Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)

She grimaces. “Well, if you change your mind, I recommend the cat. Nothing against dogs, but they will love just about anyone. Cats are pickier, and the men who have them can appreciate moodiness and definitely handle personality issues—which might be key in a relationship. Also cats are hilarious. Do you have any idea how many cat videos there are on the internet? Over a billion! Isn’t that crazy?”

Is she crazy? Who the hell is she?

Yet I’m hanging on her every word, slowly warming up, feeling . . . interested.

“You mentioned fabric. You made your shirt yourself?”

She pushes her glasses up. “Stores don’t market to my tastes or to my figure. In fact, the majority of clothing in stores is designed by people who have no idea what a woman like me wants. But then if you know about my blog . . .” Her face flames red. “Then you know my specialty is lingerie.”

Lingerie? The plot thickens.

I tap my fingers on the table, some of that earlier interest waning. Is she looking for an endorsement from me? I briefly dated a girl who wanted me to promote her makeup. People, whether they initially intend to or not, somehow always circle around to using me in some way.

I can see it now.

NFL superstar Jack Hawke likes blah-blah lingerie for his girlfriends.

The waiter sets down her drink, and she gulps it down completely, then plops it down on the table as a long sigh comes from her. “God. I’ve needed this since the moment I walked in and tried to find you.”

Surprisingly, sympathy rises up and eclipses any misgivings. “Bad day?”

She huffs out a laugh. “Bad year. I moved back to Daisy two years ago from New York, and it’s been one insane day after another. My family, my job, my small town.”

I set my fork down. “It’s been a shitty week for me as well.”

She nods. “Let’s try this again, shall we? Tell me about you. What’s it like being a weatherman on TV?”

I’m in the process of taking a sip of my drink when the question comes, and it gets caught in my throat, and I sputter, then cough, grabbing my white napkin to cover my mouth.

“Are you okay?” Her eyes are huge, luminous, the color of the sea.

“Fine,” I say in a strangled voice.

She thinks I’m a . . . weatherman.

What. The. Hell.

I shake my head, processing what she said . . . about sending the text . . . her comment about my blue shirt . . . her indignation with the maître d’ . . . and it all clicks into place.

A date. Obviously a blind date.

But girls have tried all kinds of tricks to get in my bed. Once, on the road, I walked into my hotel room and found a naked girl in my closet. Took hotel security to remove her as she screamed “I love you, Jack!” the entire time.

“You’ve seen me doing the weather?”

She grimaces. “Actually, no. The news is worrisome; plus I rarely watch TV.”

I rub my neck. “And you agreed to this date without seeing my face? That’s rather . . . bold.”

She gives me her first real smile. “It’s my version of living dangerously.”

“You a football fan?”

“Men pushing each other around in tight pants, fighting over a ball? Please. Very caveman. I prefer books and podcasts. You?”

I take in the blank look on her face. Well, damn.

About ten seconds go by as we stare at each other.

I feel a brush of excitement rising inside me, gently at first, then all at once, flooding my senses. No. Freaking. Clue. She doesn’t know me! I want to hug her. Maybe take that cat. Kidding.

I laugh for the first time in a week. It’s as if I’m in a parallel universe where I get a do-over. Shit. It’s a clean slate, sparkling white.

But . . .

Jack. You can’t not reveal who you are . . .

If she thinks I’m her date, I should come clean right now and tell her the truth. Save her the embarrassment of dragging this out further.

But . . .

What do I have to go home to but an empty apartment and my face on ESPN?

Plus, she’s hot in an understated way, everything all buttoned up and just waiting to be unleashed—

My gaze brushes over that tight-fitting shirt, taking in those full curves straining against her blouse.

And I’m a tit man.

Tell her. I open my mouth, and she speaks.

“What’s your favorite part of doing the weather? Is it the snowstorm, when you know the city is hanging on every single word, when they run out and buy bread and milk?” She takes a huge bite of pasta the waiter has set down, using a fork and a spoon to twist the pasta, giving me a couple of seconds to think of a reply.