Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)

I’m acutely aware of Elena as she stands, gathering up her things. I watch as she puts her purse crossbody-style over her shoulder, the motion delicate and fine, graceful. She’s barely showing any skin at all, just the creamy part of her wrists and hands. Swallowing, I stare at them—

Dammit.

I’m bad off, turned on by a wrist. My eyes rove over the soft curve of her neck, the auburn hair that’s up and trailing over one shoulder—

“Hey, Jack. I just want to thank you again for visiting our school,” comes the high, squeaky voice from the girl who’s appeared next to me. Blonde. Young. Lots of jewelry and makeup. A short dress. Ms. Clark from the elementary school, whom I barely recalled until Elena reminded me. “I can’t believe you’re doing the play. The entire town appreciates you. It’s so sweet.”

Sweet?

It’s hell. I almost stumbled when I sat down at that table to read. But I did it, hands tight, my body pumped with adrenaline. Admittedly, it wasn’t as bad as a group of reporters shooting questions at me, but still, it makes me squirm knowing that I have to speak in front of people I don’t know.

“You’re welcome,” I say politely, then move to walk around her, my gaze on Elena, who’s already walking away. She chats with Topher briefly before striding toward the exit. He appears to be staying behind to help with props.

“There’s a little tavern near here. Some of us are headed there. Would you like to join us?” Ms. Clark grabs my arm, and I stop and look down at her. She is pretty and willing, if that gleam in her eyes is anything to go by.

“No.”

She bats long lashes. “Are you sure? It’ll be fun. Dartboard, pool tables, great ambience.”

“Positive.”

She pouts, but I murmur goodbye and step around her, eyes on Elena.

I have to jog because she’s already disappeared out the gym doors, her ass swaying.

“Elena!”

I catch up to her as she stomps down a dark hallway toward the exit. I don’t know what I’m going to say, but . . .

She keeps on walking, face straight ahead. “Not going to have a drink with Ms. Clark?”

“Guess you heard. Sharp ears. Not interested in her.” I tuck my hands in my jeans as we pass by silver lockers, some of them rusty and dented. “Did you go to school here?”

“Yes.” Those pretty eyes find mine before looking away. “You said you’d call her.”

I blow out a breath. Dammit. That was stupid, but she pushed me, and I pushed right back.

I take her hand, making her stop. An uncertain look crosses her face. “Jack. What do you want with me?”

I don’t know.

And after she walked out of my penthouse, that should have been the end of us.

And I’m probably going to hurt her.

But . . .

I can’t forget her—her face, those lips, the way she talks to me like I’m an average person, no judgments, no care about who I am.

I ask what’s been on my mind since I heard the news. “Giselle and Preston are engaged. Are you okay?” My eyes study her face, looking for clues. “That must be hard for you.”

Her shoulders dip. “She loves him. I’m not sure I ever did.”

I rock back on my heels. “I see. Over him already?”

“Maybe Giselle did me a favor.”

“Maybe your one-night stand erased him from your memory.” I smirk at her, wanting to make her laugh—or something. I don’t like this hardness from her, that expression of reserve she has on her face.

She pulls her hand out of mine and takes off walking again. I follow her.

A long breath comes from her. “Isn’t Devon waiting on you?”

“We drove separate. He left earlier. He just came to snap some pics.” I pause. “He knew I wanted to talk to you.”

“You knew I’d be in the play?”

“Laura told me.”

“You could have come by when you were in town last week,” she says curtly.

I grow silent, feeling surprised. “Figured you might need a break from me. You left angry. Wasn’t sure how you felt about seeing my face again.”

“Ms. Clark was glad to see you.”

I laugh. She wants me to react and be angry enough to walk away. “You’re jealous of a teacher who gave me a number I didn’t even ask for.”

She sputters as she comes to a stop. “No!”

“Liar,” I murmur. “You were sending death glares to poor Ms. Clark all night. If looks could kill . . .”

“I was not!”

Damn, I love getting her riled up. “You can’t stand the idea of me calling her.”

She puts her hands on her hips, which look damn good in her black leggings. She advances toward me, her fingers poking me in the chest, while I stare at her deep-red lips. “And you’re jealous of Patrick.”

“You wouldn’t stop talking to him.”