Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)

“I need to get going. Nice to meet you, Jack. Take care.”

She pivots and ducks her head out of the protection of my shirt and moves to her car.

“Elena!”

She turns and looks at me. “Yeah?”

I lick my lips, my shirt clenched in my hands, rain falling harder now, the drops hitting me on the face. “You’re the first girl I’ve been with in a year.”

I don’t know how long we stand there; maybe it’s only a few moments, but I’m cataloging everything she does, committing it to memory. The way her eyes flare, the rise and fall of her chest. Disbelief crosses her delicate face, her gaze searching mine.

Then she turns back around, opens her car door, and gets in.

I close my eyes, and a long sigh comes from me. You suck so bad, Jack.

She backs up and drives away, and I watch her taillights get smaller and smaller.

I look up at the dark sky, processing, planning.

I whip my cell out of my pocket and press Lawrence’s number.

“Yo!” he answers. “Where did you go? I can’t find you in here. Quinn can’t either. This place is packed. Devon said you took off. We should talk—”

“Did you find out her last name?”

He pauses, and I can hear the music from the club bleeding in through the phone. “This girl is not your type, Jack.”

“Who is she?” My hand grips the phone.

“You should be focusing on your career right now. Let’s have a meeting with your agent this week. Maybe we can get that Adidas endorsement back—”

“It’s dead. Aiden told me tonight he’s already got a meeting with them. Let it go.”

He lets out a string of curses. “Sonofabitch. That young buck is riding your coattails so hard—”

“Don’t care about the money, Lawrence. Tell me about the girl.”

He sighs. “Elena Michelle Riley from Daisy, age twenty-six, librarian. Father dead, mother alive. One sibling. Never been married or arrested or dated a professional athlete. Moved here from New York and moved in her grandmother’s house.” He pauses. “I’m never doing this shit for you again. I’m supposed to be fixing your image, not checking out your hookups.”

I detect hesitation in his voice.

“Yeah? What else?” I want to know fucking everything about her.

“She lives with a man.”

Jealousy spikes.

“His name?”

“Topher Wainscott. Your girl is taken. Let it go.”

Topher . . . hmm.

“Address?”

He blows out a long breath. “Seriously, Jack? You can’t show up at her house. She never signed that NDA.”

“I’m not an idiot, Lawrence. Give it to me.”

He rattles off an address, and I imprint it to my memory.

“Thanks. Later.” I hang up on him while he’s still lecturing me about not getting involved.

I’m walking to my Porsche, and just before I open the door, I pause, backpedaling in my head. Shit. I accused her of being a stalker, and here I am . . .

Fuck it.

I know how she looked at me tonight in the VIP room, even when we were “arguing.” I know she came three times, and she never has with a man. I know she giggles when I kiss the inside of her knee; I know how she moans when I suck that spot on her neck—

Yeah. Oh, yeah.

There’s something there, and whatever it is, it’s something I want again.

Chapter 13

ELENA

Around eleven, I pull up at my house and dash inside from the rain.

After pouring a small splash of Pappy from Nana’s well-stocked cupboard, I pace around, thinking about Jack. I picture him in the rain telling me who he was, and I can see there’s more to him than just a bad-boy football player, and it’s a little dangerous and a whole lot of sexy.

A shaky breath comes from me.

Forget him.

Even if it was the first time for him in a year. Right?

But why has he waited so long?

Was it the pain of his breakup with his ex and then the book she wrote? Maybe.

And he’s . . . shy?

I can’t imagine it, because he knew exactly how to charm me at the penthouse.

Then again, for a man like him, maybe he wasn’t referring to sex, per se, but to himself in general. Maybe sex is a whole new category for him, a way he lets himself go—

And now I’m horny.

Ugh.

Inevitably I end up in my sewing room with its high ceilings and heavy antique chandelier. This used to be Nana’s room, where she’d make me and Giselle matching dresses. Her sewing machine still sits in the corner, an ancient black Singer made of heavy cast iron. My space is directly in front of the bay window, a drafting table where I sketch my designs, a professional serger, and two sewing machines. Mannequins and dress forms dot the room, each one covered with one of my lingerie. Silk, lace, sequins, thread, ribbons, and scraps of fabric are arranged in neat order on shelves that Topher helped me put together.