Not My Romeo

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  “Because Coach is making you.”

  I turn to face him and see the sympathy on his face. He knows the panic I feel whenever a crowd is hounding me. I wasn’t this way in high school, or maybe I was and just didn’t recognize the symptoms because I never really had to put myself out in public. In college, I recognized it right away as soon as I came off the field after a big game and a reporter stuck a microphone in my face. I brushed past them and kept on going. Sometimes I’d be okay if my helmet was on. A few times, my teammate Devon would stand next to me, and I’d let him do the majority of the talking. Lord knows he can’t shut up anyway. Later, after I was drafted and came to Nashville, everyone expected me to be friendly with the media, give interviews to the local guys whenever they wanted, be the MC at galas. Never in a million years.

  And my reputation as an arrogant, unemotional asshole was born.

  “The press conference isn’t a bad idea. You’ve barely spoken at one in years, and trust me; they’ll be salivating in that room.”

  “Not helping, Lawrence.”

  “Too much has been said about you in the past—including Sophia’s lies—and you’ve never defended yourself. You lost the Super Bowl. You ran over a kid—accidentally. It’s time to buckle down and think about putting yourself out there. Look, you hired me to fix your image issues. You have this anxiety thing when it comes to reporters in your face, but just try this time. Stare at the ground if you have to. Just get the words out about what happened. It wasn’t your fault, Jack, but when you won’t even tell people, they form their own opinions.”

  I stand there, mulling. I don’t even know the root of the fear. It’s just there.

  He exhales. “People like a villain, Hawke, and you make a great one. There are rumors of trading you.”

  “Rumors from whom?”

  “I don’t have specifics.”

  I close my eyes.

  There are always rumors, especially after a big loss, but if they do trade me . . . it’s a death sentence. It says, Jack has problems, and Nashville doesn’t want him. Plus, this damn shoulder. I rub it for a moment, then grab the hangers he’s holding and head to the showers.

  He keeps pace behind me, his headset from his phone in his ears as he talks to someone. Probably my agent.

  I flip on the water and give him a look. “Are you gonna talk to me the whole time I shower?”

  His lips press together. “If I have to. We need to run through a few responses to questions I’m anticipating. We’re going to spin it and blame the kid. He never should have been outside the stadium in a restricted zone anyway. It wasn’t your fault you didn’t see him—”

  “Lawrence, he’s a kid. I can’t blame him. Get out of here, okay? Let me think.” I pause. “Also, find out what you can about a girl named Elena.”

  He crosses his arms. “Not your secretary.”

  “Personal assistants. That’s what they call them these days. But you are my PR guy.”

  He rolls his eyes. “A girl, huh?”

  I grab my gym bag and pull out the NDA, scanning it. “Yeah. The one from last night.” My stomach drops. “Dammit!”

  “What?” He looks over my shoulder.

  I groan, dread filling my stomach as I scan the papers. “She didn’t sign the NDA with her real name.”

  He shrugs. “Juliet Capulet? Has a nice ring to it. Maybe Elena is her middle name?”

  “Hardly.” My lips tighten.

  “Is there an address?”

  I grimace. “Home address: Verona, Italy.”

  “Is she Italian?”

  I huff out a laugh. “Dude. Romeo and Juliet. How the hell did you ever pass freshman lit?”

  He shrugs. “Your dick is going to get you in trouble.”

  I slam the papers back in my bag. “Just find out who she is, okay? I left her this morning with my digits, but she may not be in the best mood when she wakes up. She thinks I’m the local weatherman, Greg something—”

  Lawrence sputters. “You lied to her? That alone is enough to make the NDA invalid. What if she runs straight to the media?”

  I wince. I wasn’t thinking straight last night . . .

  “Just find her, and we’ll do a new one, true?”

  He throws his hands in the air. “Unbelievable. You actually want me to hunt down some random you screwed—”

  My finger spears him. “Not a random. Don’t talk like that, Lawrence. She is a person.”

  And I liked her.

