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.
“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.”
She starts, then smiles. “I’d love to.”
My happy bubble expands. I stop by the library for a quick study session with my students, and they surprise me with a giant cupcake with pink icing that we huddle over in a closed room and split between us while discussing their questions for the final they’ll take at the end of the week. Afterward, Quinn meets me at my apartment, and we finish boxing up my things. He says he’ll take them to a storage unit that’s close to Daisy. After grabbing some takeout, I dash over to Myrtle and John’s complex, then take her to a follow-up appointment with her orthopedic doctor. With assurances from John and myself that we’ll help her with her recovery, she agrees to schedule a knee replacement in the fall.
I’m bringing your present home is the text I get from Devon once I get back to the penthouse. He adds a heart emoji, and I squeal.
What is it? Give me a hint. Is it your body? After a moment, I delete the last line before I hit send. It’s not his body that calls to me—well, I mean, yeah, he’s the most gorgeous man I know, but that isn’t why my heart is full. It’s his hesitant care when he took my virginity, the way we laugh at the silliest things, the universe he described in the closet.
It’s going to bring you full circle. I’ve had it planned since your first morning in my kitchen.
Cookware?
You can’t cook.
Sex books?
You have me for that. Don’t be wearing a mask when I come home. There will be consequences.
A delicious shiver races over my skin.
I like your “consequences”.
Laughing, I dash around the penthouse, deciding to create my own surprise.s
It’s not much, just a red bikini from Walmart—on sale!—that I’ve put on. The silky fabric barely covers my breasts, and the bottoms are a tad skimpy. Okay, it’s a size too small, but who cares? I’ll use what I have.
With Def Leppard crooning from speakers, the lights dimmed, I stand at the far side of the den, posing against the backdrop of his windows, and when I hear his key in the door, my heart races.
Shuffling sounds come from the foyer as he enters, and I picture him taking his shoes off, managing our takeout as he deposits his keys on the table in the hall. He calls my name and flicks on the lights to the den.
He’s changed since this morning, the joggers and T-shirt replaced with jeans and a tight black shirt that emphasizes his broad chest. He freezes, and his heated eyes flare, a slow grin easing up his face. Low eyes drift over me, making my nipples stand to attention, my core with its own heartbeat. “Oh, baby, you look . . .” He rakes a hand over his mouth. “You’re gonna want to put something on.”
“Why?” I sashay toward him, as much as a lanky girl can.
“Because you’ve got company—holy shit, Giselle—” comes from Aiden as he emerges from behind Devon, a wide grin on his face.
A petite girl around my age with spiky pink hair and a leather jacket appears on the other side of Devon, her face reddening, eyes checking me out, then looking up at the ceiling.
My mouth opens and closes, and I tumble to my knees behind the couch.
I hear Devon’s voice. “Erase those thoughts and images out of your head right now.”
I look over the edge of the couch. Devon has gotten behind Aiden, with his hands over his eyes, and Aiden’s wrestling to get away.
“I’m just going to get out of this, um, bikini I was trying on,” I call and make a run for the hallway and Devon’s room.
“That’s barely a bikini!” Aiden says from behind me.
“Shut up, Alabama,” Devon growls. “We were going swimming.”
“You don’t have a pool!”
“I’m going to build one!” Devon replies.
I slam the door and sprawl out on his bed, dying, when Devon cracks open the door and peeks in at me.
“Baby? You okay?”
I can’t bear to look at him. “Is my present a foursome?”
“Nah, I don’t share.”
“Thank God. No judgment for those who do, but you’re all mine.”
He laughs as he slips in the door and walks over, his gaze running over me, then the room, seeing where I’ve unpacked some of his boxes and laid out some of his high school and college football mementos.
“Been busy?” He sits on the bed.
“I was looking for stuff to make you a shadow box. I found your senior football picture from high school and the program when you won the state championship,” I mutter. “What are they doing here?”
