Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)

His summer-blue eyes rove over my disheveled shirt and skirt. A slow grin takes over his face as he lets Romeo down to follow us and hooks his arm through mine as we walk down the sidewalk. “So you didn’t go out with Greg. Which begs the question: Where have you been all night? Please tell me you weren’t crying somewhere over Preston.”

My lips compress, shoving down that hurt and grabbing onto anger instead. “To quote Aunt Clara: ‘Preston is a turd in a punch bowl.’ But I did see him last night at Milano’s with Giselle. Apparently, that’s the go-to place for Valentine’s Day. I had another date.”

He holds his index finger and thumb up within an inch of each other. “Well, I was this close to calling your mama when you didn’t come home.”

I freeze. “Traitor. I will stab you in your sleep if you even hint—”

“Sweet baby Jesus, I’m joking. She terrifies me.” He grins. “So who was your date with?”

I feel a slow blush building as I pick up Romeo and give his ear a little scratch. He buries his face in my arms, a long shuffling sigh coming from him. “No one important.”

“Did you pick someone up at the bar?”

Pretty much.

I dart a look over at the Cut ’N’ Curl across the street, Mama and Aunt Clara’s beauty shop, the place in Daisy to get your hair done and hear the latest gossip. The parking lot is packed, a typical Saturday. They opened at ten this morning and no doubt saw that my car wasn’t here. I could say I was out for errands if they ask, but Aunt Clara lives right next door and doesn’t miss a beat.

“No one’s popped by. They’re clueless,” Topher says, a gleam in his eyes. “But if you don’t tell me what’s going on, I might just have to go in for a trim and let it drop that a certain librarian didn’t come home.”

I smack him on the arm playfully and walk inside the house, but inside I’m not as perky as I let on.

He reads me like a book. “Stop that right now, Elena. You do you. So what if you had a fling with some guy you picked up—”

“Who said I had a fling?”

“Your hair is crazy, and your clothes are rumpled, and your lips have a deliciously swollen look to them.”

“What a vivid imagination you have.”

“I know what a good night of sex looks like.” He grins, white teeth flashing on his tanned face. It might be the middle of February, but he’s a sun worshipper and hits the tanning beds in the winter.

I set down my purse on the sofa and plop down in a faded-blue armchair, lace doilies Nana made draping the back. I still haven’t gotten around to updating the furniture in the house, mostly because I don’t have the money for it—and part of me likes the old furnishings because they hold memories.

“Who was it? Was it one of those Tinder guys—”

“No,” I murmur. “Um, Jack Hawke.”

He does a slow blink. “The Jack Hawke? Quarterback for the Tigers? Hot as hell with guns big enough to crush a grown man? That Jack Hawke?”

“Yeah?”

Glee grows on his face as he lights up the room with his smile.

“Stop grinning,” I groan, rubbing at the headache that’s decided to pop back up. I let Romeo down, and he runs in circles before darting off to his small tent set up in the den. I hear him rooting around before he gets comfy. “It was terrible.”

“The sex? Ah, dammit, I’ve had daydreams about that man, the way he—”

“Stop!” I hold my hand up. “I just want to forget it ever happened.”

“Well, then how did it happen?” He takes a seat on the old velour sofa across from me and crosses his legs. “I’m picturing it now—you at the bar looking all sad that Greg didn’t show, and in waltzes this hot jock who takes one look at your dainty black pumps and does a double take.”

If only that had been how it happened, then maybe I wouldn’t feel so bad.

“Not exactly.”

“Stop tormenting me. I want every detail.”

I shake my head. “I walked up and sat down at his table.”

He leans forward. “You picked him up? Oh shiiiiitttt. This is going to be so good. Spill, Elle, spill.”

“You are annoying.”

“Am not.”

“Are.”

“Fine, maybe I’m a teensy bit annoying, but I did take care of Hog—”

“Romeo.”

“Whatever. Just tell me. Please. Ever since Matt and I split, you know I’m living through everyone else’s love life.”

I let out a sigh. He’s over Matt, but I see what he’s doing. He’s worried about me. I guess he has been since Preston and Giselle.

“Fine. I sat down at Jack’s table because I thought he was Greg. He had a blue shirt on, and he was alone and broody, and you know I don’t follow football. Daisy is so small we never even had a football team growing up. Plus, no TV . . .” My hands cover my face for a moment of embarrassment. “It’s ridiculous! You’d think I would have at least recognized his face from . . . somewhere . . . like a bar TV, and he did seem a bit familiar, but I just assumed it was just Greg—that I’d caught him on TV before.”