Diamond studs wink from his earlobes, just another way we’re opposite. I let my holes close up when I was eighteen and never went back to have them repierced. Two full sleeves of roses mixed with fluttery gold-and-blue butterflies dance along his forearms. Those, I like. A lot. Nervous, I stroke the pearls around my neck.

“Giselle?” he asks.

My brain jerks to a halt as I realize I’m ogling him. Sputtering, I rack my brain for an intelligent response—come on, Giselle, you’re working on a PhD in physics; you have a plethora of words in your arsenal. Tell him Rodeo isn’t your date!

But all I can think about is the last time I saw him—Saturday at Elena and Jack’s wedding, where he was the best man to my maid of honor. He wore a mouthwatering fitted gray suit, the fabric so devastatingly soft I bit my lip when he took my hand and looped it through the crook of his arm. Did his fingers linger on mine longer than necessary? Maybe. He probably didn’t notice. He was just doing his job as Jack’s best man. He did stare a hole through me. A level-five gaze, which involves intense eye contact lasting ten seconds, meaning I either had a giant zit on my nose, or he really liked what he saw. I asked him—well, whispered—as we walked down the aisle toward Jack and Elena if he was feeling unwell. He said he was fine—curtly—which was strange, because Devon is the opposite of grumpy.

Later, when I was alone in my apartment, I dissected the interaction and came to the conclusion that he stared at me only because I looked washed out and hideous in the strapless silver dress Elena had picked out for me. I’d told her I didn’t have the breasts to hold it up, but she’d insisted.

Yet inside that church, standing next to my sister as she recited her vows, my thoughts about Devon wandered. Was he attracted to me? Me? It seemed impossible.

The truth was abundantly clear once his supermodel date showed up to the reception. He never glanced at me again.

“Oh my God, are you . . . are you . . . Devon Walsh? I’m a huge fan of yours since your Ohio State days! I have your jersey on my wall,” is the screech that comes from Rodeo as he shoves past me to reach the football star.

The jostle to my shoulder causes me to lose my grip on the bar, and I stumble to the side, knocking into the guy next to me on his stool—again. He flips around with a scowl—oh, I think I know him—and then his beer bottle smacks me in the cheek.

“Jesus! Are you okay?” the stool guy calls out and tries to steady me, but it’s too late.

“Wonderful,” I mutter and rear back, causing my heels to teeter on the slick tile. Time seems to stand still as I grapple with balance. My body obeys the laws of gravity—thank you, Newton—and flails forward and down. My knees hit the floor with a slap—

Right in front of Nashville’s sexiest man alive.

Damn you, birthday curse.

Chapter 2

GISELLE

“How does it feel?” Devon asks as he presses an ice pack to my right cheekbone. Wincing at the contact, I put my hand up to my face, and our fingers brush as he slides back and lets me hold the pack in place. Butterflies dance in my stomach as tendrils of awareness buzz along the nerve endings where we touched, and I swallow down the feeling. He’s just a guy who happens to be drop-dead gorgeous. He isn’t attracted to me. Whatsoever.

“Fine,” I say, forcing brightness into my tone. My head does throb, but I’m not sure if it has to do with my face or just the lack of food in my stomach.

I’m at a table in the VIP room of the Razor, a roped-off area in the back. The place is mostly empty, except for a few guys watching a game in the corner. I imagine this place doesn’t get crowded until much later. Thankfully, the music from the club seems to be turned off in here.

From his standing position, Devon bends his knees, crouching down to peer into my eyes, as if to make sure I’m lucid. The scent of him hits me, masculine and heady with a hint of sea and summer, some expensive cologne.

“You hit the floor pretty hard. How are your hands and knees?” This close, the glints of gold in his irises flicker like fireflies, mingling with the velvety forest green. His gaze is lush, mesmerizing, and deep—

Stop with the adjectives about his eyes, Giselle! Right.

“Good, just sore from the fall.”

“You might have a bruise or two tomorrow. Want more ice for it?”

“No, but thanks.” I want to forget it ever happened. More than anything, I’m wallowing in embarrassment.

His fingers graze over my knee, not lingering any longer than necessary, flicking at a piece of something. “When you flung yourself at me, I thought you might tackle me,” he murmurs.

“Hey. I was ping-ponged between two guys and had nowhere else to go.”

An image of me on my knees, palms on the floor to keep myself from face planting, dances in my head. Devon helped me up—careful, strong hands on my elbows—then barked at his teammate Aiden, the guy on the stool, and told him to grab an ice pack from the kitchen. Then he escorted me to the VIP room, shoving past dancing people. I half expected him to sweep me up in his arms like in one of those romance novels.

“According to your hype, it would take more than me to take you to the ground,” I say with a small laugh. “If I was going to tackle you, I’d need stealth. I’d hide in your closet in the dark and pop out when you least expect it. You’d open your door, and I’d be hiding in your fancy shirts wearing a hideous mask.” I smile, ignoring the pain from my face. “What makes you jump . . . creepy crawlers? Freddy Krueger? Michael Myers?”

A rueful laugh comes from him. “Sharks. Their teeth creep me out. Watched Jaws when I was a kid and wanted to throw up.”

“Beware,” I say. “I’m coming for you soon.”

“First, you’d have to get in my penthouse. Hard to get there when there’s a private elevator.”

I laugh. “Never underestimate the grit and determination of a southern woman with a goal.” I know where he lives. Never been there, but . . .

His warrior body unfolds as he straightens up to his full height. “There she is, right as rain. It’s okay to fall to your knees. I tend to have that effect on women.”

I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. Did I mention he’s cocky?

“But not you, right?” he adds. “Nope, you’re as cool as they come.”

Wait . . . what?

My throat feels tight as I try to decipher how his comment settles. I see—oh, I see—exactly what he thinks. He’s put me in the same box as everyone else. It shouldn’t hurt, but it does.

I swallow thickly. “That’s me. Cold as ice.”

His forehead crinkles in a scowl. “Hey, hang on a minute; I didn’t mean it like that—”

“No, I get it. I know what everyone thinks. Unemotional robot. Stuck in her head. Oblivious. Impervious to sexy men.”

He cocks his head, lips puckering, as if he’s deep in thought, then sticks his hands in the pockets of his jeans, his tell that he’s uncomfortable. I would know. I watch him. “Those thoughts never entered my head. I just meant you’re not like other girls—ah, never mind.” He opens his mouth, shuts it, then says, “You think I’m sexy?”

“Pfft. No.”