Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)

Aunt Clara does a fist pump in the air. “The Daisy Lady Gang strikes again. We own this town. Nobody compares to our casseroles—or your mama’s matchmaking.”

“The plan is . . . there is no plan,” I say curtly.

Mama continues, as if I didn’t speak. “His wife died three years ago, bless her heart, and you know he’s lonely.”

I picture an old man with gray hair and a Bible.

Lord.

Help me.

I let out a sigh. “You both need to be committed to the nuthouse. If I’d known this was your plan, I never would have promised.”

Mama shrugs. “I just think you need to start dating; that way it will be easier when Preston and Giselle, you know . . .” She sends me a careful look.

“When they get married,” I say flatly.

Aunt Clara makes a gagging motion.

Mama scowls at her. “Stop it, Clara. This is serious. Elena is the oldest, and she should be the one getting married. She’s going to be an old maid—”

I send a beseeching look up at the sky. Lord, I’m serious. I know I haven’t been the best girl, especially this weekend, but please help me deal with my pushy mother.

“Stop wavering, and come on, Elena,” Mama says, tugging on my arm.

I glare at her. She’s done worse. My senior year in high school, when my boyfriend suddenly dumped me a week before the prom, she called a girlfriend in Nashville and convinced her to send her college son down to take me. He did. He showed up in a limo with a rented tux to match my dress, plus a beautiful corsage. We went to prom and barely spoke to each other. My friends were so infatuated with him they spent most of the time talking to him and not me.

Mama is a well-oiled machine with secret ways. Scary.

“Mama. This is the twenty-first century. I don’t ever have to get married. I can live with Topher until the day I die,” I say, lowering my voice as several parishioners walk past us, murmuring “Good morning” as they take us in.

Mama eyeballs them, too, her spine straightening. “Let’s not discuss Topher.”

I know she has an issue with him, although it’s not that he’s gay—which is surprising. But he is a man, and he does live with me, and that causes talk in town. When she first questioned me about Topher living with me, I got ruffled and put my foot down hard. Nana left me that house, and it is mine. I may let her push me around some, but when it comes to the people I love . . . nope.

The steeple bell rings, and I drag my feet, debating running back to my car.

Mama knows. “Look, you’re already here; just shake his hand at the door, and that’s all I ask. You do work at the library—right next door. You’re going to meet him eventually. Plus, you never know when you’ll need a preacher. They can be handy. He’s quite forward thinking, too, painting the church white and asking for new hymnals. He’s like you. Modern.”

He is nothing like me.

Aunt Clara gives me a grin. “What she’s not telling you is she invited him to Sunday lunch. She’s made a chicken casserole and homemade yeast rolls. Heard there might be okra and cheddar mashed potatoes.”

“Ohh, big guns,” I say.

“And we’re using the good china.” Mama beams.

“Monogrammed napkins?” I ask.

She nods.

“And I bet you got fresh flowers for the table,” I add.

She grins.

I curse under my breath.

Aunt Clara holds her hands up. “FYI, I got nothing to do with the preacher. It’s that weatherman I want to hear about. I heard he’s quite a player.” She giggles, and I narrow my eyes. Topher. Those two are thick as thieves.

“Topher told you?” I hiss at her. When did he have time? I bet he texted her. Ugh.

She just grins.

We open the door and walk inside. Mama immediately bypasses several members at the entrance who call out her name, giving them her practiced smile as she drags me toward a man near the front of the auditorium.

Mama nudges me in front of her like a prize goat.

“Patrick, dear, this is my daughter Elena.” She’s got her hand on his arm like a vise as he turns around.

I arch my brow at her. Oh, a first-name basis. I’m not surprised.

Okay. Well. Patrick Rhodes is a nice-looking man, scholarly almost, with thick sandy-colored hair and intelligent eyes behind black-rimmed modern-style frames. He’s not too handsome—like someone I know—and even resembles my ex from college. Mama. I sigh. She knows my type.

“Hi.” His voice is nice and deep, and he’s tall with a lean build that fills out his blue suit very well. He’s younger than I expected, maybe midthirties.

What happened to his wife? I’m sure Mama knows.

Her hand is tight on my arm, as if I might bolt for the door at any moment. She’s holding us both hostage. Maniacal woman.