I give myself a mental pep talk.
Grow some balls, Elena.
You can’t keep living life on the sidelines.
Sometimes you have to go out and take what you want.
So what if he’s hot enough to suck the dew off a rose.
So what if he’s got a dangerous look on his face.
You are hungry. Do it for the pasta.
He is your date. Go get ’em, girl.
I gather my resolve, point my little black pumps in his direction, and start marching.
Chapter 2
JACK
“Um, you’re him, right?” A nervous laugh. “The guy?”
I glance up from my glass of scotch and take in the petite auburn-haired woman standing in front of me as I try my best to enjoy my meal—damn hard to do these days with my face all over the media. Every eye in the place is either glaring at me or pointedly turning their noses up.
She’s wearing a shirt buttoned all the way to her neck, a black pencil skirt, and low-heeled shoes. I move my eyes up to the intruder’s face, taking in the uptight hairstyle and big white glasses.
Dammit. Another reporter. My hands tighten in my lap, and I dart my eyes around for the server. A deep exhalation leaves my chest when I don’t see him. I lean back in my leather chair and glare at her. Part of me is nervous; the rest of me is pissed.
“Yeah, I’m the guy.” What the hell do you want? my face says.
Dark lashes flutter against a creamy complexion as she seems to gather herself, a determined grimace on her delicate face. She swallows, and before I can protest, she’s taking the seat across from me.
I blink.
She exhales. “Thank God. It was the blue button-down that gave it away—and the fact that you’re alone.” Her eyes roam over my chest, lingering for a moment on my shoulders. “I’m just glad I found you. Forgive me for being late. I did a photo shoot for Romeo—he has quite the following on Instagram—and then the downtown Nashville traffic is just insane.”
Forgive her for being late?
And photo shoot with Romeo? The name’s familiar. New player in the league?
“Hmm.” I hide my confusion by taking another sip of scotch, keeping my gaze on her, distrustful. Lawrence, my PR guy, mentioned a female sports blogger who was sympathetic to my most recent falling-out with fans and who might be willing to write a favorable story.
But he knows I detest reporters.
And why didn’t he let me know?
Dammit, he’s always doing shit without telling me.
I consider calling him to confirm who she is, but . . .
“So you’re the blogger?” I ask.
Her eyes widen, her face paling. “I have a blog.”
“Hmm.”
She stares at me for several moments and shakes her head. “Gah, I’m going to skin Topher alive for telling you that. Of course, he thinks I should tell everyone. Only he doesn’t understand how small towns work, especially Daisy. Once they know your deepest secrets, it’s literally all they think of when they see you on the street. And the whispers . . . goodness.”
I watch her with lowered lids, assessing. I don’t know anyone named Topher. And why would she hide her blog? Maybe it isn’t the sports blogger. I’m used to women coming up to me, mostly jersey chasers. In the past, especially in college and my early years of professional football, I ran with it, choosing the most beautiful and taking them up on their offers: keys to hotel rooms, phone numbers pressed in my hands, girls who tagged along to our VIP parties—but this girl doesn’t fit that category. No tight dress. Minimal makeup. Studious looking.
She continues. “True story: my aunt Clara sneaks her boyfriend in through her back door to keep people in town from seeing him. He parks his car behind the church and walks to her house—and she’s forty. I wish she’d just tell everyone she’s in love with the mailman.” She arches an elegant eyebrow. “Scotty is ten years younger than her and quite the catch.”
“I see.” Black Pumps talks a lot. And not about football.
She gives me a half smile. “You must know how that is, wanting to stay out of the limelight and keep your personal business quiet.”
Indeed. Even enjoying a nice glass of whiskey in public makes me paranoid. I picture everything I do as a headline. Jack Hawke drinking! Does this mean another DUI for the Nashville quarterback? That DUI happened five years ago, my second year in the NFL, yet no one forgets. I partied a lot in those early years. I thought fame and money made me invincible. Stupid.
“Yes. I like my privacy very much.” I take a bite of my pasta, chewing and swallowing, eyes on her, taking in the stiffness of her shoulders, the way she’s breathing in long, slow breaths, as if she doesn’t really want to be here.