Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)

The waitress, a young girl dressed in a white dress with ruffles on the hem and a soft-pink apron, sets down my slice of pie. I groan as the first taste hits my tongue. With a hot cup of coffee, I polish it off in record time, and when she comes to take my plate, I put in the order for the whole pie.

It’s not until I’m at the counter and she’s ringing me up at the cash register that I have a tiny freak-out. I can’t find my wallet. With customers waiting in line behind me, I scrounge around in my purse, digging and pushing everything to the side. It’s not here. Crap.

I rack my brain, slumping when I realize that when I got my wallet out to pay for my hair, I must have dropped it on the floor or maybe left it on Aunt Clara’s counter.

“Everything okay?” the checkout girl asks, eyeing me as if I might dash out the door without paying.

“No, fine. Just give me a minute. Let these other guys check out. I’ll be back.” I flash a smile and dash back to my booth, getting down on my knees and feeling around the edges of the seat just in case it dropped out when I sat down. Nothing. No wallet.

I get back up and take a seat. I could call Topher, but he’ll be closing up the library, and I hate to ask him to drive all the way into Nashville. Giselle might still be around the city, but I brush that aside. It’s Friday, and she probably has plans with Preston.

I pull out my phone and scroll until I find the contact I want. I’ve had his contact in my phone since I knew it was real, but I’ve never used it.

Here goes nothing. I send a text to Weatherman Wannabe.

Chapter 23

ELENA

He sweeps in the bakery like a king, his tall frame taking up most of the space at the entrance and all my air. I sigh. He’s wearing tight black running pants, a long-sleeved matching shirt, and a Tigers knit hat, which hides all that magnificent hair. Intense eyes rove over the patrons, landing on me. The predator has found his prey.

I wave.

He arches a brow.

Two women gape at him, one of them elbowing the other as they whisper. I’m not surprised when they dash over to him, faces tilted up, eyelashes batting. He pauses, looking at me and then them. I shrug, and my eyes say, Your fans. Go ahead. I’m not going anywhere. I have no wallet.

He holds incredibly still as they ease in, his face earnest as they ask him questions. They laugh up at him and push a pen and paper they’ve grabbed from their purses. He nods politely but absently, not really listening, much like his demeanor in the VIP room. I imagine he’s focusing on not . . . being rude? I take in the rise of color on his cheeks, the way he fidgets as they lean in closer. One of them whips out her phone and takes a selfie of him and her together. Still, he maintains an expression that, if you glance, looks sincere and easy, but he is uncomfortable—and it amazes me all over again that this gorgeous man with enough charm to entrance millions (once you get to know him) plus a famous talent that has brought him so much success . . . is awkward.

It feels like a little secret between us, and I can’t stop the small smile that pulls my lips up.

His gaze meets mine as two other women join the crowd. He mouths “Sorry” over their heads at me and turns back to do another autograph. He frowns, swallowing, as another girl insists on a selfie, some of his control slipping. They don’t even notice, and I wonder how many people actually look at him and see a real person with boundaries. None.

I sit up straighter, watching everything, every nuance that crosses his face.

It must be difficult to live in the limelight constantly. He loves the game but doesn’t enjoy the attention that comes with it, yet he pushes himself, all the while never trusting anyone, keeping his distance, not letting anyone too close.

Oh, Jack. If only . . .

He nods and slips by the girls, but one of them grabs his hand and reaches up and plants a kiss on his cheek, pink lipstick smeared everywhere as he tries to avoid it. Checkout girl. Doesn’t she have work to do?

I heave out a breath and stand up, leaving my things in the booth.

I march over to them and shoulder my way into the midst of the women. “Excuse me,” I say to the tallest one, a skinny brunette who’s trying to edge me out. I don’t think so. The pointy end of my heel hits her foot, and she starts and gives me a look and steps back. That’s right. I might be short, but I have stilettos. Beware.