Not My Match (The Game Changers 2)

“I told him I don’t date and I didn’t want to see him anymore at my door,” she replies primly.

Elena smirks. “Hard to avoid him when he owns the Piggly Wiggly. Don’t you go every other day? You still have those pink handcuffs in your room?” Elena asks me.

“Top dresser drawer,” I say with a smug smile. “Might be some leftover twine in the garage from where we tied up those tomatoes. Lance likes bondage, Mama.”

“Eat your chicken,” she says, never batting an eye. “We have guests.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” Susan says, smiling carefully, and for a brief second I wonder if maybe I shouldn’t have invited her, but it felt like she needed some cheering up. And if we’re going to be friends, she might as well know my family is insane. “I haven’t had a good home-cooked meal in a while,” she continues.

“You need a man to cook for, dear. How old are you?” Mama asks.

“Thirty-five,” she says hesitantly.

“Still young enough,” Mama says with a wave. “They’ve got those IVF things now. Miracle babies. Tamara Wilkes had triplets using fertility drugs. Even if we can’t find you a man . . . oh my . . . Mike would be perfect. Let me give him a call right—”

“No, Mama,” I say firmly. “Let’s eat together.”

She sighs, settling back in her seat at the head of the table as she cocks her head at Susan, sizing her up. “There’s also sperm banks if you don’t like men. Topher is gay.”

“I am?” He chuckles. “Yep.”

Mama motions at all of us. “You’d have help. I’d love to watch your triplets.”

Susan pales.

I hand her the plate of chicken. “We’re having chocolate pie for dessert. I’ll make sure you take some home.”

Later, while Elena and I clean the kitchen, Mama sits with Devon and Susan, asking the newcomers a million questions. Devon manages to pull himself away, inch by inch, as he gradually gets up and shuffles his way out of the room and into the kitchen.

“You okay?” I ask, handing him a dried plate to put up in the cabinet.

He shakes his head, a harried look on his face. “The woman is terrifying. I told her about my dad before I knew what was happening. She just sucked it out of me. She wants to meet him.”

I pat him. “She’ll add him to her prayer list. It’s very long.”

He grimaces. “I don’t mind the prayers . . . you told her we aren’t having sex. But she knows, Giselle; the woman knows.”

I grin. “She just doesn’t want to think about it. Technically, she asked if I had my own room at your place, and I said yes. Then I ran before she asked me anything specific.”

From behind, he wraps his arms around my waist and whispers in my ear, “She’s got no clue how naughty you are.”

I lean back against him. “Shh, no one does.”

Susan pops her head in. “Hey, hate to interrupt, but I need to get going. Will you walk me out, Giselle? I’d like to chat a little.”

Devon lets me go, and I grab her container with two slices of pie—the woman needs a reward—and head her way as she makes her goodbyes to Mama. She and I stop in the foyer. “Congratulations on the book agent. You’re a multitalented person. I had no idea you were a writer. I think it’s incredible and exciting.”

I blush. “Thank you. It’s good to have your support.”

“I hope it doesn’t interfere with your studies.” She searches my face.

“I had a rough last semester, and this summer hasn’t been much better, but I’m ready for fall semester.”

She breaks out in a smile. “Wonderful. I was hoping you’d say that. I spoke to a colleague Friday, and there’s an opening at CERN.”

I gasp. “Now?”

“Yes. I didn’t tell you right away, but he just texted me during lunch, and I got excited! He wants to talk to me tonight. I’m sure he’s going to say ‘Send her over.’” The rest of her words jumble and get lost, my mind racing as we move out the door.

I find a seat on the porch and sit, my hands clasped tightly in my lap. Her words seem far away, and I strain to listen, but there’s a roaring in my head.

“Sent him your records and a copy of the application you filled out for Dr. Blanton. He’d already read your paper and was suitably impressed, but I want to make sure it’s what you want . . .”

“Of course.” My chest feels tight. And wrong. I rub it.

I notice her taking the seat next to me. “It starts September sixth, so you’ll need to expedite a passport if you don’t have one—”

“Devon’s first home game is September sixth,” I say, interrupting her. “We play the Cowboys.”

She gives me a quizzical look. “Is that a problem? The football player?”