Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)

He pauses, still whispering. We’ve learned to turn our mics off so no one can hear us. “Hey, I scratched my car last night driving it in your shed. Saw it when I left this morning.”

“Poor Porsche. You’re lucky I made room for it.”

“Aunt Clara waved at me this morning when I pulled out of your driveway. You want to come to the penthouse tonight? It’s Friday, and you don’t have to work tomorrow. I need to work out early, but we can hang out later. Watch some TV. I miss my K-drama.”

I stare at his shirt, lost in thought. I haven’t been back to the penthouse since we had sex there after the bakery; I’ve been brushing him off when he suggests it. And I probably should talk to him, but my pride keeps getting in the way.

I refuse to ask him to ask me to go to his real home.

I . . . I shouldn’t have to.

“Elena? You’re frowning.”

I gaze up at him, tracing my eyes over the chiseled planes of his face.

“What is it?”

I swallow as his forehead furrows.

“Elle?”

I sigh softly at the nickname he’s picked up from Topher. Amber eyes study mine, his thick lashes fluttering against his cheeks as he blinks. Everyone on stage fades away as clarity arrives, slamming into my heart like a great tidal wave.

I should have known.

And maybe I did know since the night he carried me in the rain. Who says love can’t happen so soon? Because this feeling in my chest is so big it hurts.

I’m deeply, irrevocably in love with my Romeo. His awkwardness when he meets strangers, the way he holds me at night against him, the silly pop songs he hums, the way he looks at me.

I want to spend every night with him.

But not at his penthouse.

My throat tightens.

“Are you sick?” Jack says, his hand that’s away from the audience rubbing my arm.

“No.” I lick my lips. “Jack. I don’t want to go to the penthouse. Ever. We should talk about it.”

He has to know this. He has to get it.

He frowns. There’s a long pause as we look at each other, and I watch his face, looking for any clues to see if he knows what’s on my mind, and I think he does, because he grows still. “Elena—”

The sound of Ms. Clark’s voice breaks him off. I’m not facing the front, but I know exactly where she is, stage right, saying her lines, wearing a long purple dress with a fur-lined cloak. The princess. She stamps her foot. “How am I supposed to say my lines when those two won’t shut up?” she calls out.

My eyes flare, and I ease up and turn around, grimacing when I see Laura, who’s got her head cocked as she watches us from the floor.

“They’ve been talking during my entire speech!” She tosses her golden-blonde hair over her shoulder and crosses her arms.

“Uh, sorry,” I say, biting my lip as I ease off Jack and move to standing.

She gives me a death glare. “It’s been happening every time you two are supposed to be dead. Would it kill you to let the rest of us say our lines? Also, all the kissing is ridiculous. There will be kids at this show. Can you tone it down a notch?”

Jack stands. “Right. Yes. We were just . . . discussing how to do the scene better.”

“Uh-huh,” she says. “Everyone here knows you two are dating, so just chill with the excuses. We’ve all seen the video of you two in the rain, running into that hotel. It was all over the TV. I honestly think your relationship is interfering with the entire play.”

I smirk. Someone is bitter she never got a call from Jack.

I dart a look at Jack as he exhales and lifts his shoulders, his expression saying, What do I say?

Patrick comes out onstage, dressed in his red shirt and pants, playing Tybalt, who’s already dead by Romeo’s hand. He glances at Ms. Clark. “Oh, it was fine. It’s not like it’s opening night. We barely heard them backstage.”

Crap, they heard us?

Ms. Clark looks at her manicured nails. “Still, it would be nice to have a practice where they aren’t all over each other.”

“You’re right,” I say, just wanting to keep the peace, even though I think she’s clearly going on way too long about it. I flutter my lashes at her. “Would you like for us to start the scene from the beginning, or would you like to just say your lines?” There’s so few of them, my sharp look tells her.

Her lips tighten. “Whatever Laura thinks” is her reply.

“They should do that death scene again!” Timmy calls from a folding chair on the floor. He grins up at Jack. “Jack looks awesome when he drinks that poison and falls down.”