get settled.
I love you,
Garrett
Giselle eases in front of me, takes the letter out of my hands, then gets on her knees in front of me.
“Did you read it?” I whisper, my eyes stinging.
She shakes her head. “I just watched your face.”
Shit, there’s no telling what she thinks. “Read it.” I want her to know. Out of the hurricane of my life, out of everyone I know, she’s become a true constant, a calm breeze that eases me.
She picks it up and stands as she reads it quickly, then folds it carefully. “I’m sorry he’s left you hanging. He’s at rock bottom, I imagine, and feels guilty over the gambling debts. This letter was probably very hard for him.” Her words are gentle. “I wish . . . I wish I had some kind of experience to draw on to help more, but I don’t.” She pauses. “There are groups for families of addicts. You’re a star, so that’s out of the question, but talking to someone might help.”
My chest feels tight as I shove a hand in my hair. “Just you being here with me helps. No one’s ever with me when things happen. I tried to give him everything.” I stand up and walk to the sink and gaze out the window. A long minute passes as I grip the edge. After grabbing a clean glass, I fill it up with water from the fridge and drink it down. “I don’t know what to do.”
“That’s okay,” she murmurs, walking over to me. “Maybe he needs this time to decide who he is and where he’s going.”
I suck in air. “Part of me wants to find him, see if he’s okay.” I swallow down dread. What if he gets hurt, and there’s no one to take care of him? I’ve spent most of my life being the adult for my dad, and here I am, still doing it. I can’t make him change; I can’t just snap my fingers and his addictions are gone—but I want to, so fucking bad.
“Yes, you can do that, of course, and if you want, I’d go with you and be your support. We can fly all over the country and look for him.”
My eyes find hers. “You’d do that?”
“Of course.” She pauses, thinking. “Just, I want you to know you aren’t responsible for his actions. You can’t make him change. It has to be him. Those are his decisions, and they don’t make you any less of the wonderful, kind, beautiful person you are. You’re such a good person, Devon, a true light, and every time I look at you, I see it glow with all the parts inside you. Seeing you hurt like this, it feels so unfair, and I’m trying hard, really damn hard, to be impartial and understanding on his behalf, but I . . . I’m angry for you, livid, that he’s hurt you all your life, even though it wasn’t intentional—he hurt you . . .” She blinks rapidly and takes a deep breath, her lower lip trembling. “You . . . you raised your own father, and it wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t pretty how you were abandoned by those who are supposed to take care of you—but you, God, look at you, the most . . . amazing man I’ve ever met.” Her voice catches.
My heart tightens, the emotion so fierce I have to catch my breath. I meet her eyes, and there’s a shimmer of tears there. Longing for her stretches inside me, clawing to get out and claim her, to listen to her heartbeat with my hand pressed to her chest, to have her in my arms for as long as she’d let me. “You really think that about me?”
“Oh, Devon. You are the best person in all my universes.” She wraps her arms around me, holding me tight, so tight, and I cling to her.
Chapter 18
GISELLE
The alarm on my phone wakes me. Despite lids that don’t want to open, I force myself to slap at my cell on the coffee table. Eleven. The sun coming in from the windows makes me squint, another niggling reminder that I have to be at Mama’s by one for my birthday lunch.
Devon and I got back to the penthouse around three in the morning and sat down on the couch to talk, the TV droning in the background. I think he turned it on because he didn’t want to look in my eyes when he told me more about his childhood. My head spins, picturing Devon chasing his mother as she left for another life. What does it do to a child when a mother never comes back? He escaped his dad with a football scholarship, but as soon as he made it big, he went back to his dad and moved him to Jacksonville, then Nashville.
No family is perfect. Mine is a roller coaster, but we get on the ride and cling to each other.
But Devon’s . . .
Listening to his husky, quiet voice ripped me apart, but I wanted to be strong, an ear for him to let go of his burden. He locks down his emotions when he senses he’s getting too close and retreats inside his castle walls, cannons pointed at the enemy. Because of his dad, because of that one time he gave his heart, he doesn’t want to care, and I understand it. Love hurts when people leave, no matter the reason why. Even now, my heart pangs, knowing it’s the anniversary of the day my father died.
I felt helpless as Devon talked, not knowing what to offer except to be the best friend I could and listen. Garrett is his father. The only one he’ll ever have. And Devon, behind that cocksure smile and hard exterior, is a man who can care with a deep devotion that means forever.
Around four we were still awake playing video games, me sitting in the V of his legs, as we pushed aside talk of his dad and went into a serious game of Madden NFL; then I must have fallen asleep, my head back on his shoulders.
He’s behind me now, his chest against my back, his arm curled around my waist as we lie on the couch. A muscled leg is on top of mine, curled, and his breaths are low and deep, his face in my hair.
I debate for a millisecond on begging off on the birthday lunch, but I promised I’d go, and Mama promised champagne.
Reaching out, I attempt to leverage myself up off the couch without waking him, but his arm tightens as he murmurs something.
