Not My Match (The Game Changers 2)

“Ah, yes, well, I read the LHC paper you sent me. Well done. I’ve seen you teaching your classes this summer.”

“I prefer unconventional methods—”

“Not all learning is done in a classroom. I’m available Monday morning at ten. Can you come in?”

My stomach flutters, and I give her a resounding yes, already making a notation on my phone calendar. Well, at least she sounds promising. It is a good birthday!

After ending the call, I check my hair in the rearview mirror. I put in my contacts, twisted my hair up in a loose chignon, added smoky eye shadow to my lids with liberal amounts of mascara. Red lipstick coats my lips, and I quickly add extra gloss.

Mama meets me at the porch of her two-story colonial dressed in her finest, a pale-blue skirt and blazer, blonde strands artfully swirled in a style similar to mine.

“Giselle Riley, your hair—”

“Is gorgeous!” Aunt Clara says as she pops out the door and does a circle around me. “Can’t even see the spots I missed.”

I sheepishly admit I had it corrected as she plucks at some of the hair, a satisfied sound coming from her. I wonder where her car is.

“I can live with it,” Mama says. “You need to show your wild side.”

I start. “Have you been drinking champagne?”

She narrows her eyes at the car I drove. “Why are you driving Devon’s car?”

My shoulders straighten. “Mine’s in the shop.”

“Still? It’s just a busted window. Your dress is short, dear.” She shrugs, shrugs, then smiles. Did my own mother manipulate me into wearing a sexy dress with just a phone conversation this week?

“Let’s get this done. Where’s Mike?” I say, pushing past them and into the house. Seeing no one in the den, I march into the dining room, where there are no place settings out, no food on the table. What . . .

Frowning, I head to the kitchen, looking around at the sparkling-clean counters.

“Mama? Didn’t you cook?”

“Don’t be mad, Giselle,” she says gently, crooking her arm in mine.

“What have you done?” I breathe.

My eyes bounce around the room and snag on the window, a hiss coming as I see the large white tent set up in her spacious backyard. People mill around underneath, a band is setting up on a raised platform, and smartly dressed caterers are setting up a buffet table. There’s even a champagne fountain. I blink.

My gaze skirts the yard, taking in the twinkle lights, the cloth-covered tables, the pink and more pink flower arrangements.

“Everyone parked across the street at Wilma’s,” she says brightly. “She has that long tree-lined private drive. It’s a hundred or so people. You didn’t get to have a wedding, so I did the next best thing.”

“Surprise!” Aunt Clara jumps in.

“I told them to tell you,” Topher says, coming in from down the hall dressed in khakis and a pressed shirt, lime-green Converse on his feet.

“You won’t even see it coming when I kill you,” I mutter, waving my hands at the three of them.

“Guess you’ll have to put rat poison in my tea, too, then,” comes a girlie squeal from behind me, and I turn to see Elena. I run to her, laughing; then I squeeze her in a hug. She’s beautiful in a black pencil skirt, a white blouse, and heels, her auburn hair in deep waves down her back. Jack looms behind her, his broad shoulders against the doorjamb, an intense, utterly smitten look on his face as he stares at Elena.

I squeeze her arm. “Oh my God, you came back early? You didn’t tell me!”

“We always planned on coming back today.” She takes my hands. “Jack wouldn’t get in the water anyway. The man can’t swim.”

Jack wraps his arms around her and pulls her into his chest. “Other things to do anyway.”

Mama and Aunt Clara move to the window, talking about someone outside, so I take the opportunity to say what I want before this party gets started. I lean in toward the couple. “By the way, your husband here warned the whole team to not flirt with me. He told Devon I was a virgin.”

She gapes, then glares at Jack. “That was a secret!”

“You told him,” I accuse. “Apparently, no one keeps my secrets.”

Jack winces and holds his hands out, not an ounce of remorse on his face as he gazes at his wife. “Sweetheart, I trust my best friend to keep her safe. You know the kind of men we hang out with.” She sighs and tells him they’ll discuss it later, then kisses him.

I tap my foot. “Well . . . I’m living with him.” Take that.

Jack’s eyes flare, and he starts to speak, but I cut him off. “I love you, Jack Hawke, but you keep your nose out of it. He’s important to me. He was there the night my apartment burned and I came down the fire escape—”