Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)

“You could say I know him. Excuse me, Devon, someone owes me an apology.”

His eyes flare. “You know Jack? He owes you an apology?”

“Winner, winner, chicken dinner.” I set my plate down on a passing platter and point my stilettos in his direction.

I’m going to kill that quarterback.

It seems to take forever to cross the room to get to where he is, and I feel people looking at me. No doubt they’re wondering who I am and why I’m so much shorter than the supermodels. F them. I may not be the usual for this crowd, but I will get my say.

I have to actually push through several people to get to him, using my shoulders to jam my way into his little circle. This isn’t me at all, but I’m running on adrenaline. I come to a halt about three feet away while he gazes down at a redhead in a tiny cutout black dress that’s at least two sizes too small. She’s got ruby lips and the biggest set of breasts I’ve seen on a girl so skinny. Good for her. An elegant hand curls around his biceps as she smiles up at him and chats. I cock my head, noticing how he looks past her, nodding his head, but he isn’t actually talking, just taking it in, a slightly bored expression on his face. Oh, he’s responding with nonverbal cues in all the right places, yet his mind seems far away.

I know because I stand there for at least three minutes, tapping my feet, getting my nerve up. Kinda hoping he sees me first. But he doesn’t. I’m too short.

On the other side, the blonde has her arm on his other shoulder; she’s leaning in, her silky hair brushing against his fancy button-up shirt, another expensive piece of tailored art. She’s speaking, too, agreeing with whatever Miss Red is saying. Then I’m distracted; his sleeves are rolled up, and my eyes get tangled up on those forearms again, how taut and muscular they are, how tightly he held me the night before, his hands on my hips as he thrust inside me—

Stop this nonsense right now.

“Jack Hawke,” I snap, and it comes out sharper than I thought it would.

Everyone around him stops talking.

He lifts his head slowly, and it seems to take a million years, only I’m sure it’s just a few seconds until those honey-colored eyes meet mine. His lush mouth parts as he sweeps me over from head to foot, recognition dawning on his face. A slow flush crawls up his neck to his face.

Then he frowns at me, as if I’ve done something wrong—when he’s the one who’s a liar.

That’s right, buddy.

I bet you thought you’d never see me again.

Yes, he wrote me a note with a cell number, but was it even real?

The girls check me out, and you know how that goes. They give me a once-over, rather dismissive and amused, taking in my glasses, teased hair, sweaty face, and pants. God, who can forget these horrible, tight, sticky pants? How the heck will I ever get them off me? Scissors.

“Elena.”

The way he says it, drawing out the syllables, the texture of his deep voice making me shiver.

I close my eyes briefly, feeling the force of his focus and presence like a huge hurricane that’s blowing straight in my face. He’s primal. He’s the god of fucking.

And I climbed him like a tree and enjoyed every moment.

And he did too.

I had him begging for it. Begging me to—

A tingle zips down my spine.

Screw that tingle.

I inhale a deep breath, my fists curling at my sides. “Weatherman, where are my panties?”

Chapter 11

ELENA

Jack does a slow blink just as Devon appears next to me, and although I’m not looking at him, I feel his eyes darting from me to Jack.

Jack shakes off the girls and moves toward us, his focus squarely on me, a scowl burrowing into his forehead as he leans down, keeping his voice low. “What are you doing here? Why haven’t you called me?”

Oh. Okay, maybe the cell number was real. I was too mad to try and also worried some weirdo might pick up, and then I’d have to ask, Are you Jack Hawke, famous football player I had sex with who kept my panties? I would have gotten around to calling the number eventually because my curiosity would have driven me nuts, but today I just needed . . . a day to process.

I feign composure, tilting my chin up. I ignore his last question. “I happen to love this club. I party here all the time.”

He studies me. “No, you don’t. Did you know I’d be here tonight?”

I scoff, frowning. What is wrong with him? “No.”

“Are you a reporter?” he snaps.

I gape. Jesus. He may be the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, but please.