  His eyebrows hit the roof. “I should just quit this job now.”

  “You threaten to quit once a month, and no one believes you. ’Cause you like me too much, and I pay you well.” I slap him on the arm. “I need you. I have two good friends in this town, you and Devon. Do you have any clue how lucky we are to be together?”

  Lawrence, Devon, and I all attended Ohio State and played football and won a national championship our senior year. I was drafted to Nashville—first round, first pick—and Lawrence’s family lives here. Football wasn’t a lifetime career for him, so I hired him as PR, not even realizing how bad I’d come to need him in the next few years. And Devon—he was traded to Nashville from Jacksonville a couple of years ago, our best wide receiver and my go-to guy on the field.

  Lawrence scowls. “I don’t know how to find a girl.”

  “Liar. You’re like a pro, man, all stealth and spy-like. You’re a laser with sharp focus. You’re a ninja who scales tall buildings. Hell, you’re—”

  “Fine. I’m awesome. I have skills.” He studies his carefully manicured nails. “But this is different. Maybe this girl doesn’t want to be found. Does she live nearby?”

  I stop, recalling our conversation. “Daisy. Small town. I’ve never heard of it, but then I don’t leave the city much.”

  He paces around the locker room. “Daisy, Daisy, why is that so familiar . . .”

  “Lawrence, I need her signature. I’m paranoid as hell.”

  He nods, whipping out his phone and taking notes. “Elena something who lives in a town named after a flower—a weed, really, if you think about it.” He gives me an assessing look. “I hope she’s worth all this trouble.”

  My body heats, my cock twitching at that memory of her big eyes, the way her back arched when she was on top of me last night, her long hair brushing the tops of my legs—

  “Hawke, are you listening? I barely have anything to go on here.”

  I put my back to him to hide the tent in my workout pants. “She’s a librarian. Can’t be too many of those in Daisy.”

  A long sigh comes from him. “All right, you get showered while I make some calls.”

  Chapter 7

  ELENA

  My mouth has a million cotton balls inside it. I groan, my hand pressing against my temples as a slow painful thudding starts in my head. Hello, Armageddon of headaches. I wince and curse. That’s what I get for slamming back gin and tonics. I’m never drinking again.

  I move around and plop my hand over my eyes to block out the light that’s coming in from a huge window. At least the sheets under my skin are silky and plush. Hmm, I must have changed them. My hand pats the bed. Where’s Romeo—

  Dang. I am so not in my own bed.

  Everything from last night floods my memories.

  I’m sore in the most delicious places, and it makes me smile. Greg. Greg. Greg. He’s . . . fuck . . . yeah, he gets the f-word, because that man knows how to make a woman happy, and he definitely knows where my c-l-i-t is.

  I glance at the clock on the nightstand. Seven o’clock in the morning, and I turn over, fully expecting to see Mr. Weatherman right there, but the huge bed is empty, just a small indentation where his head must have been. There’s a note there. I squint at it, but it’s no use, and I have to hold it close to my face to get a good look.

  My name is Jack. I’m sorry about the mistaken identity thing. 861-555-5144.

  I have to read it three times. It’s so . . . to the point. Where’s the part about what a great
time we had?

  And mistaken identity? Is this a joke?

  I lie back on the bed, thinking, playing back our meeting at Milano’s. I thought he said he was Greg.

  I asked him if he was the guy, and he said yeah.

  Uneasiness causes me to sit up and flick on the lamp. I focus more on the night before, as much as I can with my head hammering. I didn’t know what Greg looked like, and when I saw the guy in the blue shirt, I thought he was Greg. I pause, chewing on my lips. I approached him and sat down and started talking.

  Disbelief makes my heart race. No! Is it possible I sat down with the wrong guy, and he . . . he didn’t say one word? And all that talk about the weather—and rain is wet!

  Mortification feeds anger.

  What kind of person pretends to be someone else’s date?

  Who exactly did I have sex with?

