Not My Match (The Game Changers 2)

With a wave back at Giselle, he leaves, and I head back to the booth, sliding into the seat he vacated.

“Well?” I ask, tapping my fingers on the table until I stop and tuck them in my lap. I don’t know why I’m nervous. She’s the one who had the meetup.

She’s got the menu up and is studying it, a little pucker on her forehead. “Pasta or salmon? You got a favorite? Oh, dang, they’ve got emu burgers on here. Gross.”

“He wants your number,” I say, cataloging her reaction.

She cocks her head. “Crab mac and cheese or creamed spinach as a side? Maybe I’ll get both—”

“Giselle. Are you going to see him again?” My shoulders feel tight, and I roll my neck.

She sighs and sets down the menu. “He played lacrosse in college.”

I’d forgotten. “He did. Big star in the Ivy League.”

She takes a sip of her soda, and when she speaks, her words are careful. “He’s not my type.”

“He’s perfect! He’s mentioned a few times he wants to settle down and have kids!”

Her finger traces the condensation on her glass. “Meh.”

I gape at her. “Seriously? He’s handsome and has a j-o-b. Your mama would love him. What’s wrong with him?”

Pale-blue eyes rise and drift over my forearms, where I rolled up my tailored shirt, her gaze lingering on my tattoos.

“Too slick, too much lacrosse.”

“He likes physics.”

“So? You do too. You know what the LHC is. You quote Carl Sagan.” She pauses, that frown on her forehead growing. “There was no . . . zing. Like with Myrtle and John.”

“Zing?”

“Physical chemistry was zero.” She cups her chin. “I’d be bored. I like . . .” Her eyes brush over my hair, the diamond studs in my ears . . . “Someone who’ll keep me on my toes.”

“Poor Brandt. I don’t think anyone has ever said he’s boring.” It’s been a long shitty day, but I grin, feeling light, and I can’t bring myself to feel bad for him. “Pasta is good. The bolognese sauce here is divine.”

She smiles. “Sounds good. And I’m telling Jack to take the emu off the menu.”

We’re eating dessert, sharing a chocolate soufflé, when she brings up the man at Walmart. “Is your dad in some kind of trouble?”

Just the idea of telling her my theories about who they are makes my skin crawl. I settle for “Maybe.”

“Tell me about where you grew up,” she asks quietly.

I wince. “Glitter City in NorCal. Funny name for a dump of a town. Best thing I ever did was leave.”

“Never went back? No friends or relatives?”

“Nah.” I set my spoon down and wipe my mouth. “My mom ran off and never came back.” I pause, fiddling with my water glass. Giselle’s family is apple-pie American, with a mom and aunt who dote on her. We’re like oil and water, soft and hard, bitter and sweet. “My dad owned a bar, but the bottle eventually ruined him. Spent most of my free time playing football or mowing lawns and working at the concession stand at the drive-in.” A long breath comes from me. “Every time I see an old drive-in movie, I think about me as a kid.”

I don’t tell her about the two weeks our electricity was turned off, leaving me scrambling and borrowing money. Later, I discovered receipts from an ATM in Vegas, and Dad and I had a big blowup. He threatened to toss me out, and I wanted to slug him. I was all he had. Woman after woman walked out on him, yet I remained, picking up pieces and gluing them together.

The space between us swells with silence, and when I look up, she’s chewing on her lips.

Rubbing my neck, I say, “I didn’t grow up like you did. Family, people that stick, you know?”

“You turned into a wonderful human,” she says, and her face is earnest—and sweet, so damn sweet.

My chest shifts ever so slightly, tugging at me, making me feel. I take a breath. It feels hot in here. Like maybe I can’t breathe. “Better than Hemsworth?”

“Well, he did buy me a villa in Switzerland, but he can suck it. You’re the man.”

She frowns, then reaches across the table and rubs her fingers across the side of my neck. Her lashes flutter as she looks at her hand, then wipes it with her napkin. “Lipstick. Red. Not sure how I missed it earlier.”

I roll my eyes. “Some random ran over to me when I met Lawrence before I came here. He always wants to meet at a bar to talk business.” I decided to hire him after all. At this rate, I might need him. He does more than just PR; he looks into people, and right now he’s running checks on my dad.

She sighs. “You don’t even have to encourage them, do you? I bet she slipped you her cell—”