“Danika is the girl who does my ink. She’s here to finish your tattoo. Surprise.” He chuckles. “Aiden popped up in the lobby and begged to come up. I’m really sorry.”
“She’s going to fix my tattoo?” Some of my embarrassment fades. She’s probably seen a lot of skin. As for Aiden—I’m sure he’s seen worse.
“I like your bikini,” he murmurs and stretches out next to me as he brushes a knuckle over my collarbone.
I press my face to his chest. “Ugh. It’s too small. I wanted to surprise you.”
He laughs. “You run fast.”
“So a tattoo?” I mumble.
He plays with my hair. “Yeah. I figured you’d never walk into a tattoo shop again, so I brought her to you. My girl needs a finished tramp stamp.”
I rise up and give him side-eye. “Tramp stamp is not a term I like.”
“Right,” he teases and touches my cheek. “It’s a lower-back tattoo, and I insist you wear low-rise shorts and crop tops every morning when I walk out and see you bent over your laptop.”
I never said I wouldn’t go in a tattoo shop again, but he knew. Unexpected emotion rises. “That’s such a thoughtful gift.”
“I got you something else.” He moves around, reaches in his pocket, and pulls out a black velvet box. “Never got around to giving it to you yesterday. Meant to, but we did other things.” He gives me a wicked grin.
I sit up against his pillow and open the box, my fingers trembling as I pull out two black bobby pins, a royal-blue glass butterfly on the end of each one. “Kick” is engraved on one wingspan, “Ass” on the other. I trace the scripted gold writing.
He watches my face. “I found them in a jewelry store downtown. A necklace didn’t feel right—you always wear your pearls. Earrings, you don’t wear them and . . .” He stops, dropping his gaze, a hesitant expression flitting over his face as he speaks. I get the impression Devon doesn’t give gifts often. “Anyway, I saw the pins, and they reminded me of the night in the VIP room when you took yours out and left them on the table. I had them engrave the words so you’ll always
be reminded that you can do anything you want.”
“How do you do it?” I ask as emotion overwhelms me and a tear escapes and slides down my face.
He wipes it away. “Aw, baby, do what?”
“Make me imagine every morning with you.” Make me fall so deeply and irrevocably in love that my soul belongs to him, every beat of my heart in sync with his.
He sucks in a breath and kisses me long and deep. There’s a hint of desperation in the way he clings to me, in the words he doesn’t say.
We part, our breaths heavy. “Giselle . . .” He stops as a frightened look grows in his eyes, and I put my fingers to his lips.
I can wait for him. He’s right there with me; he just doesn’t know it.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m past the embarrassment and dressed in a green Buddy the Elf T-shirt—on sale—and shorts. I lie on my stomach on a fold-up apparatus Danika brought along with her tattoo machine.
With gloves and a mask on, she leans over me, her machine buzzing as pricks of needles tingle over my back. I showed her the pins, the azure and turquoise colors, and she’s retouching the other side of my old tattoo to match them while creating the other wing.
Aiden munches on garlic bread from our dinner as he reclines on one of the loungers. Devon halfheartedly attempted to get him to leave, but I told him it was fine.
“What were you trying to tell me at my party?” I ask him after Devon gets up to grab a water and Danika takes a break.
I hold my hands up in the “sign language” he tried to convey at the party.
He smirks, moving his fingers in the motions. “This is D, genius, for Devon.” He presses one hand together, the fingers tapping against his thumb. “This is talk. In other words, we need to talk about Devon.”
My gaze catches Devon answering his phone and heading down the hall for privacy. “About what?”
“Dude. He pushed me around last week. Over you.”
My eyes narrow. “Did you deserve it?”
He rolls his eyes. “I said some stuff, but I was sincere when I told him I wanted to ask you out, but whatever, that ship has sailed—you’re his.”
I grin. “Your master plan of pissing off Jack failed.”
Not My Match Page 23