Not My Romeo

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  In for a penny . . .

  “Do that. Pass it along. Hate for her to be let down or embarrass herself.”

  She huffs and marches off.

  “You done and did it now. You let your temper out. She’ll tell her exactly what you said, probably embellish it.”

  I blow at my hair. “Dammit.”

  “Stop your cursing, Elena Michelle.” Mama appears next to me, giving me the once-over. “Nana’s clothes look good on you. Now, where are you going?”

  “Nashville.”

  “And?”

  “Just a meeting for public librarians.” I hate lying—I do so much—and I shouldn’t even have come in, but I wanted my hair to be smart and savvy. Should have just done it myself.

  She nods, seeming to accept that. “Saw Patrick having lunch with Laura at the diner yesterday. Looks like you’ve got some competition, dear. Maybe you should call him.”

  “He’s not interested, Mama. I think it was the pink shoes at church.” I smile.

  She harrumphs. “I knew it. You scared him off on purpose. But he is in that play with you. Just flirt a little—but not too much. You know, compliment his shirt or quote some verses—”

  “Mama! I don’t even know any verses off the top of my head, and Laura is perfect for him. You should see them at rehearsals. They laugh and play with Timmy. They make a cute couple. Let it go.”

  “Is she all over him? I knew it. That girl has always been pretty, and I know her husband dying was just awful—bless his heart—but I really thought Patrick liked you.”

  “Mama, Laura is not a flirt. She’s one of the sweetest people I know.”

  She sighs. “But Giselle is getting married, and now the engagement party is at your house—”

  “Thanks to you.”

  “And I just want you to be happy.”

  “I am ecstatic.”

  “And I know when you’re depressed. You get those bags under your eyes—”

  “My eyes are fine—”

  “And you get all secretive. Are you dating that football player? He’s practically a Yankee.”

  “Ohio is the Midwest, Mama. He grew up in a small town. Definitely not a Yankee.”

  “That’s worse. He’s a hayseed.”

  “Mama! We live in Daisy. You can’t get much more rural than this.”

  “And I read about all those women he dates.”

  I sigh. “Don’t read stuff on the internet.”

  “You didn’t answer me. Are you the girl he met on Valentine’s Day, the one you told Birdie about? Wasn’t that the date with the weatherman—or was it him?”

  Dammit. She’s so close to the truth. Has Giselle or Preston told her?

  I smile. “Mama, all this talking has made me parched. Can you grab me a Sun Drop?”

  She huffs and turns to grab one of the sodas out of the old fridge behind her. She hands it over, and I twist the top off and suck it down. “Those things aren’t good for you. Too much sugar.”

  “Hmm.” I figure as long as I’m drinking, I can’t answer her.

  I’m saved by the mailman. Scotty waltzes in, wearing his smart blue-and-white uniform, a wad of packages and letters in his hands as he strides to the front, eyes all over Aunt Clara.

  I bite back my grin as everyone in the place stills. He is a good-looking man, single, and owns a small farm on the outskirts of town. With sandy hair, hazel eyes, and an engaging grin, he’s muscular and fit too.

  He’s one of Daisy’s most eligible bachelors, except he’s in love with my aunt.

  “Mail,” he calls, and I’m glad Aunt Clara’s done with my hair because she practically sprints over to him. I take in the way she laughs up at him, the way his eyes heat as he stares down at her. Sadness tugs at me, and I chew on my lips. I want that. I want a man to gaze at me as if I hung the moon, as if one moment away from me is too much, as if he doesn’t ever want to walk away, as if he doesn’t need a piece of paper before trusting me . . .

  “Scotty! What do you have for us today?” Aunt Clara smiles brightly up at him.

  He blushes. “Oh, just some hair stuff. Want me to put the boxes in the back?”

  Mama whispers, “That man is smitten.”

  I start, wondering how much she really knows about the late-night visits and sexy times Aunt Clara tells me about. Not much, I bet. She wouldn’t approve.

  Mama frowns at them as Aunt Clara leads the way to the storage room where they keep the hair products. I notice she shuts the door just enough that we can’t see them. Secret kissing, I bet.

