Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)

Shit. Perhaps she isn’t sympathetic at all.

Perhaps it’s all a ruse to get a story from me.

Several seconds go by as neither of us speaks, and she squirms a little in her chair, her eyes following me. It’s rude to keep eating, but no reporter or blogger or random person is going to keep me from—

She chews on her plump red lips, as if she’s angry. Full and overly lush, they’re a deep crimson. A little sinful.

Behind big white glasses, her eyes hold mine for several moments. A vivid aquamarine color, outlined in black and heavily lashed, they spear me with sudden ferocity. “You know, I think it’s rude you started dinner without me—even after I texted you and said I’d be late.”

“Didn’t see your text, and I was starving. Sorry.” I shrug nonchalantly, not sounding sorry at all.

The server scurries over to our table, straightening his black suit.

“Sir.” He darts his eyes at . . . whoever she is . . . and then comes back to me. “I’m so sorry she got past. You know it’s the busiest night of the year. Please forgive me. Would you like me to call security?”

Black Pumps goes from all nerves to annoyance. She glares at the waiter with laser focus, her face indignant. “I’m sitting right here. And I’m supposed to be here. It was arranged. This is a date.”

My eyes flare. Surely she means work date?

She straightens her spine and sends a longing look at my pasta. “And I’d like whatever he’s having with extra bread.” She waves her hand at my bowl of half-finished bolognese. “And a glass of red. No. Make that a gin and tonic with a double shot of Hendrick’s with a cucumber. In fact, if you could just keep those drinks coming, that would be fantastic. Thank you.” Her voice has just a tiny bit of that southern accent that makes everything she says sweet yet layered with a tenacity that almost makes my lips twitch. She reminds me of a little poodle my mom had once, ready to pounce at any moment if there’s an injustice.

The waiter blinks at her, then glances back at me, a pleading expression on his face. “Sir, again, my deepest apologies—”

I wave him off, making an impulsive decision, brushing away the reminder that those ideas tend to get me in trouble. “No worries. Let’s feed the lady, yes?”

He bows deeply and darts away, and I turn my eyes back to the girl.

I study her features carefully, cataloging them more, instead of the cursory glance a few minutes ago. She’s not beautiful in a magazine way, but there’s something captivating about her. Could be the stuffy, conservative clothes that hint at soft curves underneath. Maybe it’s the lips. Most definitely the lips. And whether it’s unintentional or not, she’s using them to her advantage, one minute pursing them, the next chewing on the bottom one.

As one of the best quarterbacks in the league, one of my special skill sets is reading facial expressions and tics that telegraph a play on the field. And I can’t help but notice that she looks at me as if I’m no one special, no glint of excitement in her eyes, no fluttering lashes, no awe at the weight the name Jack Hawke carries. Fascinating.

“Is that . . . are those tiny flying pigs on your shirt?” I ask as I narrow my gaze, taking in the white shirt buttoned up to a black velvet Peter Pan collar.

“Yes. The fabric is from a designer in New York. I ordered it a month ago and went crazy. I even made Romeo a pillow.”

“Is that the new wide receiver for the Saints? Drafted last year?”

She cocks her head. “Hardly. He’s my little potbellied pig. A teacup. He’s a rescue and the sweetest. Okay, maybe not the sweetest, but I couldn’t resist taking him in when someone dumped him off at the Cut ’N’ Curl across from my house. He was near death’s door. Just last month, someone left a box of kittens on my front porch with a note addressed to me; can you believe it? It’s like they know I’ll take care of them. I found homes for all of them except for one of the males. You interested? He’s black and gray, adorable, and litter trained; I swear.”

I huff out a laugh. This girl is—

If Romeo is a miniature pig and not a football player—what the hell is going on?

“I’ll pass on the cat.”

“Every man needs a cat. Might make you softer.”

“Do I need to be softer?”

“Wouldn’t hurt. Might take more than one cat to do the trick, though. You seem . . .” She waves her hands around. “Tense.”

She has no idea.

“I see.”

“Are you a dog person, then?” she asks.

“I don’t have time for pets.”