Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)

He paces around the locker room. “Daisy, Daisy, why is that so familiar . . .”

“Lawrence, I need her signature. I’m paranoid as hell.”

He nods, whipping out his phone and taking notes. “Elena something who lives in a town named after a flower—a weed, really, if you think about it.” He gives me an assessing look. “I hope she’s worth all this trouble.”

My body heats, my cock twitching at that memory of her big eyes, the way her back arched when she was on top of me last night, her long hair brushing the tops of my legs—

“Hawke, are you listening? I barely have anything to go on here.”

I put my back to him to hide the tent in my workout pants. “She’s a librarian. Can’t be too many of those in Daisy.”

A long sigh comes from him. “All right, you get showered while I make some calls.”

Chapter 7

ELENA

My mouth has a million cotton balls inside it. I groan, my hand pressing against my temples as a slow painful thudding starts in my head. Hello, Armageddon of headaches. I wince and curse. That’s what I get for slamming back gin and tonics. I’m never drinking again.

I move around and plop my hand over my eyes to block out the light that’s coming in from a huge window. At least the sheets under my skin are silky and plush. Hmm, I must have changed them. My hand pats the bed. Where’s Romeo—

Dang. I am so not in my own bed.

Everything from last night floods my memories.

I’m sore in the most delicious places, and it makes me smile. Greg. Greg. Greg. He’s . . . fuck . . . yeah, he gets the f-word, because that man knows how to make a woman happy, and he definitely knows where my c-l-i-t is.

I glance at the clock on the nightstand. Seven o’clock in the morning, and I turn over, fully expecting to see Mr. Weatherman right there, but the huge bed is empty, just a small indentation where his head must have been. There’s a note there. I squint at it, but it’s no use, and I have to hold it close to my face to get a good look.

My name is Jack. I’m sorry about the mistaken identity thing. 861-555-5144.

I have to read it three times. It’s so . . . to the point. Where’s the part about what a great time we had?

And mistaken identity? Is this a joke?

I lie back on the bed, thinking, playing back our meeting at Milano’s. I thought he said he was Greg.

I asked him if he was the guy, and he said yeah.

Uneasiness causes me to sit up and flick on the lamp. I focus more on the night before, as much as I can with my head hammering. I didn’t know what Greg looked like, and when I saw the guy in the blue shirt, I thought he was Greg. I pause, chewing on my lips. I approached him and sat down and started talking.

Disbelief makes my heart race. No! Is it possible I sat down with the wrong guy, and he . . . he didn’t say one word? And all that talk about the weather—and rain is wet!

Mortification feeds anger.

What kind of person pretends to be someone else’s date?

Who exactly did I have sex with?

I snatch a white sheet from the bed, and I drape it around myself and stand up. One hasty look in the mirror on the wall tells me I look . . . well, like I’ve had a drunken one-night stand; my hair is everywhere—one side sticking straight up, the other flat as a pancake. Dried drool is on my chin, and my eyes have smudged mascara underneath them. I look deranged. That explains it. No wonder he snuck out.

I scrub at my face while I dart to the kitchen to gather up my clothes. My skirt, shirt, bra, and garters are still on the tile—no panties.

A few minutes later after scouring the kitchen, then dashing to the den and turning over every chair and even crawling under the desk and the minibar, I still can’t find the pink underwear. Jack, or whatever your name is, those panties cost more than my skirt and blouse put together when you count the material and the hours it took to hand stitch the tiny sequins onto the silk.

I need those for an important fashion meeting I may or may not go to!

Did he take them?

No way. Why would he?

So I restart, being slower this time as I walk through the entire penthouse. I even check under the bed and crawl the perimeter of the kitchen floor near the baseboards. Nada.

There’s only one explanation, I think as I stand up and clutch the note he left. My fists curl.

Jack is a liar and a thief. Major douchebag.