Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)

I can’t answer that, so I say, “I don’t want to see her—you know that, right?”

The kitchen grows tense, and I swallow, seeing hesitation on her face, that tiny bit of distance that’s—

“Elena, if I don’t, then who knows what she comes up with next? She’s dangling this abortion issue, and I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea when you see it or hear about it or—”

“Did you ever love her, Jack?”

I lick my lips, thinking for a second. “No.”

“You hesitated.”

“I dated her. She came to games and parties. I cared about her.”

“Have you ever been with a girl you couldn’t live without? College?”

“Never had the time it took. Never wanted to get too involved. Football always came first.”

Her face shutters more, her eyes down as she stares at the pizza. “I see.”

“Are you angry?”

She taps her fingers on the island, mulling, then looking up at me. “I’m not angry about you seeing her. She betrayed you.”

Thank you, Jesus!

“I’m over her.”

A wry, wan smile comes from her. “I know. You let girls go and never look back.”

I frown, not liking that tone at all. “Elena, can we just forget her and move on?”

“Sure.” Her hands tremble as she closes the pizza boxes and picks up our plates and puts them in the trash. She darts her eyes at me. “What’s going to happen when the play is over . . . with us?”

I frown. I . . . I don’t know.

Will she still want to see me?

Will she, I don’t know, get tired of the distance I keep . . .

“We can talk about that later. We just . . . need time.” It’s a total cop-out, but my gut has knotted up. I’m scared, okay, fucking scared.

She plucks at a napkin.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I’m hanging by a thread, searching her blank face, wondering what else I could have said. The room feels tense, and I’m scared she’s going to tell me to take a hike—

Fuck it.

I walk over to her and lace our hands together. I stare down at her. “I’ll be thinking about you when I see her. Just you. Even when she’s sitting across from me. You . . . I trust you, Elena.”

“Do you?”

I do—it’s tenuous and fragile, but it’s there. Otherwise I never would have had sex with her without a condom or even shown up today. If I didn’t trust her, I would have been firm about that NDA from the get-go, but I’ve let it go.

“I don’t want her.”

“I’m not worried about her, Jack.”

Then why does she look so . . . wrong?

She needs reassuring, Jack. She needs you to . . .

But . . .

No, I can’t get into feelings yet.

It’s too soon!

It’s ridiculous and insane to think I might be—

Stop. Just stop. Take it slow. Slow.

So I ignore my thoughts and do what works. I tilt her head up and kiss her long and slow. She pulls back, her hands resting on my chest, big sea-green eyes clinging to mine.

I press my forehead against hers. “Baby, don’t let her get in your head. Kiss me back, please.”

“She isn’t in my head. You are . . .” She parts her mouth to say something else but doesn’t, a long exhalation coming from her.

We stand there, and she’s thinking, and I’m anxious, not wanting this to fuck us up . . .

She seems to come to a decision and smiles softly, tangling her hands in my hair as she reaches up on her tiptoes and presses her mouth to mine.

I groan, deepening the kiss, hoping she can see how I feel about her like this, with her in my arms. I sweep her off her feet and, never taking my mouth off hers, push past the kitchen and to her bedroom.

Chapter 28

JACK

Three days later, I walk into Milano’s at three o’clock in the afternoon. The place is dead—the lunch crowd gone, the early birds not here yet. All as planned.

Bernie, the maître d’, points to my usual table in the back. “Your guest is already here.”

I grimace. Of course she is.

I walk to the back and see Lawrence and my lawyer, both lingering near the bar area. I give them a nod. I need witnesses in case this thing goes haywire. Lawrence got the papers from Sophia yesterday, all signed and perfect. Is it really possible that all her bullshit is behind me?

We had a phone call where Lawrence suggested that since I have the contract, I could stand her up, but that isn’t me. I’m a man of my word, and maybe a small part of me wants to see her, to get her confirmation for myself.

She stands as she sees me, elegant and tall in a short red dress with a deep-plunging neckline. Her white-blonde hair is long and wavy, her face perfectly made up, lips curved in a slight knowing smile. A silver-chain necklace is around her neck, bolo-tie style, two perfect diamonds dangling on the ends. Classy but not ostentatious. Expensive. I should know. I bought it for her on her birthday. We broke up four months later. Bitterness pulls at me, and I inhale a deep breath.