Not My Romeo

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  Damn these pants. I take my eyes off Jack to see the guy who has slid up next to us. He’s young, a classic boy-next-door type, his chin square, dimples in his cheeks. He takes my hand and shakes it.

  “Alabama, chill. She’s with Jack and me,” Devon says in exasperation.

  Aiden—or Alabama—gives me a wide smile. “You open for a foursome too?”

  “She doesn’t do that,” Jack growls. “She’s not a jersey chaser.”

  I don’t even know what a jersey chaser is.

  “Huh. I haven’t seen you around. You got a name?” Alabama asks me, ignoring them. He hits me with light-blue eyes and an award-winning smile.

  Jack bumps his shoulder with his. “No, she doesn’t have a name for you. She’s with me. She’s a lady.”

  Well.

  Well.

  First I picked him up, and now I’m a lady? Does he have emotional whiplash?

  Jack’s got his focus on Alabama, who seems cool as a cucumber, even after the shoulder bump. I sense backstory.

  “I like ladies,” Alabama murmurs, giving me a cocky grin. “I take it you’re friends with Jack. How did you two meet?”

  I lick my lips, choosing my words carefully. I may be angry with Jack, but I don’t want to cause any problems for him. “We just met,” I tell him.

  “Really?” he replies. “Because he’s barely taken his eyes off you since you walked up. Did you call him ‘weatherman’? Is that a cute nickname you two have?”

  Alabama is pushy—but charming with that southern accent.

  “No,” I reply. Short. Succinct.

  Jack’s nose flares as he watches us. He leans down and whispers something in Devon’s ear, too low for me to hear. Devon watches my face, listening to Jack and nodding.

  “I bet they’re plotting to get you away from me,” Alabama murmurs as he leans his head down to me. “Jack’s a bit territorial. You sure you guys aren’t dating?”

  “Nope.” We just had sex.

  “Which means you’re available?”

  Good Lord. I stare at him. “Do all football players just assume every woman in the place wants them?”

  He lifts his hands. “Yeah.”

  Jack and Devon finish their conversation, and Devon sends me a big smile. “Um, you ready to get out of here?”

  Jack’s eyes cling to mine, searching before looking away. “I’m sure she is,” he says tightly.

  He’s getting rid of me.

  “So ready,” I mutter.

  Alabama gives me a disappointed look, but I don’t think it’s so much about him finding me attractive but more along the lines of who I am to Jack. “Hey, it was nice to meet you. Maybe I’ll see you again.”

  I nod.

  Devon hooks my hand through his bent arm, and we leave the VIP room. He is oddly quiet, his brow pulled down as we go back to the bar.

  I plop down on the barstool and send a glance up at the huge glass window where the VIP room is.

  Is he watching us right now?

  Or is he already squished between three models?

  Who cares?

  Devon lets out a long sigh, his gaze following mine. “Trust me; he’s watching now that he knows you’re here. Jack never misses anything.”

  I signal for another water, taking a long sip on the straw. Topher and company are still dancing, the song “Greased Lightning,” and I’m betting Topher talked the DJ into it. Topher sees Devon next to me, his grinning face telling me he knows who Devon is. I grimace and hold my hands up. What are the odds? my face says. He blows me a kiss.

  “Your bestie?” Devon asks.

  I nod.

  “Jack’s my best friend, has been since college days; plus we live together. We’re brothers in a sense, I guess. I’d do anything for him.”

  “Escorting women out of the VIP?”

  He grimaces. “It wasn’t like that. He was protecting you. If reporters knew he was seeing you, trust me, they might not leave you alone.”

  “Were reporters in there?”

  “No, but people in there might talk. He doesn’t trust easy, especially Aiden.”

  I order another water and sigh, feeling let down about Jack—about how different he was tonight.

  He settles in next to me, concentration on his face, as if he’s choosing his words carefully. “Also, he did not give me details about last night. He just wanted to know who you really were. In fact, I’ve never seen him—”

  “I’m no one.” I shrug.

  Devon nods. “Tell me—did Jack leave you his cell number?”

