Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)

“Whoa! Give me a warning next time,” she says as I sweep her up again and carry her into the den, setting her on one of the chairs. “Jack, I’m soaked! I don’t want to ruin your furniture.”

“I’m more worried about your knees than my stupid chair.” She looks up at me, hair wet and stuck to her face, her clothes dripping. Mine aren’t any better. She shivers, rubbing her arms as she stands.

My body clenches as I take her in, how her skirt clings to those full curves. Mind out of the gutter, Jack. She isn’t here for that.

“Do you mind if I use a towel?” She chews on her bottom lip. “Maybe borrow some old clothes? I can get them back to you at rehearsal.”

I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at her longer than I should have. Right, right.

I nod. “Yeah.”

She heads to the bathroom, and I dash to my bedroom, yanking open the drawers of my chest for something that might fit her. I find a pair of shorts with a drawstring and an old practice shirt from my college days. After I knock on the door, she reaches out and takes them, a fluffy white towel wrapped around her chest. I see creamy shoulders and avert my gaze. “Put these on, and when you’re dressed, let me take a look at those knees.”

“Jack, you don’t have to do that. I can wash up in here.”

“No. I want to see them. Meet you in the den.”

“Thank you.” Her lashes flutter against her cheeks as she nods, taking the clothes and shutting the door.

Five minutes later, after changing into a pair of joggers and a T-shirt, I come out to the den holding antiseptic and bandages. She’s sitting back in the chair I put her in, hands clasped as she looks around the room. Her expression is reserved, her shoulders tense as she waits for me, and I sigh.

Fucking penthouse.

She doesn’t want to be here, and I know it, but my real home is two blocks from here.

Would you have taken her there anyway? a voice says in my head.

I don’t know!

Maybe.

Stop.

Just stop.

You need to stay away from any romantic involvement with her.

Plus, she’s too good for you. She wants more than you can give. Remember.

Right.

But it’s . . . her.

And I’ve never . . .

She smiles at the wad of bandages I have in my hand. “You look serious. Are my knees that bad?”

“Uh, yeah.” Shit, I can’t seem to think straight. I sit on the floor in front of her, my eyes running over her from head to foot. I clear my throat, and my voice is gruffer than I intended. “You look good in my clothes.”

She blushes, and I watch as the color rises.

“What? Why are you staring at my face?”

I focus on her knees. “Never realized how much I enjoy a girl who still blushes.”

“Oh.”

We stare at each other. I exhale.

Have I ever stared at a girl this much in my entire life?

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Her gaze drops first. “Warning here. One reason I couldn’t do med school is I’m a big scaredy-cat when it comes to blood. Crazy. I passed out once when a window broke at Nana’s when I was trying to lift it. It was old and stuck, and I pushed too hard and cut my hand. It bled everywhere. And I hate pain. Like, I might cry.”

“Right. Your knees,” I murmur as I tear open an alcohol wipe and brush it across her lacerations. There are several on each knee, and I dab as gently as I can.

“Stings! Oh my God!” She inhales a sharp breath and clenches the side of the chair. “Jack, Jack, talk to me; tell me something good or funny or something, please!”

I huff out a laugh. “I love Justin Bieber’s music. Listen to it when I run.” I give her a fake hard look. “You are sworn to secrecy. If Devon knew, he’d never let me forget it.”

She gives me a wide-eyed look. “No way.”

“Yes way. ‘Love Yourself’ is my favorite.”

“Sing it.”

I hum the first few lines.

“Don’t stop,” she murmurs, eyes on my face.

“Kinda hard to concentrate and work on your knees.”

“Pretty pleeeeaasse.”

I scoff but start the song again, singing the words, getting all the way to the chorus. I feel my own blush rising. I can’t sing worth shit.

I look up at her. “How you feeling?”

She’s watching me intently. She licks her lips. Swallows. “You know any Taylor Swift? I mean, if you like the Biebs . . .”

I laugh. “Right. That’s me, football player who digs pop music. Sorry, don’t know all the words to hers.”

She arches a brow. “How about Meghan Trainor’s ‘All about That Bass’? That’s my theme song, and if you sing it, maybe I’ll leave you the pie.”