Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)

“Nothing to say?” he asks softly.

I get it now. Greg is way ahead of me in the sexy-times department. I bet he’s banging chicks left and right. Weather groupies. After all, he’s practically a celebrity in Nashville—with a book about him! And here I am. Wasting away my prime years with a vibrator.

“That sounds lovely.” I keep my face composed, hoping it’s not bloodred. Heck, Preston wore a full set of pajamas to bed. A full set! Including socks. Those stinky, smelly black socks.

“Lovely?” He smiles. “That’s one way to describe it.”

I change the topic. “Preston is dating my sister. Do you see her over there?” My back is to them, but I nudge my head toward the middle of the restaurant. “She’s the tall pretty one. They met at our Fourth of July family barbecue last year when she moved back to Nashville.”

“Shit.”

“Double shit.” I gulp down the rest of my drink. The waiter dashes over with a new one.

“My ex wanted me to put a ring on it. Couldn’t do it, so she got back at me with the book.” He pauses. “She wasn’t the one.”

I snort. “The mythical one. I’ve come to believe there is no special person.”

He nods eagerly. “I’m with you. I’m not into relationships. All they bring is pain.”

I lean in over the table until we’re closer. “Preston couldn’t even find my c-l-i-t. It’s like . . . he didn’t try hard enough with me, and I guess something inside me, woman’s intuition, knew something was missing, but I ignored that voice in my head.” I wince as soon as I realize what I’ve revealed.

What am I doing? I’m being too flirtatious. I spelled clit! I sigh, backpedaling. “I’m sorry. I keep rambling. This whole Valentine’s Day blind date was a mistake—”

“Not a mistake, Elena.”

Chapter 4

JACK

I can’t believe I brought up Sophia and her tell-all about me. She may have been beautiful and said she loved me, but in the end, her true colors came out. I swallow, glancing down at my scotch. I’ve only had one, for Christ’s sake, yet I’m saying way too much. For some reason the thought of Elena reading about me being a bad-tempered jock with a penchant for drinking and hitting women is unsettling. It isn’t the image I want to leave her with at all.

She’s so . . .

I bite back a smile. She’s almost shy, yet not, speaking with a directness I appreciate.

Feeling a gaze on me, and not a friendly one, I look over her shoulder and frown at Preston, who’s sending me furtive side-eyes in between cooing at his date.

I try to imagine what it must be like for her to live in a small town and see them constantly.

Pure hell.

I know how reporters and fans look at me. Party boy. Rude. Super Bowl loser.

She leans in over the table, and her scent wafts around me, sweet and fresh, like honey mixed with spring flowers.

How long has it been since you got to meet someone who isn’t judging you on your past?

Fuck that.

How long since you got laid?

“What’s it like to be on TV?” She’s wrapped up in her pasta, her movements graceful, yet she’s consuming every bite. She gets another piece of bread.

Anxiousness tugs at me. I don’t like lying to her. “All eyes are waiting for me to make a mistake, and after the week I’ve had, my career might just be over.” It’s the truth.

Her hand that’s resting on the table reaches out and touches mine briefly before pulling back. “I’m sorry. That sounds terrible.”

When she moved, the candlelight accentuated the sheer quality of her shirt, and I freeze at the color underneath, something pink and sexy. Heat, hot and searing, flashes straight to my dick.

I’m caught up in wondering how she’d feel underneath me, those legs tight around my waist, her full breasts against my bare chest, those little heels digging into my back—

Just stop, Jack.

I grow silent, frowning, my head going back to the long line of faceless women who’ve drifted in and out of my life. Elena isn’t my type. She’s nursing a broken heart, and she’s . . . nice. But damn, this knot of worry and tension in my chest is killing me.

My fingers tap the table; I watch her as she eats the last piece of bread. I’m wired, my eyes moving from her to the people in the restaurant as I finish my drink, wondering when someone’s going to come over and ask for an autograph or tell me I’m an asshole, and shit, I don’t want her to know what people really think of me . . .

She studies me. “You’re quiet.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I frown. I don’t know how to explain what a tough week it’s been without revealing who I am.

Which I should! Right now.