  “Yes.” I guess he did.

  “He never does that. I bet five people have that number.” He waggles his brows.

  “Well, I’m not calling him.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Sure, sure.”

  “I’ll thump you again.”

  He grins and checks his watch.

  “You late for somewhere?”

  “No. Just waiting.”

  “For Jack?”

  He gives me a hesitant nod. “Yeah, he wants to talk to you. He told me to get you out of there. He doesn’t like Aiden talking to you. Thin ice there.”

  “Oh.”

  He nods. “Think about it. Football players at the top get there because number one, we’re talented as hell; number two, we’re highly competitive; and number three, we all want that glory and the money. It’s a team sport, but you’re always looking out for yourself. Alabama wants to bring Jack down hard and take his spot.” He clinks his beer with my water glass and leans down. “Dance with me. I love this song.”

  “Really? Who sings it?” It’s Sam Smith’s “I’m Not the Only One.”

  He rolls his eyes and takes my hand. “Who cares? Let’s just dance.”

  He tugs on my hand until I agree—he’s like a sweet puppy—and leads me out to the dance floor.

  Devon takes me in his arms, his hands on my waist, mine on his shoulders, and we sway to the slow song. He keeps a respectable distance and stares down at me, a look of bemusement on his face.

  “What?” I ask.

  He just smiles, his teeth a flash of white on his tanned face, and like Jack, I guess he’s outdoors a lot. “I see why he likes you. You’re really an open book, you know. Your face says exactly what you’re thinking. No guile. No subterfuge. When you were, um, asking for your panties, it was refreshing . . . to see him flummoxed. Women flock to him, and all they say is ‘Yes, Jack, whatever you want, Jack.’” He chuckles. “After you’ve been around as many women as we have, you figure out the real ones.”

  His large hands drift to my lower back, close to my ass. I give him side-eye. “Watch it there, Mohawk.”

  He laughs. “Also, I give him sixty seconds before he’s down here.”

  I blow at a piece of my hair. “You’re convinced that he cares that I’m dancing with you? Please. Let’s make a bet. A buck he doesn’t show.”

  “Damn, I like you. Okay, you’re on.”

  I count to sixty in my head, and the song changes to another slow one. “He isn’t here. Not that I wanted him to be. You owe me.”

  Devon thinks, his gaze going back to that window. “Right. Okay, let’s play it a little meaner. Double or nothing?”

  I nod. Why not? For one thing, I do want to see Jack—because hello, panties. I need them back.

  Devon arches a brow. “I’m going to play dirty; you feel me?”

  Play dirty?

  And before I can respond to that, Devon stops our dance, putting my back to the window. Wrapping an arm tight around my waist, he steps in closer. His hand moves my hair, and he kisses my cheek, much like Topher would, yet his lips skate over to my ear. He nips my lobe, and I giggle because it tickles but mostly because the entire time he’s murmuring, counting the seconds. To anyone else, I imagine it appears as if we’re in an embrace and he’s sucking my neck area. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten—”

  “Devon!” Jack says fr
om next to us, a good two inches taller than Devon. He scowls as he puts his hand on Devon’s shoulder. “What the hell? I said keep her company, not make out.” His voice is all growly.

  Devon lets me go, holding his hands up in a placating manner. “Sorry, man. You said to get her out of there, and a good song came on. Couldn’t stop myself.” He winks at me, sticks his hands in his jeans, and waltzes off the floor. I hear him whistling.

  “You can pay me later, Elena,” he calls from the edge of the dance floor as he gives me a jaunty wave. He strolls up to the brunette at the bar and leans his head in. No doubt calling her pretty girl.

  Jack looks back at me, his gaze indecipherable as it drifts over me. “Pay you for what?” He shakes his head. “Never mind. Come with me. Let’s find a private room.”

  He holds out his hand for me to take, and I stare at it. His tone screams alpha, and every atom inside me vibrates from being near him.

  Couples move around us, the beat of the song playing getting faster, matching the pounding of my heart.