  I snatch a white sheet from the bed, and I drape it around myself and stand up. One hasty look in the mirror on the wall tells me I look . . . well, like I’ve had a drunken one-night stand; my hair is everywhere—one side sticking straight up, the other flat as a pancake. Dried drool is on my chin, and my eyes have smudged mascara underneath them. I look deranged. That explains it. No wonder he snuck out.

  I scrub at my face while I dart to the kitchen to gather up my clothes. My skirt, shirt, bra, and garters are still on the tile—no panties.

  A few minutes later after scouring the kitchen, then dashing to the den and turning over every chair and even crawling under the desk and the minibar, I still can’t find the pink underwear. Jack, or whatever your name is, those panties cost more than my skirt and blouse put together when you count the material and the hours it took to hand stitch the tiny sequins onto the silk.

  I need those for an important fashion meeting I may or may not go to!

  Did he take them?

  No way. Why would he?

  So I restart, being slower this time as I walk through the entire penthouse. I even check under the bed and crawl the perimeter of the kitchen floor near the baseboards. Nada.

  There’s only one explanation, I think as I stand up and clutch the note he left. My fists curl.

  Jack is a liar and a thief. Major douchebag.

  I’m already envisioning the note I’m going to leave him, and I’m muttering loudly as I kick one of the chairs, only it just hurts my foot, and I call out, tears springing to my eyes.

  There’s a soft knock at the door, and I hobble over to it, peeking through the peephole to see a tall young man, concern on his face. He’s wearing a black turtleneck and black pants. Very James Bond.

  I whip the door open. “Who the hell is Jack?” are the first words out of my mouth, using teacher voice, short and direct, the one I reserve for the kids who come in the library, especially the high school variety. A group of them were just there last week, looking up research for their term projects, and I caught a pair of them kissing in the stacks, like the Daisy Public Library was their own personal make-out spot.

  He blanches, his eyes taking in the makeshift toga-style outfit I have going on. I should have gotten dressed right away, but I was too worried about my underwear.

  “Ma’am. Good morning. I, uh . . . are you okay? I heard a commotion in here and wanted to check.”

  His gaze lands on the pink bra in my hands, and a slow blush starts up his cheeks.

  I tuck it behind me. “I’m fine. No need to check on me.”

  He swallows and stares at a point over my shoulder. “Sorry to bother you. It’s just once a reporter broke in here and went through his things. One time, a girl got in. Stole all his clothes.”

  “Good for her!”

  He blinks. “Ma’am. I just wanted to check on you. Jack gave me this job out of the goodness of his heart, and I don’t want to mess up.” He pauses. “He said to tell you he’s sorry.”

  “He’s sorry? Oh my God! The nerve of him to send you to apologize.”

  Young James Bond fidgets. “Most girls Jack dates are happy—”

  My anger races up. “You aren’t helping the situation here.”

  He dips his head, lowering his eyes. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I shouldn’t have said that about other girls. Hasn’t been one here in a very long time.”

  Jeez. I need a better look at this guy so I can read his face. I hobble over to my purse and pull out my glasses and slide them on, turning back to check out the young man. All at once, I’m relieved. He looks antsy and uncomfortable.

  He clears his throat, keeping those arms crossed in front of him like a soldier.

  “You’re security for Jack?”

  He gives me a tight nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Please stop calling me that. You can’t be much younger than me.”

  “Yes, ma’am—sorry. Southern boy. Can’t help it. May I run out and grab you something? Or call you in breakfast downstairs? The staff here is phenomenal.” He keeps those eyes off me, and I feel at ease.

  My stomach rumbles, growling, and I sigh. This is not the time to be hungry. “I’m sorry; I missed your name?”

  He sticks his hand out. “Quinn. I’m here for whatever you need.”

  I give him a firm handshake. “And Jack? Where did he run off to?”

  He gives me an odd look, as if I should know. “Uh, he’s at the stadium. Big press conference today and all.”

  “I see.” My mind churns, recalling his powerful body, those tightly roped muscles. Stadium means either hockey or football in Nashville, and since Jack said his girlfriend dumped him for a hockey player . . .

