“What’s eating you?”
He stops, rubbing his face. “All right, all right, I won’t talk smack about Giselle. She’s your friend, and it bothers you. I’m glad you clarified, because I was wondering—I mean, I know I joke around a lot, but she’s got something about her, you know?”
My hands ball up, dread pooling.
He paces around. “It’s been years since I had a real date with a girl who wasn’t after my money and fame. I’m tired of coming home to an empty apartment and not having someone I can vent to. Hard to trust people, especially after what Jack went through.”
Jack’s ex wrote a tell-all book about him full of lies. It was a bestseller and nearly killed his career. Aiden took her out once and claimed she was a devil.
“Giselle gets the lifestyle—she knows we’re real people, and she doesn’t care who I am.” He rubs at his neck, a slow blush crawling up his face. “She’s interesting. I like how she thinks. Plus . . . she’s looking for someone.”
“Jack will flip.” It’s all I can come up with, battling the impulse to put my hands around his throat.
He holds his hand up. “But . . . but if I do this right, maybe talk to him and explain that she’s different, that I’m not doing it to piss him off and rattle him . . . I’ll be on my best behavior. I’ll wine and dine her—like, really woo, no pressure—be sweet and give her time before I throw the whole charm at her. If we clicked—and obviously we will—I could have what Jack has. A chance for a real relationship . . .” His voice trails off as he frowns. “Dev? You okay?”
I’ve been trying to keep the anger under wraps, but his whole wooing shit sent me over the edge, and I erupt and shove him. He stumbles back into the wall. Shocked blue eyes glare at me. “What the hell, man?” he shouts as several of the guys run over, their gazes darting between us.
“Everything all right?” Hollis asks, panting since he dashed over from a treadmill. He’s the toughest and stands between us, a brawny defensive lineman with dreads, medium-dark skin, and fists the size of bowling balls.
Everything with my dad, Giselle and the fire, her horrid encounters with men—and now him saying he might really like her and want to be serious—even talking to Jack? What the hell . . . I can’t . . . no.
“Stay away from her!”
“What’s your problem?” Aiden’s chest heaves, his fists curled.
“Your attitude!”
His jaw pops. “Dude. I won’t hurt her!”
“You’re a kid! You don’t know how to treat her!”
He shakes his head at me, his face reddening. “You’re an asshole—you know that? I’m not gonna hit you, even though you deserve it. But I can guaran-damn-tee you that I’m gonna see her again, so you better get used to the idea.” He snatches his towel off the weights and storms out of the gym.
Chapter 8
GISELLE
Driving a red Maserati to Walmart makes me cackle. On the inside, though, I’m freaking out. I googled how much the car was worth as the valet drove her around for me, and I started sweating. Over $140,000, but knowing Devon, it has more bells and whistles than the one I looked up. Sweat slides down my back.
With my hands gripping the black leather steering wheel, I inch along at two miles an hour for a place to put Red so she won’t get a door ding. I picture Devon’s face if I were to wreck. Dark and stormy. Maybe how Vureck looks when Kate crash-lands his ship on that rocky planet.
A horn blares behind me, and I check the rearview. An old lady in a Cadillac flips me the bird.
I whip to the back of the lot, away from all cars, park, and head into the store, already pulling out the quick list of essentials I made. Some cheap shirts and shorts, underwear, a pair of flip-flops, apples to snack on, makeup and toiletries, and some food for Pookie. Definitely pee pads. Deep in thought, I don’t notice the man at the entrance of the store until I bump into him.
“Sorry, excuse me,” I say with a smile and move to step to the right—only he puts his hand on my elbow.
“You know Devon Walsh?”
First instinct is to always tell the truth, but self-preservation knows when to kick in. “No.” I pull my arm away, and he holds his hands up in a placating manner.
He’s older, around forty, with clipped brown hair. I catalog other details: height, weight, a scar on his right cheek, tattoos on his neck. I frown at his shirt, an old black one with a lion crest and faded writing.
“Sorry, Miss, but I know you do. It’s my job. Tell Devon we’re looking for his dad. He owes us money.”