Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)
Indeed.
“I see. When was the Super Bowl?”
He starts. “Last month, ma’am. You didn’t watch?”
“Missed it.”
He gives me a disappointed look, as if I’ve failed horribly. “That’s a shame.”
I keep the dawning realization of who Jack is off my face. A jock. A freaking athlete! A famous one who makes millions!
It’s so ridiculous that it must be on my face, because Quinn frowns.
“You okay, Miss?”
“Call me Elena, please. I insist,” I say absently, trying to come up with how to glean more info from Quinn.
“So back to Jack. How did he seem when he left this morning?”
Quinn hesitates. “A little tired, maybe. He’s got a lot on his mind. You know what he’s dealing with. The media hates him and for no good reason. He’s one of the kindest people I know. He took care of that kid that got hurt and even paid all his medical expenses, although he’d never tell anyone.”
Kind? He lied to me and took my underpants!
Kid? What kid?
I straighten my shoulders. I’m not leaving this place until I figure out exactly who Jack is and why he . . . why he . . . I bite my lip . . . he made me feel so . . . beautiful.
Whatever. He deceived me, and that trumps everything.
My stomach rumbles. “When’s he coming back?”
“Not sure he will. He usually stays at his other place. You can hang out here as long as you like.”
Oh, I see. This is the fuck palace. I do my best to hide my simmering emotions.
“Well, Quinn, does Jack keep his fridge stocked?” I’m already marching into the space, flinging open the French-style stainless steel fridge.
He tags along behind me. “I keep it up for him. If you’re okay, I’ll just go.”
My eyes glaze over when I see eggs, green peppers, and a drawer full of premium cheese.
“Oh, Quinn,” I sigh. “There’s gouda here. And dang . . . fresh spinach.” I squeal. It feels like centuries since dinner. Plus, I’ve practically run a marathon since then. “You hungry?”
He gives me an unsure glance, his head turning to look back at the door. “Um, yeah. Gouda. There’s some gruyère as well.”
“You know how to shop, Quinn. You can stock my fridge anytime.”
He just stares at me, and I see a hint of anxiety. He’s a little afraid of me. Good.
I open three cabinets before I find the mixing bowls and give him a smile over my shoulder. And I know how crazy I must look, hair and bedsheet, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
“I best be going . . .” He trails off, watching me crack eggs against the granite countertop and then drip them into the bowl.
Teacher voice is back. “Have a seat, Quinn. No one’s going to charge the front door this early in the morning. Now, come beat these eggs, and chop some spinach while I go make myself presentable, and when I get back, I’m going to whip us up an omelet, and you’re going to freaking love it.”
And you’re going to tell me all about Jack.
“Uhhh . . .”
I push the bowl at him and smile. “Aren’t you hungry?”
He nods grudgingly. “Kinda. I usually just call up the restaurant downstairs, and they deliver food to me.”
I smile. “Big strapping guys like you need a home-cooked meal. Me too. Look, we already have something in common. We’re gonna be besties. Be right back.”
After grabbing my purse and clothes, I dash into the marble-tiled master bathroom, taking in the opulent wall-to-wall white stone. I catch my reflection in the mirror again and groan. Rode hard comes to mind. By a lying football player. Not that I have anything against athletes, but me? I’m not the sexy-jock-type girl. I’m drawn to the intellectual types: lawyers, teachers, computer programmers—weathermen.
After washing my face and combing out my hair and putting it up in a messy knot, I dress hurriedly, minus the panties. I’m almost out the door when I turn back around. After fumbling through my purse, I pull out my cherry red and write on his mirror: Jack. I want my underwear back!
Chapter 8
ELENA
A few hours later, after a not-as-informative-as-I-would-have-wished breakfast with Quinn, I’m driving the twenty minutes back to Daisy on Interstate 40, my hands tight on the wheel. All Quinn wanted to discuss was Jack’s football career and nada about him personally. I did like him, though, and it’s not his fault Jack lied to me.
I’m feeling ashamed of my one-night stand, and I’m sure every car I fly past on the interstate can see the huge scarlet A on my face. Weak, I was weak. Throw in the gin and tonic, and all my inhibitions disappeared.
Okay, okay, also it might have been his kissing too.
And the fact that he’s hotter than a blazing fire.
My phone buzzes again with a text, and I figure it’s Topher checking on me, but I don’t text and drive or even talk on the phone while I’m behind the wheel. Plus, I sent him one earlier from the penthouse. I’m alive and on my way home. My cell goes off again, then again, and I dart my eyes over to the passenger seat where my phone is. Sexy Lawyer is the sender, and my jaw tightens.