He moves, his fingers slipping higher, inside the hoodie and underneath my camisole. He cups my breast, his leg drawing me in closer as he massages, brushing my nipple. The tip of my breast must have a million nerve endings, and every one shoots a blast of heat to my pelvis. He fondles me, caressing me against his thumb, and I feel drunk on sensation. A low groan comes from him as he breathes into my hair, the bristles of his unshaven jaw brushing against my nape.
His hand moves underneath my shorts and inside my panties.
He’s asleep. And I’m letting this happen.
“Baby . . . ,” he mumbles, and a finger slicks over my clit, lazy and slow. “So good . . . so fucking good.”
I bite back my g
asp as delicious sensations roll over me. I try to hold it in—I try—but I shudder from the tips of my toes to my hair, the combination of the scruff on my neck to his fingers erecting a rolling desire that’s thick and sweet.
He flinches behind me, his breathing changing as he seems to come awake. I slam my eyes closed. Nope. I am not awake. I am in deep, deep sleep.
He slides his hand away, and I feel him shifting, rising up behind me, probably looking at my face and studying me. I picture his face, the chiseled jawline, the blade of his nose, those sensuous lips. I bet he’s got that stricken look. The one he wears when he wants me but doesn’t want to. Yep. He’s going to rake his hand through his hair . . .
A soft whisper comes. “Giselle?”
I fake a deep breath. Eyes shut tight.
He exhales, and I feel him moving behind me, stealthily, as he doesn’t crawl over me like I expect but goes over the back of the couch and lands with a thud on the hardwood. His footsteps pad into the kitchen, where I hear him opening the fridge and grabbing something, the fading echo of his feet as he walks down the hall to his room, then opens the door and shuts it quietly.
I jump up and dart for my bedroom. Eleven thirty. I have an hour to shower and get dressed, then drive to Daisy.
Half an hour later, I’m drying my hair when he knocks on the door of my bathroom.
“Hey,” I say as I open the door a crack.
His eyes search mine, then take in the lacy blue robe that hits at my thighs—thank you, little boutique downtown. It matched my hair. Seemed like a perfectly viable reason to buy it.
“Uh, I made coffee for you and set out some muffins we had left over. I know you have to get going.”
“Thanks.”
“Thank you for last night, this morning.” His gaze is hesitant.
“Anytime,” I say as I ease the door open more with my foot. He’s wearing pin-striped baby-blue tailored summer slacks with a matching jacket and a white shirt that contrasts with his tan. His belt is white-and-blue striped, his shoes brown loafers with no socks. Judging by the perfect fit of his suit, it must have cost more than my rent, and the way it hugs his shoulders makes me gulp. His dark hair is swept back, the royal-blue highlights glistening. He looks—have I died and gone to Devon heaven?—mouthwatering. Sophisticated. Sexy. An ovary explodes.
“Where are you going?” I ask, shutting out the disappointment that lingers, knowing I won’t see him today.
He shrugs, straightening the little white square in his jacket pocket. “Got to see Lawrence.”
I huff. In that?
“How did you get showered and ready and make coffee so fast?”
He pauses. “Head start. I was up before you. Didn’t I wake up first?”
“Hmm,” I say, my chest seizing as I resist the urge to give him the right answer. I reach over for my hair dryer and wave it at him. “My hair takes forever.”
“Do you need any help before you meet Mike? A few last-minute tips?” His words are light, but his face is set in granite.
“Oh yeah, Mike. The old crush. Can’t wait.” I wave at my face in a “He’s so hot” expression.
He flips around and heads inside the depths of my room. “What are you wearing? Let’s start there.”
He marches to my closet and starts pushing things aside. There’s barely anything there—a few skirts, some dresses, two pairs of jeans, and some shirts.
He yanks out a long dress. “This one.”
I sputter at the golden puppies frolicking on the velvet fabric as they chase a robin, the background a beautiful pastoral scene with tall trees and rolling hills. “That is a muumuu—for Myrtle. I forgot to give it to her. It’s five sizes too big, and it will hang on me like a shower curtain.”
“With your flip-flops,” he continues, as if I haven’t vetoed him. “Minimal makeup, no perfume.”
“Your fashion sense clearly extends to males only. We’ll blame this choice on your lack of sleep.” I brush past him, pulling the dress out of his hand, my robe parting, my cleavage drawing his gaze. After hanging the muumuu back up, I snatch two new dresses and flash them in front of me. “Ready-to-ride red or no-back black?” I swish them back and forth. “I have lingerie to match either.”
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 hu
ndred 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?”
My shoulders straighten. “Mine’s in the shop.”
“Still? It’s just a busted window. Your dress is short, dear.” She shrugs, shrugs, then smiles. Did my own mother manipulate me into wearing a sexy dress with just a phone conversation this week?
“Let’s get this done. Where’s Mike?” I say, pushing past them and into the house. Seeing no one in the den, I march into the dining room, where there are no place settings out, no food on the table. What . . .
Not My Match Page 19