Jock Romeo (Jock Hard 6)

Her eyes widen and her intake of breath is audible. It has my own face turning hot, wondering if this was a mistake. He knows his mother better than I do—what if she makes more of this than it is? (Which is nothing.)

“Hi Mrs…”

I glance down at Roman, waiting for him to supply his last name, our faces mere inches apart.

“Whitaker,” his mom answers for him.

“Hi, Mrs. Whitaker. My name is Lilly. Roman gave me some of your spaghetti the other night, and it was wonderful—some of the best spaghetti I’ve ever had. And I consider myself a connoisseur.” I laugh good-naturedly.

I’m a people person; I may be shit when it comes to picking out men worthy of my time and affection, but I’m hella great with parents.

And old people.

Also: small children and pets.

Mrs. Whitaker’s eyes flit back and forth from me to Roman and Roman to me, and it’s clear she is stunned and not sure what to say. It takes her a few seconds to gather her wits, and she sits up a little bit straighter in her chair. It looks as though she must be in the kitchen or in a dining room, seated at a table the same way we are seated at a table, though one is certainly more formal.

“You’ve tried my spaghetti?” She looks at Roman again. “You should have come to dinner on Sunday night. Roman, why didn’t you invite her to dinner on Sunday night?”

His body sags beneath my palms. “I did, Mom.”

“I would’ve loved to come for dinner, Mrs. Whitaker, but I was in a bit of a slump and wanted some alone time.” I’m still smiling over his shoulder, the clean, freshly showered smell of him filling my nostrils, and mmm…it’s a bit distracting, honestly. “It was really nice of your son to bring me leftovers though. His new roommates are some of my best friends—that’s how we met.”

I’m assuming that’s something she was about to ask, how the two of us met, so I fill in the blanks for him.

Guys are so different from girls; while Roman just sits there staring at his mother, I already know she wants actual details about our relationship.

She’s a woman and I’m a woman—details are my jam.

“Where are you from, Lilly?”

“Plainfield, just four hours from here. Give or take, depending on who’s driving.”

His mother nods, grinning from ear to ear. “And you met Rome through friends?”

“Yes, his new roommate Eliza used to be my roommate.”

“And now you and Rome are having lunch together?”

Oh boy. “Yes, ma’am. We happened to bump into each other while I was sitting here. He bought me a burger.” I lift the burger from its paper wrapper and hold it up for the camera. Beside me, Roman groans.

Mrs. Whitaker looks thrilled. “He bought you a burger? That was so sweet.”

It really was.

“He’s very thoughtful.”

Roman’s mother slowly bobs her head up and down at my words, and I know she’s trying to decipher them. Very thoughtful—friend zone thoughtful or romantic interest thoughtful?

Put that out of your mind, ma’am. We are not going to be dating simply because your son bought me lunch in the student union.

Mrs. Whitaker seems exactly like the type of mother who is dying to have grandkids even though her son is still in college and barely of legal drinking age. She’s also probably the type of mother who brings up wanting grandchildren all the time, and I don’t doubt for a second that seeing me on her son’s phone screen is filling her with all kinds of hope.

She’s probably already planning our wedding even though she’s just heard my name for the first time and Roman and I aren’t dating, let alone boyfriend and girlfriend.

“What are you doing on Sunday? We have family dinner at our house and I would love to invite you.”

“Mom,” Roman chastises with embarrassment in his tone.

“What? I can invite your friends for dinner!”

“No, you can’t just invite my friends to dinner.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t even know if she’s got anything going on,” he says stiffly. “I don’t want her to feel pressured.”

They’re discussing the matter as if I’m not standing right here listening to the entire conversation. But to ease Roman’s obviously troubled mind about it, I paste a smile on my face and gently say, “Thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Whitaker. I’ll definitely think about it. I have a lot going on—I’m a cheerleader, so I’ll have to check the schedule and see if I’m in town.”

Her eyes get wide. “A cheerleader? Oh, how exciting! Don’t you just love it?”

It’s the same question most people ask, more of a conversation filler than a question they expect an elaborate, detailed answer to.

“Yes,” I tell her simply—because it would be too complicated for me to explain I feel forced into it by years of financial investment and time commitment on my family’s behalf, because my mother wanted me to be a star.