  “Elena. Come with me. Please,” he adds softly when the tempo of the music grows. “We can’t talk out here. It’s too loud.”

  At least I got a please.

  “No.” I brush past him and head for the exit of the club. En route, I pull my phone out of my crossbody and type out a text to Topher that I’m heading home. No one expected me to stay as long as they’d planned, so I drove myself. They’ll close this bar and hit a few others.

  “Elena, wait,” Jack calls behind me as I weave through the crowd and reach the exit. I feel him behind me, the heat of his skin, the smell of him, spicy with hints of pine and male.

  I don’t turn around, but I do see a few girls whipping out their phones ahead of me, snapping pics and probably videoing. I dip my head and stare at the ground. If he’s as hot with the media as everyone says, I don’t want to be part of that, especially when it’s obvious I don’t fit in with his crowd. I recall those “Yes, whatever you want, Jack” willowy creatures in the VIP room.

  Yeah, Jack and I don’t go together. That is crystal clear.

  Chapter 12

  JACK

  Fuck.

  Why can’t I take my eyes off her heart-shaped ass in those pants as she weaves through the crowd to get away from me?

  Away from me.

  How long has it been since a woman didn’t want anything to do with me? I can’t remember. I guess middle school, when I was a skinny runt. It wasn’t until I played football that women flocked to me.

  She breezes past the crowd and exits, slamming the door behind her, but I’m right behind her. Relief settles over me as I take in the night. Finally, I’m out of that club. I rarely go there anymore, but with Devon’s birthday, I knew it was important I do the mix-and-mingle thing. It’s hard, pushing myself to be “on,” especially with all this other shit going on.

  She turns a corner, and I jog. I can’t let her get away from me this time. But I knew I had to get her out of that VIP room, because rumors can start from the smallest thing.

  There’s a cold drizzle when I catch up with her on the sidewalk. She doesn’t care, not even whipping out an umbrella as she stalks. She strikes me as the type who doesn’t care that she’s getting wet. I wish I had one for her as I try to keep pace with her, sticking my hands in my pockets.

  What do I say?

  Shit.

  I don’t even know how to talk to a girl these days.

  “Where you going?” I start with.

  “My car. Home. Away.”

  My lips twitch, and I see her throw me a glance.

  “What’s so funny? And why are you following me? I have pepper spray, you know.”

  I nod. “Good. You shouldn’t be walking to your car alone. I’ll make sure you get there.”

  She presses those full lips together. They’re a hot pink tonight, and my eyes invariably go to the upper part, a deep V there, noticing how it gives her a just-kissed look.

  “Stop staring at me. I’m a stalker, remember? I followed you to Milano’s and the club.”

  I grab her hand, and she stops and looks down at it. I let her go, but at least she’s not walking away from me anymore. “Elena. I’m sorry I said that.”

  “Then why did you say those things?”

  “Because I’m stupid.” I exhale. “You showed up in the VIP room, and you had that on.” I wave my hand at her hot outfit. “It surprised me. It’s a well-known fact that Devon owns that place, and women hang out there just to look for us. Plus, I had you in my head as someone else. All prim and proper . . .”

  My eyes go low, taking in the way her shirt keeps slipping down her shoulder, revealing the black lace of her bra. Her height hits me around my upper chest, and I dig her small frame, all my protective instincts flaring up—especially when I saw her wrapped up with Devon on the dance floor. Sonofabitch. He was playing me. He isn’t into her. Right?

  What if he is?

  I roll my neck.

  She’s pushed her glasses up to hold back her auburn hair, and her face is mostly devoid of makeup, skin like porcelain, her lashes dark and thick, fluttery fans as they blink up at me. I recall last night and that pencil skirt and demure Peter Pan collar.

  “I like you all buttoned up,” I admit grudgingly.

  “Why?”

  I shrug, feeling bemused. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just you.”

  “Oh.”

  We stand there in the soft rain, staring at each other, and I clear my throat. “I’m sorry for lying to you. I wanted to tell you my real name half a dozen times. I didn’t, because it felt good to know you wanted me for me and not because of who I am.”

