Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)

“Elena is the town librarian. She does the most adorable story hour on Tuesdays and Thursdays with the preschoolers. She loves kids so much. It’s why she became a librarian.”

I groan inwardly. Lie! She’s making me out to be some ready-to-settle-down-and-have-kids woman. I want to someday when I meet the right person. I love my job because there are books, but story hour with the three- and four-year-olds is like herding angry cats. Topher does a better job than I do.

She’s still talking. “You should stop by sometime. They have a new biography section.” Mama flashes a smile at him. “You did mention you love biographies.”

“I did indeed.” His voice is a tad dry, and he raises an eyebrow at Mama.

I bite back a grin. He’s no dummy, and I bet he’s seen plenty of matchmaking mamas since his wife passed. He knows dang well he’s being maneuvered into a wedding about a year from now.

Aunt Clara whispers in my ear as Mama keeps talking to Patrick. “I’d do him. I may have to start coming more regular.”

“Yeah, what would Scotty say about that?” I whisper back. “I’m betting he walked to your house last night and left before dawn. Hussy. When are you going to make a decent man of him?”

She gives me a little pinch on my arm—subtly, so no one notices—and I cough to cover up my laugh.

I dart a look at her face, and she’s glowing. Probably thinking about Scotty putting his mail in her slot . . .

She blushes at my scrutiny. “I like it on the down low—isn’t that what you kids call it? More exciting.”

She elbows me, and I see that Mama is glaring at us, and I figure we’ve missed something.

Oh yeah. The preacher.

Mr. Rhodes meets my eyes; then his gaze drifts down and lands squarely on my shoes. Four-inch heels and delicate. I pranced around in them for several minutes trying to get the feel of them.

His gaze comes back to my face, a slow grin there. “Nice to meet you.”

I nod as he takes my hand and shakes it. “Welcome to Daisy, Mr. Rhodes. I’m glad you’re here.” And I am. The former preacher was seventy and had needed to retire years before.

“Call me Patrick, please. Cynthia talks about you constantly. She says you’re doing the play again this year, Romeo and Juliet? I’m going to check it out myself.”

Talks about me constantly to him? I wince.

She really is worried about me. Underneath all her blustering about how I need to settle down, she must sense I’m at a crossroads; something inside me is stirring to break out. She’s probably terrified I may move back to New York.

“Of course. You should.” I paste on a smile.

There’s a tiny glint of interest there in his gaze.

Well, heck, if the shoes don’t deter him . . .

Nope. Nope. Nope.

I could never be a preacher’s girlfriend or wife.

I like whiskey and vibrators and sexy lingerie—

“Thank you, yes, glad to be here,” says the deep, unmistakable voice behind me, and every muscle inside me stiffens in disbelief (and relief?) as I turn to see Jack. He’s just come in the door and is chatting with the couple designated to be greeters. Mama totally dashed past them, but he hasn’t.

A dark scruff shadows his jawline, as if he didn’t have time to shave, and his hair is slightly damp, as if he’s recently showered.

“What the heck?” I say.

Mama elbows me. “Who is that?”

“J-a-c-k.”

Aunt Clara giggles. “And now she’s spelling words. Somebody get the smelling salts.”

What? No. I shake my head.

“Why, I believe that’s the Tigers quarterback,” Patrick murmurs. “Wow. You really did fill up the pews, Cynthia.”

Mama just shrugs.

Jack slowly turns and looks at me.

He gives me a smile, a flash of white teeth on his tanned face, his eyes crinkling in the corners. He rakes a hand through his dark waves, his gaze sweeping over me before coming back to my face. He gets a hesitant look on his face, seeming to waver, but then takes the steps to reach us.

“Elena.”

He says my name slowly, the tone warm with a hint of bemusement.

I feel a slow blush starting at my toes and growing all the way up to my face.

I can’t even. My ability to even is severely warped.

What . . . is . . . he . . . doing . . . here?

Several seconds pass as we stare at each other, and in my head I’m seeing him last night in the rain . . .

Clara has popped out her lace fan, and she’s swishing it around furiously.

Mama turns beady eyes on me. Waiting for an introduction. I refuse.

My mouth opens and closes more than once, and Jack sees it all.

How flustered I am.

He can probably see my nipples tightening inside my bra.