  I break the silence, hoping to divert Mama’s attention. “Mama, stop worrying about me, okay? I’m fine.”

  She looks back at me, running her eyes over my hair, touching some of it. She smiles wistfully. “You can’t tell a mother that, dear. We always worry. You go have your meeting, and I’ll see you at Sunday lunch this week.”

  I stand and take in my hair. Pretty. Soft. Not too uptight. I straighten my suit and look at Mama. I pull out a couple of twenties and leave them on Aunt Clara’s counter. She’ll try to give them back, but I always pay. I head to the door, and Mama follows me. She takes my arm before I can leave. “Elena, I’m sorry about suggesting your house for the engagement party. It just slipped out before I thought about it. That house stands for us and our family, you know, and I guess that’s just what I was thinking.”

  I give her a hug. “It’s fine, Mama.”

  She nods, her eyes searching mine. “Good. I thought as much, but sometimes you’re hard to read. You hide stuff from me.”

  Because she expects me to be the perfect little southern girl.

  To follow along with what her idea of me should be.

  I open the door and look back at her. “Don’t you dare invite Patrick to lunch again. Or I swear I’ll wear my tart costume from Halloween.”

  I grin and shut the door before she can reply.

  I come out of the meeting with Marcus onto the busy sidewalk in downtown Nashville. It’s nearly dark, and a soft rain has started, and of course, I have no umbrella.

  My phone rings. Topher.

  “How was it?” he asks.

  “Good news: they loved my designs and would love for me to be part of their team. Bad news: still not a real job offer. They want an intern. A twenty-six-year-old gofer—without benefits. It’s crazy.” I hold the phone to my ear and walk briskly in the cold air, heading toward my car I parked about a block away.

  “Well, the library is a drama zone. You just missed two toddlers scuffling over a dinosaur book. Slaps were exchanged. I thought two mamas were gonna come to blows over who started what. I just now got those two settled down, and a hundred more are begging for books. I just wanted to call and check in on you. I should have come with you.”

  “Somebody needs to run the library. I should hire a part-timer.”

  “Elle, you sound down.” I hear little voices coming through the phone. I picture him at the library, toddlers pulling on his Red Hot Chili Peppers shirt. “Don’t be. You’re going to figure it out.”

  I sigh. “I wish I could go back in time and tell myself to get a degree in fashion.”

  “You were born with that talent, Elle. Somebody is going to sit up and notice. Plus, you have the blog and the Instagram account—”

  I snort. “Romeo has more followers on IG than I have.”

  “Well, maybe put some lingerie on him. Jammies for Hammies.”

  I laugh. “I love you.”

  I come to a stop outside a small quaint bakery. My stomach howls as the scent of sugar and melted butter wafts from the door as someone exits.

  “You got quiet on me,” Topher says. “Did you go in one of those fancy boutiques, the ones with the custom cowboy boots and leather jackets? I love those.” He lets out a wistful sigh.

  “No, better.”

  “Must be food. You’re at that Thai place we went for Michael’s birthday.”

  “Warmer. Think sweet.” I eye the placard outside the store, reading
the pies of the day.

  “You’re at that little pie shop, aren’t you? The one on Second Avenue.” He pauses. “You’re close to the Breton Hotel—you know that?”

  I ignore that. “And the special today is key lime, my favorite.” I can practically taste the tart mixed with buttery crust in my mouth. “It’s practically dinnertime, and this is what I want. Sugar.”

  “Get off the phone with me, and go get you a slice. Bring home a whole pie. I’ll cook tonight, and we’ll split it after. Love you, Elle.”

  I get off the phone and head inside the bakery. A long sigh comes from me. Sugar, make me happy.

  I take a spot at one of the booths, settling my purse and garment bags with my lingerie on the seat next to me. I eye the bags, recalling my interview. Marcus, the CEO of Little Rose, met with me personally. He was incredibly nice and complimentary of my work, his eyes lighting up especially at an off-white set featuring tiny quotes from Romeo and Juliet. I’d found the silky fabric online when I’d first heard about the play.

  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.

