Not My Match (The Game Changers 2)

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.

Later, when I was alone in my apartment, I dissected the interaction and came to the conclusion that he stared at me only because I looked washed out and hideous in the strapless silver dress Elena had picked out for me. I’d told her I didn’t have the breasts to hold it up, but she’d insisted.

Yet inside that church, standing next to my sister as she recited her vows, my thoughts about Devon wandered. Was he attracted to me? Me? It seemed impossible.

The truth was abundantly clear once his supermodel date showed up to the reception. He never glanced at me again.

“Oh my God, are you . . . are you . . . Devon Walsh? I’m a huge fan of yours since your Ohio State days! I have your jersey on my wall,” is the screech that comes from Rodeo as he shoves past me to reach the football star.

The jostle to my shoulder causes me to lose my grip on the bar, and I stumble to the side, knocking into the guy next to me on his stool—again. He flips around with a scowl—oh, I think I know him—and then his beer bottle smacks me in the cheek.

“Jesus! Are you okay?” the stool guy calls out and tries to steady me, but it’s too late.

“Wonderful,” I mutter and rear back, causing my heels to teeter on the slick tile. Time seems to stand still as I grapple with balance. My body obeys the laws of gravity—thank you, Newton—and flails forward and down. My knees hit the floor with a slap—

Right in front of Nashville’s sexiest man alive.

Damn you, birthday curse.

Chapter 2

GISELLE

“How does it feel?” Devon asks as he presses an ice pack to my right cheekbone. Wincing at the contact, I put my hand up to my face, and our fingers brush as he slides back and lets me hold the pack in place. Butterflies dance in my stomach as tendrils of awareness buzz along the nerve endings where we touched, and I swallow down the feeling. He’s just a guy who happens to be drop-dead gorgeous. He isn’t attracted to me. Whatsoever.

“Fine,” I say, forcing brightness into my tone. My head does throb, but I’m not sure if it has to do with my face or just the lack of food in my stomach.