Not My Match (The Game Changers 2)

“Come here, baby.” He reaches over the console for me and pulls me in for a hug, his hands stroking up and down my back. Electricity arcs between us, a hyperawareness that races over my skin. Sadly, I’m the only one who notices it. Devon is just being kind.

Pressing my forehead to his chest, I breathe in his mesmerizing scent, sea and sunshine. “I thought I had it. I did have it. But you tried to run inside, and if something had happened to you, I’d want to die.” I place my cheek over his heart, listening to the rapid beats. Highly trained athletes have a resting heart rate of below sixty beats per minute, but his is out of control. I sigh. He’s still upset, and I tighten my hold around his waist.

I don’t know how long he holds me—a minute, maybe five. Time feels distorted as his hands move up to my scalp, palming my head under my hair. His lips brush the top of my head.

“You can let me go.” Don’t. “I’m soaked,” I whisper, noticing for the first time that he’s changed clothes since the club. His black shirt and jeans have been replaced with slim-fitting gray joggers and a white damp T-shirt that clings to his chest, outlining his pecs. In the dark car, he feels bigger, more muscular.

“You’re shivering.”

He lets me go to crank up the heat, and I sigh, missing his comfort. He stares down at me, tilting my chin up as he inspects me.

“I’m really okay.”

His eyes land on my tank top.

“Not wearing a bra,” I say, stating the obvious. “It’s the first thing to come off when I get home. Then, the pearls.”

His eyes drift up from my erect nipples and cling to mine. Whoa. My brain is too scattered to count the seconds, but I think it goes past ten.

The angry kiss is on my mind, but I don’t dare bring it up. Logically, I connect the dots: his inner caveman reacting out of fear and anger or adrenaline, a heady cocktail of epinephrine erupting straight from the medulla to the bloodstream—that is, alpha Devon at his peak, ready to tear the world apart. Probably the same way he feels when a pass intended for him gets intercepted. Nothing sexual.

“I would have gone in there for you a hundred times.”

I swallow thickly. “You’d do that for anyone.”

He pulls away and settles back in his seat. “Right. Where do you want to go?”

“There’s a Hilton a few blocks from here.”

“No.”

I eye him. That was fast. “Why not?”

“You need someone tonight.”

“Mama’s, I guess.”

He studies me. “Is that really what you want?”

I groan. “No, she’ll ask me a million questions and be upset. I’ll call her tomorrow. Same for Aunt Clara.” I stare down at my bare legs. “I have a key to Jack and Elena’s house while they’re gone, but the hardwood is being redone this week, so the fumes will be awful . . .” I wince at that.

“Topher?”

“He just got a small rental in Daisy, but the new roommate situation is tricky. I’m assuming I’ll need a few days to get situated, and I don’t want to bother him.”

“Any other friends?”

I bite my lip, not wanting to explain my small social circle. Most of my friends are still in Memphis, where I did my undergrad and master’s, or have moved on to graduate work across the country.

“Stay with me until this gets sorted.”

Surprise makes me blink. “The fuck palace?” I say, reaching for levity because, hello, stay with him?

“I see Elena shared her nickname for it with you.”

I shrug. Devon purchased the penthouse from Jack, who had bought it only to bring his girlfriends there while he kept a separate apartment for himself and Devon. The penthouse was where Jack and Elena had their drunken one-night stand, when she didn’t know he was a famous football player. Elena hated the penthouse with a passion and had it sold to Devon a week after they were engaged.

He pulls out on the street, driving to the intersection. “Beggars can’t be choosers. I imagine you’ll need several days to find a new place. I’ll hardly be at the penthouse anyway, since I have training camp.”

“Sounds good.” Sounds terrifying—in an exhilarating way.

He darts a look at me. “You think staying with me is a good idea.” He says it as a statement, not a question.

I smooth down the frayed edges of my shorts. “With the giant V on my forehead, I’m in the safest hands in Nashville.” I snort. “Funny. You’re a wide receiver.”

He mutters something under his breath, and I study the hard lines of his profile, the blade of his nose, the glints of blue in his dark hair, the slope of his broad shoulders. I can’t mistake the tension rolling off him. Did he expect me to turn down his offer?