Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)

“Daisy is home now, Marvin.”

Even if Jack and I don’t work out, I love this place.

A long exhale comes from him. He munches on a chip. “Okay, there’s something else, and I swear it has nothing to do with the job offer.”

“Okay.”

“You remember that book we published a while back, Sophia Blaine’s story, The Real Jack Hawke?”

“Piece of trash.”

“Ah, well, yeah, you were here when she came to New York and met with our team.”

“I didn’t meet with her. That wasn’t my department.” Uneasiness fills my gut. Two weeks ago after Jack saw Sophia, he came back strange, asking me if there was anything I should tell him, and while my former job did cross my mind, I stayed quiet. I’d told him I used to edit romance. Surely, it wouldn’t matter.

“Right, right, but you are seeing him, Elena. Hell, I barely keep up with football, but my son does, and he told me he saw you in that video and a photo on a morning show.”

I frown. “What does that have to do with anything? My personal life is private.”

“I know, but Carla Marsden—you remember her—she handled that book, and she saw the video too. She came in and asked if I’d give you a call—”

“Marvin! I’m not telling her anything about Jack! I’m not Sophia Blaine.” My voice has risen, and Jack darts his eyes at me, a questioning look on his face. I smile and turn to the side, putting my face away from him. “It’s not cool for you to even ask me about him.”

“Agreed. I don’t like it, but she asked because she knows you and I are close. And she doesn’t want you to write some nutty book about Jack. She wants his story. She was never thrilled with Sophia, even though that book sold like hotcakes—”

“His story is his. Why are you asking me?” My tone is aggravated.

“Because nobody can get close to him. His agent doesn’t take publishers’ calls for him. His PR guy doesn’t respond to anything from Carla. No one even has an address for Jack to mail an offer. She can’t get through.”

“For a reason!”

He sighs. “But if he did want to tell his story, she wants it. And she’s using me to get to you, and shit, I’m sorry. I’ve totally fucked up this convo when I really would love to have you back at Blue Stone.”

My hands tighten around the phone. “Tell her I barely know him, Marvin.”

And that stings, even though I know that isn’t true. I do know him.

But I don’t know what we are.

“You’re pissed at me.”

I sigh. “You offer me a job, then throw that at me?”

“But I offer you a job all the time, Elena. I meant that. I only brought him up because her department is bigger, and she’s foaming at the mouth to talk to him.”

And underneath his big smile, he’s a publisher. A good one.

“Would you get a cut if Jack signed with Blue Stone through me, Marvin?”

“Don’t know. Maybe. Yeah.”

I swallow, feeling shaken, just now realizing the ramifications of that video, how terrible for Jack to never have even an ounce of privacy. And Marvin is my friend—yet here he is, using me to get to Jack.

“I’m angry with you,” I say tightly, lowering my voice to a whisper.

He sighs heavily. “Yeah. Cora said you’d be. But I had to try.”

I circle back to Carla Marsden, whispering, “Tell her what I said tonight, and don’t call me for a while. Goodbye, Marvin.”

I end the call.

“Who the fuck is Marvin?”

I twist around on the stage. Jack stands on the floor about five feet away, his face stony, his eyes dark and hard.

“A friend from New York.” How much did he hear? I lick my lips, dreading explaining about Marvin. Jack’s trust is like lace, filled with sharp edges and holes. Barely there. Delicate.

“How good of a friend?” he grinds out, his chest rising as he crosses his arms.

I flinch. There’s a sharpness to his tone that makes my skin crawl. Not that he would hurt me, but it’s as if he’s already judged me. I study his granite face, the careful way he’s holding himself, so still and frozen. He’s . . . angry.

I glance around. Everyone from the play has gone. Laura and Timmy must have left while I finished up my call.

“Jack . . .” I stand, my dress swishing around my legs. “Let’s go back to my house—”

“No,” he says coldly. “Let’s do this here. Explain that conversation to me.” He widens his stance. “Especially the part where you said, ‘Would you get a cut if Jack signed with Blue Stone through me?’ You were talking about me, and I know exactly who Blue Stone is.”

I could have handled the anger he’s feeling from hearing a one-sided conversation, but it’s the icy look in his eyes that tells me he’s not going to listen.