Not My Match (The Game Changers 2)

I’m at a table in the VIP room of the Razor, a roped-off area in the back. The place is mostly empty, except for a few guys watching a game in the corner. I imagine this place doesn’t get crowded until much later. Thankfully, the music from the club seems to be turned off in here.

From his standing position, Devon bends his knees, crouching down to peer into my eyes, as if to make sure I’m lucid. The scent of him hits me, masculine and heady with a hint of sea and summer, some expensive cologne.

“You hit the floor pretty hard. How are your hands and knees?” This close, the glints of gold in his irises flicker like fireflies, mingling with the velvety forest green. His gaze is lush, mesmerizing, and deep—

Stop with the adjectives about his eyes, Giselle! Right.

“Good, just sore from the fall.”

“You might have a bruise or two tomorrow. Want more ice for it?”

“No, but thanks.” I want to forget it ever happened. More than anything, I’m wallowing in embarrassment.

His fingers graze over my knee, not lingering any longer than necessary, flicking at a piece of something. “When you flung yourself at me, I thought you might tackle me,” he murmurs.

“Hey. I was ping-ponged between two guys and had nowhere else to go.”

An image of me on my knees, palms on the floor to keep myself from face planting, dances in my head. Devon helped me up—careful, strong hands on my elbows—then barked at his teammate Aiden, the guy on the stool, and told him to grab an ice pack from the kitchen. Then he escorted me to the VIP room, shoving past dancing people. I half expected him to sweep me up in his arms like in one of those romance novels.

“According to your hype, it would take more than me to take you to the ground,” I say with a small laugh. “If I was going to tackle you, I’d need stealth. I’d hide in your closet in the dark and pop out when you least expect it. You’d open your door, and I’d be hiding in your fancy shirts wearing a hideous mask.” I smile, ignoring the pain from my face. “What makes you jump . . . creepy crawlers? Freddy Krueger? Michael Myers?”

A rueful laugh comes from him. “Sharks. Their teeth creep me out. Watched Jaws when I was a kid and wanted to throw up.”

“Beware,” I say. “I’m coming for you soon.”

“First, you’d have to get in my penthouse. Hard to get there when there’s a private elevator.”

I laugh. “Never underestimate the grit and determination of a southern woman with a goal.” I know where he lives. Never been there, but . . .

His warrior body unfolds as he straightens up to his full height. “There she is, right as rain. It’s okay to fall to your knees. I tend to have that effect on women.”

I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. Did I mention he’s cocky?

“But not you, right?” he adds. “Nope, you’re as cool as they come.”

Wait . . . what?

My throat feels tight as I try to decipher how his comment settles. I see—oh, I see—exactly what he thinks. He’s put me in the same box as everyone else. It shouldn’t hurt, but it does.

I swallow thickly. “That’s me. Cold as ice.”

His forehead crinkles in a scowl. “Hey, hang on a minute; I didn’t mean it like that—”

“No, I get it. I know what everyone thinks. Unemotional robot. Stuck in her head. Oblivious. Impervious to sexy men.”

He cocks his head, lips puckering, as if he’s deep in thought, then sticks his hands in the pockets of his jeans, his tell that he’s uncomfortable. I would know. I watch him. “Those thoughts never entered my head. I just meant you’re not like other girls—ah, never mind.” He opens his mouth, shuts it, then says, “You think I’m sexy?”

“Pfft. No.”

He grunts, his face unreadable. “Good.”

“You’re too old for me.”

He sputters, and I can’t stop my genuine smile at his incredulous face. Oh, goody, I got him. “I’m twenty-eight, for fuck’s sake. There’s what, four years between us?” He rakes a hand through the top of his hair, yet it still settles in a sexy mess, the blue highlights gleaming amid the dark brown. Dammit. He’s effortlessly beautiful.

I force a nonchalant shrug. “Age doesn’t matter as long as you’re my type—you know, the three Ts: textbooks, tweed, and timid. You have that whole rock star vibe.”

And those lips. I could write a book about his mouth, the soft-pink color and how the lushness contrasts with the hard lines of his jaw, the overly full bottom lip, the deep V on his upper one.

“Smart. You should stay away from men like me, pretty girl.” He gives me one of his signature teasing smiles, and yep, we’re totally in the friend zone. He calls everyone pretty girl, even Mama and Aunt Clara.