He grunts, his face unreadable. “Good.”

“You’re too old for me.”

He sputters, and I can’t stop my genuine smile at his incredulous face. Oh, goody, I got him. “I’m twenty-eight, for fuck’s sake. There’s what, four years between us?” He rakes a hand through the top of his hair, yet it still settles in a sexy mess, the blue highlights gleaming amid the dark brown. Dammit. He’s effortlessly beautiful.

I force a nonchalant shrug. “Age doesn’t matter as long as you’re my type—you know, the three Ts: textbooks, tweed, and timid. You have that whole rock star vibe.”

And those lips. I could write a book about his mouth, the soft-pink color and how the lushness contrasts with the hard lines of his jaw, the overly full bottom lip, the deep V on his upper one.

“Smart. You should stay away from men like me, pretty girl.” He gives me one of his signature teasing smiles, and yep, we’re totally in the friend zone. He calls everyone pretty girl, even Mama and Aunt Clara.

“Mmm.” I nod.

“Is Cowboy your man? He got left behind when I brought you back here, but I can send someone after him.”

He takes a step away from me, as if to do just that, and I groan. “No, please. I can’t take another minute with him.”

He stalks back and dips down, bending his knees as he kneels, closer this time than before. His body radiates tension. “Did he do something?”

I chew on my lips and stare down at my lap, letting the earnestness of his husky voice wash over me. Oh, Devon. He may be an arrogant superstar wideout for the Nashville Tigers, but underneath that surface beats the heart of a good man, so when he says nice things to me, my gut knows it’s not because I’m special. He’d help any girl out.

“He was . . .” A dick. “Someone I met on this app. I figured if he liked emus, we’d have something to talk about.” I raise my gaze to his, trying to get him to understand my logic, but he’s frowning. “Then he tried to mess with my necklace, and nobody touches Nana’s pearls.” I twist the strand in question, pulling them up to press my lips to them for a second.

“What else did he do?” he asks gruffly. His eyes land on my necklace as I settle it around my throat, then move to my mouth. I wish I had lipstick on.

I steady the ice pack on my face and try to will my heart to slow down. Can he hear how fast it’s beating? “He mentioned reverse cowgirl, which sounds fun with the right person, but ugh, not him . . .”

Oops. Something about Devon makes my tongue loose—or maybe it’s the whiskey. Regardless, that position sounds hot. I imagine it takes strong leg muscles for the female. I run almost every day, so I could hang. Where would my hands go? Behind me on his hips or in front of me for balance? Either way, I’d be faced away from my partner, alleviating inhibitions. If I can get my hands free, there’s access to my own pleasure. It’s settled. Reverse cowgirl is going to the top of my How Giselle Gets Her Groove Back list.

“Your face is red, Giselle. You feeling okay?”

I clear my throat, shaking those images away. “It’s hot in here.”

“Take your jacket off,” he says. “You’re making me sweat just looking at it.”

After setting down the ice pack, I unbutton the blazer, slide it off my arms, and toss it on the table, then notice how damp my white silk shell is. My lace demi bra is clearly defined, but the cool air is a religious experience. I undo the first three buttons of the shirt and wave the delicate lapels.

“So, so much better.” I groan as my hands tug at the bobby pins in my hair and place them in a neat line on the table. Massaging my scalp, I straighten out the long tangles, moaning at the sensation. “I need Chris Hemsworth to rub my feet, and it just might make this day bearable.” I kick my sensible shoes off and wiggle my toes.

“Isn’t he married?” Devon mutters. I raise my head from where I was leaning it back over the chair and take him in. He’s moved a foot away and rubs the back of his neck. His eyes linger on my blouse, then slide away.

“Not in another universe,” I say in a light tone. “Someday I’ll tell you my ideas on the multiverse. In one of those, there’s a world where it’s entirely possible he’s married to me, and we have ten kids.”

“Damn.” He laughs. I melt.

“In the Giselle-and-Chris universe, he can’t keep his hands off me, and we procreate like bunnies on Viagra. He’s not a movie star but an architect, and we live in a villa he built for me in the French Alps. I spend my days researching dark matter, baking cookies, and crocheting baby booties. My nights, well, those are devoted to him.”

His lips twitch. “Where am I in this universe?”

I cup my chin. “You’re a teenage girl who works at Cinnabon with a penchant for charm bracelets, bubble gum, and pink berets. On the weekends, your dark side emerges, and you sneak out your bedroom window to spray-paint meaningful graffiti on billboards.”

He gives me a full-blown smile, lush lips curving. The effect is devastating, and I suck in a breath. “Quite the imagination there, Bunny. You amaze me.”

I blush. “My randomness drives my family insane.” I pause. “I can’t decide if your nickname should be Cinnamon or Pinky. Thoughts?”

“Neither. I only answer to Badass.”

“Spoilsport.”

Devon searches my face. “Back to the online-dating thing. My cousin Selena did that and barely got out of the car with some guy she met. Dangerous to use.”

I sigh, regretting the loss of our banter. If he only knew that in one of my other universes, he ravishes me on a bathroom countertop. He’s him, sexy with rippling naked muscles, and I’m some girl he picked up on the side of the road as I was running away from an evil bridegroom. I’m wearing a ruined white dress, and I have long pink hair—but glasses, because yes, I must appear intelligent in every universe. He’s in deep lust from the moment I get in his Maserati, and he takes me home—where he makes me his. I chide myself internally. No wonder I can’t keep up in my classes. I live in my own head too much to focus on the facts. There’s no universe where Devon and I are together.

I blame these vivid thoughts on the virgin issue. It’s taunted me horribly for five months, since Preston’s parting words when he admitted to cheating. If you won’t give it to me, what did you expect, Giselle? You’re frigid.

I was his fiancée (for almost a month), and I still couldn’t . . . well, want him. I just kind of fell into dating him, then accepted his proposal.

And now, here I am, trying to prove I’m normal, looking for love in all the wrong places. That’s a country song, I think.

“Just because you have women all over you doesn’t mean that the average person has it so easy,” I say rather hotly. “I made sure to not come alone, and I wasn’t planning on leaving with him. I had a plan. I have a plan each time.”

He takes a step toward me, indignation on his face. “You’ve done this more than once?”

My brow comes down, annoyance sparking at his incredulous tone. “The first guy, Albert, was a handsome accountant. I met him at Starbucks. Things were going fine until he showed me a pic of his ex on his phone and started crying. Apparently she wanted him to put a ring on it, and he has commitment issues. I advised him to talk to her.”