Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)
We walked inside the lobby, and he whispered for me to ignore anyone I might see. There wasn’t anyone around, except for the security guard who stood sentinel outside the double doors of the penthouse the elevator took us to on the twentieth floor.
His back is to me, and my gaze eats up those impossibly broad shoulders, the way his mahogany-colored hair has highlights, as if he spends a lot of time outdoors. He’s wearing expensive gray slacks that have to be tailor made, the fabric clinging to his powerful thighs, tapering down to a narrow leg opening.
He slides around the bar, adding tonic to my gin, the movement lithe and precise, like a tiger in the jungle. Greg may walk and talk like a man, but he’s pure animal underneath.
I lick my lips, one side of me ready to bolt, but the other side has had a slow flame burning inside my body since the moment he stood up to Preston, using that low husky voice of his—
He turns, and I start.
He walks—no, stalks—toward me.
You don’t even know him and . . .
I need this, I counter. Plus, he’s Topher Approved. I’ve been sitting on my butt at home for months, and I need something, just something, to knock me out of this funk and get me on with my life.
You are only confined by the rules you set for yourself. Live your life, Nana says in my head. She told me that when I dropped the bomb on my family that I wasn’t going to medical school. She wanted me to be true to myself. I think she would have approved of the weatherman.
He hands me my drink and takes a sip of his, his eyes at half mast, a hint of wildness there. I suck down my G and T, holding his gaze. I want to be wild. I want to be wild with him.
No you don’t, the rational side of me counters.
“Is this where you live?” I set my glass down on the table. Dumb question, Elena.
He pauses for a moment. “I own an apartment nearby, but the penthouse is close to work.”
A restaurant and two residences? Greg is wealthy.
“I see.”
I eye the king-size bed in a bedroom I can see down the hall, the opulent white down comforter, the millions of fluffy pillows. I’ve been with two men in my life. One was Tad, my college sweetheart, who moved to Silicon Valley after graduation. He didn’t ask me to move with him—he needed to get a foothold on his new job and find a place to live—and I didn’t press him. We parted ways with promises of keeping in touch and flying out to see each other, but for some reason, neither of us ever did. We had a benign, comfortable relationship, and after a few months of him being gone, I found that I hardly thought of him at all. About a year ago, I looked him up online and saw that he’d recently gotten married. Then came Preston, and look how that turned out. Men keep leaving me, and I wonder if it’s something missing in me.
“You look nervous, Elena. Don’t be.”
Right. That’s like telling my pet pig to not eat cucumbers.
“If you’d rather me call you a car to take you home, I will. I just thought you and I . . . we seem to . . . have . . .” His voice trails off, as if he’s not quite sure what to say.
“No, I want to be here.”
“Good.” We look at each other for several moments, and I fidget, moving from one foot to the next.
He comes closer, setting his glass down on the end table where mine is. “May I take down your hair?” His voice is hesitant, and it comforts me to think that he really is nervous.
“Okay.”
He tugs at the upswept hair I carefully arranged before work this morning.
He sighs when it’s down, running his hands through the long strands as they fall to the middle of my back. My hair is my treasure, long and thick and lustrous, a coppery color with gold highlights. Topher is always telling me to wear it down, that it’s my best attribute, but it’s easier up or pulled back with a headband.
“Beautiful. I didn’t realize it was so long,” he murmurs.
His hand massages my scalp in a way that makes me step closer to him, my body loose and melting under the intensity of his golden eyes.
“I need you to sign some papers. Are you okay with that?”
Papers?
I blink.
His thumb tugs at my bottom lip, brushing against it softly like he did at Milano’s. “It’s just basic stuff about confidentiality, an NDA form. Because of who I am and what my ex did, I don’t take any chances. Cool?”
“You aren’t that big of a deal.”