  She looks away from me, watching a group of people laughing as they walk past us. They don’t seem to look at us, but I’m jonesing to get off this street and away from everyone.

  “Are you into Devon?” I blurt, surprising myself.

  She levels ocean eyes at me. “If I were?”

  “Then I’ll back off.” Motherfucker. I will not back off.

  “Back off from what? We aren’t a thing, Jack.”

  “Is that so? Even after last night?” I watch her closely, trusting body language way more than words.

  Her chest rises, and a slow flush colors her cheeks. She swallows and chews on those lips, and my body responds, hardening.

  “You’re not into him, or you wouldn’t have flushed.” Gaining more confidence, I take a step closer to her. I reach out and touch a strand of hair, letting it trail through my fingers, recalling how I tugged hard on it the night before, increasing that pressure more and more, waiting for her to tell me to stop, but she didn’t. She groaned and came, her pussy tightening and spasming around my cock. Need washes over me. Just to have her one more time.

  “We aren’t done, Elena. Come to the penthouse with me.”

  Her little hands clasp together, and she opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Instead, she takes off walking again, and I blink, following after her. “What did I say?”

  She’s reached a green car and hits her clicker. “You really know how to woo a lady, Jack. I guess you think all you have to do is snap your fingers, and I’m going to join you in that penthouse for some frolicking.”

  Frolicking? I grin. “I’m not looking for a relationship, and you’ve just broken up with someone. Did I read you wrong?”

  The rain kicks up, falling harder, drenching us both—yet neither of us seems to care.

  “First of all, I don’t do one-night stands or two-night ones. You don’t know me at all.”

  “Okay, then let me get to know you.” I nudge my head at a coffee shop down the road. “Let me buy you a coffee. Get to know me.”

  Shit.

  Shit.

  I hate public places where the owners don’t know me.

  But . . .

  A cold wind blows, and I frown when she shivers. She wipes at the rain in her eyes.

  “Here,” I say and unbutton my shirt and whip it off and hol
d it over her head. It doesn’t help much, but at least she’s not getting any wetter.

  “You should have worn a coat,” I mutter, staring down at her. “It’s forty degrees and raining.”

  She glances at my now-soaked white T-shirt, then meets my eyes again. “You a weatherman now?”

  I grin. “Rain. It’s wet.”

  She gives me a wan smile, and a long sigh leaves her chest—and I see a distant expression growing on her face. “Here’s a tip for the next time you have sex with a girl: don’t lie about who you are, and don’t leave before she wakes up. Bad form.”

  That fucking nightmare that woke me up.

  Part of me hesitates as I consider trying to explain it, but . . .

  I don’t know her. My gut senses she’s genuine, but . . .

  You can’t really trust anyone, a voice tells me. Whatever I share with her might eventually be passed on, even if it’s just to a friend, and then that friend decides to tell someone else. Pretty soon it will get leaked to the media, and they’ll concoct a story out of it. After all, it wasn’t just Sophia who betrayed me. Harvey’s sister profited off the story of my life after I was drafted, an article in Sports Illustrated that detailed my early years with my mom. It reeked of lies, painting Harvey as misunderstood and blinded by love.

  “You’re right. I should have stayed. I should have pulled you in my arms and woken you up.” I grimace. “I’m not good with stuff like that.”

  She studies me for several seconds.

  “Elena, I don’t know how to do this.”

  “This?”

  I hesitate before answering. “Look, can we just start all over?”

  Without waiting for a reply, I stick my hand out and take hers. “Hello. I’m Jack Eugene Hawke, quarterback. I collect cheesy coffee mugs and magnets from every city I’ve been to. I can do a push-up with you on my back—yeah, I thought about it today. I read a lot, mostly thrillers. I grew up in a small town in Ohio. My mom is dead. Don’t know where my dad is. I love to sketch but am too embarrassed to show anyone. I won a national championship my senior year, the Heisman when I was a junior. I’m actually . . . shy. Dwight Schrute from The Office makes me laugh until I cry. And recently, I’ve discovered I have an insatiable penchant for hot librarians.”