Not My Match (The Game Changers 2)

“Are you?” My eyes drift over her snug lime-green T-shirt proclaiming her as the WORLD’S TALLEST ELF. Another Walmart clearance item.

She raises an eyebrow. “You call all your friends baby?”

Only you.

“Of course.” I pull her forward and search her eyes, battling the instinct to taste her lips. Keeping our chests from touching—Look at me; I’m doing good—I lace my fingers with hers, but it’s fine; I got this.

“I look ridiculous,” she mutters. “Just another girl who thinks changing her hair color will make everything better.”

“Shh. It’s not that bad. It complements your eyes.”

“You hate it.”

“No, it just took me by surprise,” I murmur, tracing my gaze over the bright locks of hair that brush against her T-shirt. “Reminds of Katy Perry in the ‘California Gurls’ video.”

“Hers was a wig.”

“I like it any color when it’s down,” I say, my voice husky. “And it matches my butterfly tattoos.”

A strange expression flits over her face, and we stare at each other. I can’t tell what she’s thinking, probably about her hair, but my head is back at the barn the night before. “I have to tell you something.”

“Blue jokes?”

“Thank you for last night, for showing me your special place. It felt good to break things.”

She gives me a half smile.

“But I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have kissed you. Then I acted off this morning—”

“I goaded you into that, and you don’t have to be perky just for me. I certainly don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable in your own home.” She disentangles our hands.

I frown. “I’m not.” Hell, coming home and finding her here has been in my head all day, a beacon of warmth right in my chest. “I’m sorry for being a grouch.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “So it was a terrible kiss?”

“On a scale from one to ten, I’d give it . . .” A billion. “Well, let’s just say, it was—”

“Scale? Oh, how ironic.” She huffs out a laugh.

“How so?”

She opens her mouth, then shuts it and shakes her head, muttering something about gaze levels.

I stuff my hands in my pockets, and she watches me. “Well. Now that we’ve established the rules, and kissing is over, things will be smooth sailing,” she says.

“Right.”

She nods, seeming to come to some sort of decision. “Want me to bake some cookies to get rid of the smell?”

“Can’t say no to cookies.” I turn with her as she brushes past me and heads to the kitchen. Of course, I follow her; I always do. It’s her gravitational pull, and I’m as pathetic as Pookie, who trots after me. “Can I help?”

She hip checks me as she pulls a pan from the cabinet. “You could preheat the oven to three-fifty and get the cookie dough out of the freezer. I’ll cut them up and make sure they’re two inches apart. That’s how I roll. Didn’t you see the pizza boxes from dinner?” Her gaze darts to me. “Have you had dinner? I can make you something. Spaghetti? It won’t be a homemade sauce, but Myrtle likes it when I make it.”

“Nah, I ate with Lawrence.” I’d thought about texting her to see if she wanted to go out for dinner, but worry for my dad kept rearing its head. I drove to his house and did a walk-through. It was obvious he’d been there—his sink was full of dishes—but he was gone. He’s avoiding me.

I push those things away and focus on her. Lazily, I watch her flit around the kitchen, bustling like she belongs, stuffing pizza boxes in the trash, cursing as they tumble back out.

I move her to the side. “Here, let me do that.” I pick up the boxes, folding and crushing them with my hands—See how strong I am?—only a pepperoni flies off and lands on my shirt. She erupts in giggles, and when I turn to mock glare at her, my foot tangles in the box on the floor, and I do a little slip and slide before I catch myself on the counter.

“Oh my God, pizza boxes are trying to kill you!” She crosses herself. “My curse is rubbing off.”

“I swear this never happens,” I muse with a grin. “Have you watched me play football? I’m a badass.”

“Mmm, lots of times.”

I arch a brow, satisfaction and pleasure rushing through me. “So it wasn’t just my national championship game. Whatever happened to the guy you watched it with?”

“Jealous?”

“No.” I’d like to meet him and check him out.

“Meh, he and I never worked out, but I can still see your bio piece they showed during halftime that night. Your hair was clipped short, and you sported a smirk as you flexed your muscles.”

Most of the cockiness was for show. I was still reeling over Hannah.

“Impressed by my stats, I see. Why haven’t you ever mentioned that you were a big Devon Walsh fan? I could have signed some footballs, maybe a shirt.”