  I apologize profusely in a deepened, dripping southern accent and step around her, remove checkout girl’s hand from Jack’s arm, and give them all a sweeping look. I let out an amused laugh, bordering on annoyance, one Mama uses when someone has made her mad, but she still wants to be polite. “Sorry, ladies, but could you please let go of my boyfriend?” I bat my lashes. “He’s been very nice signing autographs and taking photos, and I haven’t seen him all day. I’m sure you ladies understand.” I temper the words with a fake but seemingly genuine smile. “Plus, he’s obviously tired from all that exercise.” I wave my hands at his running gear. “He needs some air.”

  They gape and murmur.

  “Of course. We didn’t know he was here with someone,” one of them mumbles, checking me out as she moves away from him. I smile and attach myself to him like glue, pressing my blazer against his arm. Not moving one inch. Feeling not one ounce of jealousy. Just protective.

  “Thank you for the autograph,” the tall one says, pressing a card in his hand as she limps away.

  I roll my eyes. Good grief. Can’t the man even walk in a bakery without being slipped phone numbers?

  Checkout girl pouts as I tug him away.

  He grins at me and follows me to the booth. “Boyfriend?” he murmurs. “Nice.”

  If he only knew it’s the second time today I’ve claimed him . . .

  I throw a look over my shoulder and hiss, “I saved you. You hated that, and don’t split hairs here. Plus, we need to hurry. Checkout girl might be close to calling the cops on me for loitering, especially now that she knows you’re here for me. She might do it just to get me out of the way.”

  He grins and spreads his hands. “And here I am, ready to rescue you. Forgot your wallet, huh?”

  “Don’t look so happy about it.” I shove the check at him, and he looks down at it, bemusement still on his face. “A slice of pie, coffee, and whole pie? What kind is it?”

  I nudge my head at the pink box on the table. “Key lime.”

  “I like key lime.”

  “So does Topher.”

  He laughs and tugs his wallet out of one of the zippers on his pants. After pulling out a wad of bills, he tosses them on the table and looks over at me. “You headed home?”

  “Thank you. I’ll pay you back at practice on Monday.”

  “Hmm.”

  I glance over his shoulder and see that the women have left, all except for checkout girl, who’s eyeing us. She also has her phone out. Great.

  “Why are you downtown?”

  “Meeting with a lingerie company.” I pick up my garment bag and purse a
s he takes the boxed pie.

  “Yeah? How did it go?”

  I pause, feeling confused, not at the question per se, but just at the fact that being here with him is easier than I thought, seeing him outside play practice, with none of the tension that’s been between us since the blow job.

  Don’t think about that right now.

  “You okay?” He frowns, easing in closer. “You have a weird look on your face.”

  “Fine. It was fine. They want an intern. I’ll have to pass.”

  “I see. Sticking with the library?”

  I nod, trying to keep the disappointment off my face.

  He tosses an arm around my shoulders, tugging me close as we walk past the counter to the door. I look up at him, arching my brow.

  He shrugs. “What? Just playing it up till we get out of here. Maybe we should kiss since that one girl is still watching?”

  “No. I think I handled it.”

  He grins. “Your loss.”

  We reach the door right as the light rain outside turns to a full-on downpour.

  He sighs. “I guess you don’t have an umbrella?”

  “Nope.”

  “Great. You came to Nashville knowing it was going to rain all day and didn’t bring a coat or an umbrella.”

  “I didn’t know it was going to rain all day, weatherman!”

  He laughs and takes off his knit hat, his hair falling like silk around his chiseled cheekbones.

  He pauses. “And now you’re frowning.”

  I huff. “Why do you always look so pretty!”

  “Woman, I am a grown-ass man. I am not pretty.”

  “You are, and it’s so annoying.”

  He rumbles out a laugh and sticks the hat on my head, tucking the loose strands into the knit so they’re covered. “There. At least your uptight hair won’t get wet.”

  “It’s not uptight. It’s chic.”

  “I like it down.”

  “Fine.” I whip the hat off and pull at my hair, tugging at the pins until my tresses are falling around my shoulders. I tug the hat back on. “Happy?”

  “Not yet.” He lifts up the neck of his long-sleeved shirt, pulling it over his neck. I flare my eyes. “Jack! You can’t go shirtless. Women will maul you.”