Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)
“Hmm, I like clouds. And rain. It’s . . . wet.”
She gives me a swift look and pats her mouth delicately with her napkin, capturing my attention with the ultrafine bones of her wrists, the elegant way she moves. Once, a long time ago, when I was just a poor kid from Ohio, I might have wanted to draw those hands, the delicateness of them. She looks as if she might break in my arms—
“Wow, you like clouds?”
“Yeah, those puffy cumulus ones.” I have no clue. “They’re . . . white.”
“I see.” Her brow wrinkles. “It’s me, isn’t it? I’m talking too much, and I was late and rude to the waiter, and you are so not into this—”
“Elena? What are you doing here?” The words come from a stocky, well-dressed, brown-haired man who’s stopped at our table. He moves his gaze to me, and I see instant recognition in his face, the way his mouth gapes. Yep, there it is. He knows me.
I glance at Elena—thank you, Jesus, for the name—and she’s gone white, her hands twisting the pearls around her neck. I frown, my gaze darting from her to him, wondering what the connection is.
“I’m on a date, Preston. Isn’t it obvious?”
He sputters, his eyes widening as he looks from her to me. “Tonight? I assumed you’d be . . . home.”
Elena stiffens. “I’m not pining away.”
Preston smooths down his tie, lips tightening. “Of course. It’s just if I had known you’d be here, I never would have come here with Giselle.” He nudges his head toward the middle of the restaurant without taking his eyes off Elena. “We just arrived, and we’re sitting over there. I was on my way to the bar to grab another drink and happened to see you—”
Her eyes flash like lightning, and I think I see pain in those depths. “Well, forget you saw me. Go back to Giselle.”
He pushes his hands inside his slacks. “I never meant to hurt—”
“But you did.” She points to her pasta. “Also, I’m trying to eat here, and you know how much I enjoy my food. Remember?”
He opens his mouth to speak.
“Piss off,” I say, rougher than I intended.
He isn’t budging, his eyes squarely on my . . . date. They sweep over her, from head to toe, his face settling into disapproval. “I can’t believe you’d be interested in him,” he says under his breath.
My body tenses up, shoulders tightening.
He takes a step closer to her. “Everyone wants you to move on, but this guy is not—”
I stand, my six-four frame towering over his, and you can tell he’s forgotten how tall I am, bigger than I seem on TV. My fists curl, everything from this week building up and threatening to erupt. Usually I’m in tight control of my temper, knowing that every little thing I do is scrutinized, but I’ll be damned before I let him talk to her as if she’s a child.
“Go back to your table now, or I’ll have you removed,” I murmur softly. “This is my restaurant.”
He holds his hands up, as if to ward me off. “See. Trouble, Elena.”
She shrugs. “Maybe trouble is just what I need, Preston. A little adventure.”
He darts a glare at me, then scurries off across the restaurant before taking a seat with a blonde lady.
I settle back in my chair and meet her shiny gaze.
Nah, please don’t cry. Females weeping always make me think of my mother. I saw her cry more than she ever smiled. And it makes me want to fix things . . .
“Are you okay?”
She nods, seeming to gather herself as she clears her throat and stares down at the table. “Thank you for running him off. I had no idea he’d be here.”
“No problem,” I say gruffly.
“You own this place?”
I shrug. “Just diversifying. I don’t want to be a chef or anything. It looked good on paper, and I bought it.”
“Why did he say you were trouble?” She slides butter on a piece of bread, eyes down.
I pause. “When you’re famous, people either love you or hate you.”
The waiter takes my plate and sets down another gin and tonic for her.
“Your ex, right?” I finally say. “And let me guess . . . you aren’t over him?”
“Long story.” She sighs, still not looking at me, and it’s driving me a little crazy, this need to have her eyes on me. People always stare at me. Why doesn’t she?
I picture her in my penthouse, her auburn hair down, her body spread out on my bed—
Damn.
Where did that come from?
You don’t know her, Jack.
You just met her.
Ease up.
Chapter 3
ELENA
Well.
Well.
Well.
I keep sneaking little glances at my drop-dead-gorgeous blind date. Who knew weathermen were this hot? And that classically handsome face? He’s a Greek god on steroids. No wonder the TV loves him. He’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. Also, a bit of a badass. Giddiness races over me at how he handled Preston, towering over him, barely restrained anger held at bay. I don’t think two males have ever gotten into a disagreement over me. Especially when I’m wolfing down food like it’s my last meal.