Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)

But the truth is I don’t think Jack wants me to know too much about him.

“Elena’s cool—” Quinn says before Jack cuts him off.

“Quinn, don’t you have a date?”

“Yeah, right. I’ll go.” Quinn grabs his phone and heads to the foyer, brushing past me. He leans in, keeping his voice low. “Keep him company for a while, Elena?”

His face is earnest.

“Why?” He’s Jack freaking Hawke. Why does he need me?

He throws a look back at Jack, who’s walked back to the den. “Look, he’s a stand-up guy. Misunderstood a little. Plus, I overheard how you showed Gideon the door. Ballbuster.” He pauses, his expression hardening. “You won’t . . . hurt him, right?”

Hurt him? What on earth? “Of course not.”

“I knew it.” He grins, his face lighting up. “He likes you, you know. Asked me twenty questions after you left the penthouse. Wanted to know everything you said. He saw your note in the bathroom. He laughed for a good five minutes. Said you were a firecracker.”

And then he’s out the door.

When I head back to the den, Jack’s already on the phone ordering our food, giving instructions for the driver. I roam over the den, my shoes already kicked off, taking in the modern furnishings, black leather sofas, sleek armchairs, heavy glass sculptures that adorn end tables—things I barely noticed the night I was here. No photos or thriller books on the bookshelf. Not one single cheesy mug or magnet in the kitchen, either, or I would have remembered it because I cataloged everything when I cooked. All I found were the basics of a nice kitchen: stainless steel pots and pans, expensive white china.

Nothing meaningful.

Cold and sterile.

I stand at the huge floor-to-ceiling glass windows that overlook downtown Nashville. Beautiful view. And close to the stadium—only a block away. Convenient.

From the reflection in the glass, I watch as Jack approaches me, still bare chested.

“Food will be here soon.” His voice is quiet, as if he senses my unease now that we’re alone.

“Why did we come to the penthouse instead of where you live?” I turn around to face him, and his face is unsmiling, a little frown there.

“Why would I?”

“Because you’d be more comfortable there? This isn’t a home. There are no pictures of you or trophies. And don’t you live with Devon? I’m sure he would have helped you get situated instead of calling Quinn.”

“Right.”

“You don’t trust me?” I cock my head, not angry but just curious. I understand now his need for privacy based on what I’ve read, but to think of living like this, being so defensive with every single person you meet—it must be exhausting.

He eases down on the couch and pats the seat next to him. “Come on; sit down.”

I sit, keeping about three feet between us, keeping my hands clasped in my lap. “Tell me about that scar on your shoulder.”

He frowns.

Yeah, I saw that bundle of raised skin, about the size of a nickel, when he stripped for the trainer. Somehow I’d missed it before.

“It looks like a bullet wound.” I smirk at his surprised glance. “Besides being the mayor of Daisy, my daddy was a doctor. He loved to entertain me with medical photos. I’ve seen it all. Knife wounds, gunshots, broken legs, even a shattered wrist once—that was weird.” I grimace. “He expected me to go to med school, but I didn’t.”

“You’re smart enough.”

“Maybe.”

“Hmm.” He gives me a bemused look. “Maybe you should get a closer look at my scar, Dr. Riley.” He scoots over closer, his leg pressed against mine. The heat from his skin emanates like a furnace.

I touch his shoulder, tracing my finger lightly over the raised skin. “It’s not your throwing shoulder, because you’re right handed, which is good.”

“Yes.” He’s watching me carefully, eyes searching my face. “But how do you know it’s a bullet wound?”

“Well, first off, I’m southern, duh, and everyone in Daisy deer hunts or owns a firearm. I personally don’t like guns, but I’ve been around them all my life. Even had a date once in a deer stand. Worst time ever. It was early and cold and high up in a tree, and all I wanted to do was go home. I’m guessing a handgun at close range. It looks like it might have hit your brachial plexus, that bundle of nerves that controls arm function. Have you had surgery on it? While people think gunshots to the shoulder aren’t life threatening, they can damage blood vessels and cause severe pain—especially if there are fragments still floating around in your muscles; am I right?”

“Hmm.”

“And I bet you were younger when it happened, based on how it’s faded.”

“Elena . . .” He frowns.

He’s retreating. Not telling me everything.

I drop my hand from his warm skin, swallowing. I shouldn’t be touching him, even to check out his injury . . . but . . .