  “I guess football keeps early hours.”

  He gives me a big smile. “He’s the hardest-working quarterback in the league. A real legend. Brought Nashville four AFC championships since he was drafted. He finished the regular season with four thousand one hundred and four yards passing, five hundred and fifty-one yards rushing, and thirty-one touchdowns. I know we haven’t won a Super Bowl yet, but that isn’t all on him. This next season is the one. I can feel it.” He blushes.

  “Uh-huh.” Sounds Greek to me. “Go on. I love football stats. What else has Jack done?”

  He gives me an odd look, but you can tell he wants to talk about Jack. “Well, people are still sore about our loss to Pittsburgh this year, but it takes a team to win. We need better guys on defense. He just gets a bad rap because of his past.”

  “I know. His past. Man, it follows him everywhere. Such a shame.” I look expectantly at Quinn, who’s nodding along with me.

  “Right! So what if he got a DUI once and was benched. That was years ago. I mean, come on; at twenty-two he got a twenty-four-million signing bonus, fifteen more million than the quarterback that played before him. He made some mistakes. That kind of money can mess with a kid who never had a pot to piss in.” He grimaces, as if he’s said too much.

  Indeed.

  “I see. When was the Super Bowl?”

  He starts. “Last month, ma’am. You didn’t watch?”

  “Missed it.”

  He gives me a disappointed look, as if I’ve failed horribly. “That’s a shame.”

  I keep the dawning realization of who Jack is off my face. A jock. A freaking athlete! A famous one who makes millions!

  It’s so ridiculous that it must be on my face, because Quinn frowns.

  “You okay, Miss?”

  “Call me Elena, please. I insist,” I say absently, trying to come up with how to glean more info from Quinn.

  “So back to Jack. How did he seem when he left this morning?”

  Quinn hesitates. “A little tired, maybe. He’s got a lot on his mind. You know what he’s dealing with. The media hates him and for no good reason. He’s one of the kindest people I know. He took care of that kid that got hurt and even paid all his medical expenses, although he’d never tell anyone.”

  Kind? He lied to me and took my underpants!

  Kid? What kid?

  I straighten my shoulders. I’m not leaving this place until I figure out exactly who
Jack is and why he . . . why he . . . I bite my lip . . . he made me feel so . . . beautiful.

  Whatever. He deceived me, and that trumps everything.

  My stomach rumbles. “When’s he coming back?”

  “Not sure he will. He usually stays at his other place. You can hang out here as long as you like.”

  Oh, I see. This is the fuck palace. I do my best to hide my simmering emotions.

  “Well, Quinn, does Jack keep his fridge stocked?” I’m already marching into the space, flinging open the French-style stainless steel fridge.

  He tags along behind me. “I keep it up for him. If you’re okay, I’ll just go.”

  My eyes glaze over when I see eggs, green peppers, and a drawer full of premium cheese.

  “Oh, Quinn,” I sigh. “There’s gouda here. And dang . . . fresh spinach.” I squeal. It feels like centuries since dinner. Plus, I’ve practically run a marathon since then. “You hungry?”

  He gives me an unsure glance, his head turning to look back at the door. “Um, yeah. Gouda. There’s some gruyère as well.”

  “You know how to shop, Quinn. You can stock my fridge anytime.”

  He just stares at me, and I see a hint of anxiety. He’s a little afraid of me. Good.

  I open three cabinets before I find the mixing bowls and give him a smile over my shoulder. And I know how crazy I must look, hair and bedsheet, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

  “I best be going . . .” He trails off, watching me crack eggs against the granite countertop and then drip them into the bowl.

  Teacher voice is back. “Have a seat, Quinn. No one’s going to charge the front door this early in the morning. Now, come beat these eggs, and chop some spinach while I go make myself presentable, and when I get back, I’m going to whip us up an omelet, and you’re going to freaking love it.”

  And you’re going to tell me all about Jack.

  “Uhhh . . .”

  I push the bowl at him and smile. “Aren’t you hungry?”