“Is she hot?”

“Selena?”

He laughs. “What’s wrong with you? Giselle?”

Want me to make a list of what’s wrong? My dad is a train wreck, and he isn’t answering my calls; strange men are approaching me at my place and Giselle at Walmart; my teammate isn’t speaking to me at camp; my best friend’s sister-in-law is staying with me; and I want to put my hands all over her so bad I can’t fucking stand myself, so I’m setting her up with you. Yeah, best to not say that.

I push my hands into the pockets of my navy slacks, seeing visions of Giselle cooking breakfast this morning, her lips curved up as I ate most of the bacon she made. Her hair was up in a messy bun, and she kept pushing her glasses up her nose. “Yeah, she’s hot.”

He follows my eyes and shoulder bumps me. “Is that her?”

“Hmm.”

“Niiiiiiice.”

I inhale, unease crawling in my gut. “She’s a serious kind of girl; you feel me? She isn’t a one-nighter.”

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you like this girl for yourself.”

“No.” I brush past him and arrive at the booth and slide in next to her while Brandt sits across from us. Her eyes take him in, glancing over his tailored suit, the hundred-dollar haircut, the boyish grin. Her lashes flutter, a blush rising on her cheeks as he shakes her hand.

Well? my eyes ask her.

She nods in my direction, smiles, and adjusts one of my tailored blue dress shirts she’s fashioned into some kind of top, the ends tied together, the top buttons undone, her creamy skin glistening. I hide my grin. She bought clothes from Walmart, but here she is, in mine. I told her to check out my closet and take whatever she wanted.

I keep sneaking glances at her as they chat. Her profile is a soft curve, her lashes long and thick against her cheekbones. She’s wearing makeup, and her pouty lips are a deep-pink color. My traitorous eyes can’t seem to stop looking at her. And since I’m being honest with myself, it’s been going on for a while, maybe since that first night I met her months ago at the community center for Romeo and Juliet.

Maybe it was the overwhelming sense of desperation on her face when she looked at her sister. I knew that gaze, familial love mixed with loss, a yearning to right a perceived wrong. She hurt her sister with Preston and didn’t see a way out. I saw a girl who took a chance on a guy, sacrificed her relationship with her sister, gave up pieces of herself, and was vibrating with the repercussions, wondering how the hell she’d gotten there. Every pleading look she gave Elena was a testament to how badly she wanted to set things right. By the end of opening night of Romeo and Juliet, the shortest engagement in history was over, and she withdrew further into herself, hiding her heartbreak behind closed doors, I imagine, while Jack and Elena fell deeper in love and planned a quick wedding. In our interactions since then, I’ve checked her out but armed myself with restraint, not willing to chip away at the edges of a fragile woman. Instead I wasted my time with brief physical connections that fulfilled a need.

Pushing that aside, I sit back and watch them. He sips on a whiskey and tells her about his days at Princeton, then his family in Boston. His dad’s a heart surgeon, his mom a nurse, his sister a lawyer. He moved to Nashville several years ago, heading up the sports department of a company that also deals with country music stars.

“Giselle is getting her doctorate in physics,” I mention.

“Theoretical,” she tells him when he asks which field.

“Like Sheldon on The Big Bang Theory?” he teases. “You don’t seem to lack social skills like he does.” He gives her an appreciative glance, a low look in his eyes as he lingers on the V of her shirt. I shift around in my seat.

She smiles. “I love that show, and yeah, same field. I want to study dark matter with particle accelerators.”

My ears perk up. “Like the Large Hadron Collider? Supposed to be the biggest accelerator in the world. It’s in Switzerland, right?” I lean in toward her. She smells like vanilla today . . . is that a new bodywash or perfume? Heat builds in my spine, tendrils of desire—shit, nope, not going there. I clench my hands under the table.

Her eyes light up. “Yes, in Geneva. It’s called the LHC and sits in an underground tunnel below CERN. It’s twenty-seven kilometers in circumference and built to push ions to near the speed of light. I just want to put my hands on it.” A wistful expression crosses her face. “Maybe kiss it.”

Brandt smiles. “I took a few physics classes.” He tells her about a recent trip to Switzerland, where his family toured CERN. “Have you ever been?”

Her hands twist. “No, I applied for a fellowship to study there this year, but it didn’t work out. Maybe next year.”

What?

She wants to move to Europe? Since when? How long are these fellowships?

I’m still tumbling around the idea of her leaving Nashville when Brandt reaches over the table, showing her pics on his phone of his house.

Brandt nudges me under the table with his shoe, meets my eyes, and looks at his Rolex. Right. My fifteen minutes are up. I ease up out of the seat and tell Giselle I’m going to grab a drink at the bar.

She nods and turns back to Brandt, and I hear him ask about where she lives. She tells him she’s staying with a friend after the fire at her apartment while she looks for an apartment close to Vandy. An exhale comes from me as I walk away. Friend. That’s all she can ever be.

I’m sitting at the bar with my back to them, watching the thirty minutes tick down on my phone. On the dot, Brandt appears next to me, leaning in. “Dude. Definitely want to see her again. Alone. She’s perfect, and those long legs—”

“Did she ask you to dinner with us?”

He slaps me on the back. “I didn’t give her a chance. I’ve got a phone call tonight anyway, new quarterback out of USC.”

Good. No, wait, not good. He should stay.

“She didn’t give me her number. You’ll get it for me?”

My skin prickles. “If she wants.”

“She will,” he says confidently. “We had a nice convo. I’m already picturing her in a bikini at my pool.”

My jaw pops. “Uh-huh.”

With a wave back at Giselle, he leaves, and I head back to the booth, sliding into the seat he vacated.

“Well?” I ask, tapping my fingers on the table until I stop and tuck them in my lap. I don’t know why I’m nervous. She’s the one who had the meetup.

She’s got the menu up and is studying it, a little pucker on her forehead. “Pasta or salmon? You got a favorite? Oh, dang, they’ve got emu burgers on here. Gross.”

“He wants your number,” I say, cataloging her reaction.

She cocks her head. “Crab mac and cheese or creamed spinach as a side? Maybe I’ll get both—”

“Giselle. Are you going to see him again?” My shoulders feel tight, and I roll my neck.

She sighs and sets down the menu. “He played lacrosse in college.”

I’d forgotten. “He did. Big star in the Ivy League.”

She takes a sip of her soda, and when she speaks, her words are careful. “He’s not my type.”

“He’s perfect! He’s mentioned a few times he wants to settle down and have kids!”