Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)

Romeo runs in the room, his little nose sniffing the air. His gaze follows me as I head to the new custom stainless steel fridge and pull out a small cucumber and lean down to let him snatch it and dash off.

“There you go, bribing that pig. He still loves me most of all.” Cynthia smirks.

“He naps on me every day,” I counter. Not exactly true, but he has come around since I officially moved in two years ago.

She laughs. “Go check on Elena. Let me handle the rest.”

She wants to take over, and I want to see my wife, my hands already jonesing to hold her.

I walk in the dining room, my breath hitching when my eyes find her. Wearing jeans and a soft-blue sweater, she’s standing in the dining room, the sunlight catching her long auburn hair as she sets the table.

There’s something about her that calls to every part of me.

She’s mine.

We were married in August, as soon as my shoulder surgery allowed me to wear a suit. Six months from the first time we met, we stood side by side in her hometown church and said our vows, with Patrick officiating. She wore a long white dress Cynthia and her nana had both worn, an heirloom that Elena had altered with painstaking care, adding pearls and lace. I clearly recall her walking down the aisle to me, her hips swaying, that gorgeous hair down, with pink and purple flowers in her hands.

She took my breath then.

To know that she loved me.

That I was her one. And she was my one.

I whispered my vows, and it wasn’t because I was unsure—no, there was not a hesitant bone in my body when it came to her and how she made me feel. I was blown away by her, the depth of my love, the wave of emotions that tugged at me every time she walked in a room.

After all this time I still sometimes gaze at her and just . . . stare.

How is this even my life?

How did I ever find her, this crazy love that destiny brought me?

The Tigers won the Super Bowl this past season, my shoulder repaired, me at the top of my game. But even that particular victory doesn’t compare to her next to me in our bed, my arm curled around her waist when we sleep.

She resigned from her job as the librarian and took the intern job with Little Rose Lingerie, quickly working her way up the ladder to a paid position in their research and development division. She still makes her own things just for me.

My image repaired itself in an organic and real way, especially after the Tennessean wrote a kick-ass article about the play and how I professed my undying love for a certain small-town librarian. I still don’t give interviews. And no one seems to care.

“Dada!” comes from little Eleanor Michelle Hawke, barely eleven months old, as she sits on Lucy’s lap, laughing up at me, her little hands reaching out for me. I swing her up. She’s got a headful of dark hair, big aquamarine-colored eyes, and two little teeth.

Elena laughs, her gaze on me, then Eleanor, the same love and amazement in her eyes too. I have everything. A real home filled with laughter. Trust. Love. Family. Things I never dreamed of having.

I give Lucy a swift kiss on the cheek. Her husband, Roger, sits next to her. They come to all the Sunday lunches they can in between traveling.

Elena appears next to me and wipes at the remnants of Cheerios on Eleanor’s face. “Sweet girl. She loves her daddy.”

“And he loves her and her mama.”

She gives me a soft kiss as Eleanor coos on my hip.

“Can’t keep their hands off each other. Always with the kissing. It’s a wonder y’all ever get a thing done,” Cynthia murmurs as she walks in with a casserole that is obviously not mine.

“It’s sickening,” Devon agrees, following her in the room.

“When can I babysit?” Topher asks. He’s living a few streets over in a rental house. Elena and I have made her house our main home, although we spend time at my apartment in Nashville, too, mostly during football season—but it’s this house that keeps us centered. This small town that I’ve grown to love as much as Elena does.

Quinn jumps in, standing shoulder to shoulder with Topher. “I’ll help you, man. Pretty sure she hasn’t seen Grease yet.”

Hmm, those two . . .

“When can I teach her how to throw a football?” Aiden huffs. “’Cause her daddy ain’t got what it takes.”

“Watch it, Alabama. You’re still the backup,” I growl, then grin down at Eleanor, who’s giggling as she tugs on my hair.

Scotty walks in. Guess he knocked, and we missed it. He holds up a string of several white balloons. “Will this work, Elena?”