Not My Match (The Game Changers 2)

“I didn’t say I was a Nashville Tigers fan. I’ve spent the last ten years in Louisiana. Last year, your guy demolished my Saints. We never had a chance. Devon is vicious. Nobody can tackle the guy. Consider this payback.”

“Competitive men are fascinating.”

“And you’re a beautiful woman.” His voice is husky as his arm tightens around me. “Now, smile up at me, because he’s about to blow a gasket. Also, your mama is swooning—legit, her hand is on her heart as she watches us. Your sister is slyly taking pics of us on her phone and is already picturing the montage to show our children. Clara is mentally measuring me for a tux on our wedding day. In between ‘Come hither’ looks at me and Devon, Cami is seething and tossing back drinks.” He laughs. “Definitely calling her.”

I start giggling.

He grins down at me. “Your mama had me ready to meet you the moment she walked over with her chicken and dumplings and said she taught you how to make them. Leigh never cooked. She never got out of that sorority-girl phase.” A brief look of sadness crosses his face, and I squeeze his arm.

“Don’t fall for Mama’s traps. I can barely make eggs.”

“Honestly, this party and her schemes are the most fun I’ve had since I came back. Most of the time I’m trying to figure out who spray-painted graffiti in the boys’ bathroom or where Caroline left her stuffed unicorn.” His dimple flashes.

“I feel sorry for the women of Daisy. They’re all going to be crawling in your window.”

“Nah, I’m on the first floor now.” His face grows serious as he stares down at me. “Devon’s crazy if he lets you slip away, Giselle.” He tugs more hair down, and it falls around my temple.

“You’re messing up my style,” I accuse with a grin.

Mike glances over my shoulder. “Update: he’s pacing like a jungle cat.”

“That’s what I say!”

“Panther.”

“Yes!”

He grins and does a dip with me in his arms, making me cling to him. “He doesn’t like it when I touch your hair, and I bet I’ve only got a few minutes left.” Glee colors his voice. “Just don’t let him hit me. I’m an upstanding pillar of the community now and have a reputation to uphold, but I’m about to get all the tongues wagging. Me and Devon Walsh and you will be all the talk when school starts. I can’t wait to call my buddies in Louisiana and tell them how I messed with him . . .” He trails off. “The song is almost over. I mean this sincerely: if you decide he isn’t the one, call me. I’m not interested in picket fences, but I’d love to see you at my door.”

A week ago, I would have been interested.

“I need a friend,” I tell him frankly. His hand skates to my lower spine and presses me against him.

“I’m a good friend. Remember that.” His other hand slides inside my hair.

“I . . . what are you doing?”

Mike lowers his head, his lips inches from mine. “Trust me. Close your eyes and think of England—or Devon.”

Realization hits, and my startled gaze finds his. “No, Mike, no—”

“The lady said no,” comes a deep voice behind Mike as a hand clamps on his shoulder. Devon wrenches him away from me and scowls, biting out his words. “Little handsy there, man. Not cool. Just walk away. While you can.”

Caveman. Can’t say I’m mad about it.

My throat dries as Devon puts me behind him and never takes his attention off Mike, who’s currently digging around in his pocket and murmuring something about the chance of a lifetime.

Mike’s brown eyes twinkle as he sweeps them over Devon. “She used to write my name in her diary with little hearts.” He gives me an apologetic look. “Cynthia told me.”

“Not shocked,” I say.

“We’re just friends,” Mike says in a sly tone. “Like you and her. Only I’ve known her longer.”

“Touch her again, and I’ll punch you,” Devon growls.

“You have no idea how exciting that drama sounds, but unfortunately I’m a teacher. Now, before I go”—Mike holds up his phone, and in a movement that reminds me of his athletic grace playing baseball, he takes a step toward us, putting his face next to Devon’s—“I just need some proof.” He tells me to smile, and I grimace as he takes a selfie of the three of us, then flips around and moves back, pocketing his phone. “A Maserati,” he says while grinning, then waltzes off, making a beeline straight to Cami.

Devon turns back to me, eyes ablaze, all hard muscle and barely leashed temper. “Did you let him touch Red?”

It’s too much—the champagne, Cami’s sly barbs, Mike’s antics, Devon’s obvious jealousy—and I giggle. “He was messing with you.”

“Did you want him all over you?”

I lift my chin, my gaze defiant. “I believe it’s apparent who I want.”