Not My Romeo

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

“In the bedroom,” she calls, and I walk down the hall and open her cracked door.

  She’s standing at the foot of the bed. Hot as hell. Black lace thong is on her ass, a lace bra hugging her breasts. I shut the door firmly, wondering where Topher is. Probably upstairs.

  Focus, man.

  She looks at me. “You look weird.”

  “Do I?”

  She nods and walks over to me.

  I want things to be okay.

  I want this thing we have.

  But on my terms . . .

  And I wonder how long that’s going to last?

  Shit.

  What am I doing with Elena? I’m going to hurt her just like I did Sophia.

  Never hurt her!

  I inhale sharply—shit—trying to regroup and focusing on her as she takes my jacket off, sniffs it, and gags. “Gross. I do not like this perfume.”

  Sophia picked it out, and it wasn’t my favorite, either, but I keep my mouth shut, knowing better than to bring her up right now.

  Elena tilts her head up at me, a fierce look on her face. “We are not going to discuss her. It’s done. Now take that suit off. I’m wiping your memory like a Jedi mind trick. Elena is the only girl you want to see at Milano’s,” she says, waving her hands in front of my face.

  A laugh comes from me, rough and unsure. “Have you been standing in that pose waiting for me to come in?”

  “You bet. All planned.”

  “Vixen.”

  “I was giving you five more minutes, and I was going to pull out the vibrator.”

  “Liar.”

  She cranks up Taylor Swift as I quickly unbutton my shirt, tugging it out of my pants and tossing it aside. My pants are next. Socks gone. She hates socks on me.

  She turns and jumps in my arms, her legs locked around my hips. “Let’s do this. Nice and fast before we’re star-crossed lovers.”

  Finally. She is in my arms, and I didn’t even realize how much I needed it. I put my head in her neck, inhaling, all of my territorial instincts roaring to the surface. She’s mine . . .

  I groan and carry her over to the end of her bed, splaying her down as I hover over her.

  Ask her.

  “Elena?”

  “Hmm?” She smiles up at me.

  “Is there anything you need to tell me?”

  She stills, holding my gaze. “Like what?”

  It feels so wrong to even question her. It’s . . . Elena. She’s sweet and good and kind.

  “Sophia . . . shit . . . Elena, can I trust you?”

  Her eyes search mine for a long time, deeply. She knows what I mean, talking about me, selling a story if we don’t work out—

  “Yes,” she says softly, and I close my eyes and kiss her.

  Chapter 29

  ELENA

  “O happy dagger, this is thy sheath. There rust, and let me die!” I stab myself with the fake dagger and collapse to the ground across Jack, draping myself over his chest, my face away from the audience. My hair is down in long waves and falls down my back. Wearing a thin ankle-length white dress with bell sleeves and a lace-up bodice, I’m in full costume tonight, opening night just three days away.

  “Nice death, Juliet. Wish we could have just stayed alive,” Jack murmurs.

  I flick my eyes down at him. He’s so carefree like this, none of that Sophia stuff in his head. His hair is swept back off his face as he lies on the stone like a slab one of the prop guys made. Wearing a tight black shirt, skinny jeans, and motorcycle boots, he sports a fake gold gun tucked in a holster. He looks fucking amazing. I’ve barely kept my hands off him all night.

  He looks up at me.

  I grin. “You just drank poison because you couldn’t stand to live without me. Why are your eyes open?”

  He cocks an eyebrow. “You smell good. Your fault. That dress is hot. Trying to figure out how to get my hand under it without anyone seeing.”

  I giggle, trying to keep it muffled. It’s been two weeks of this, us at practice together, the intense feelings I feel every time he looks at me and says his lines, especially the ones where he talks about loving me.

  No, Elena. Don’t rush . . .

  But I can’t help it.

  I’m flying high when I’m with him, when he’s inside me, murmuring my name like a litany, his hands on my body.

  But when I’m alone . . .

  Taking chances, I remind myself in my head.

  Isn’t it worth it?

  We might fall apart at any minute.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks softly, keeping his voice low. “Did I flub my line? Too much tongue with that last kiss? Shit. Too much tongue.”

  My lower body clenches at the way he kisses me onstage. The first time it happened was a few nights ago, when it wasn’t required, but there he went anyway, laying one on me during the balcony scene. The whole crew watched us, and I didn’t even care. “I don’t think she meant make out . . .” I try not to laugh. “Your lines were great.”

  “I still worry I’m going to forget a line.”

  I shift slowly, managing to squeeze his hand. “I’ll be here. Just picture them all as meerkats out there, wearing top hats and being ridiculous. Good trick I learned early on.”

  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.”

  I smile.

  Jack does a little bow. “My biggest fan.”

  Laura laughs. “Okay, let’s pick up when Romeo comes in the tomb and sees Juliet? Ready?”

  We all nod and get into our places.

  And this time, when I stab myself and fall across Jack, he keeps his eyes tightly shut, never once opening them to look at me, like I want him to . . . so much.

  “Two more days till the play!” Timmy tells us as we grab our things after practice the next day.

  Jack ruffles his hair. “Can’t wait, little man. Want to go throw some footballs for a minute?”

  Timmy holds up his ball. “I’m ready!”

  They laugh and head off across the gym.

  I hide my smile. Does Jack have any clue how good he is with Timmy?

  “Y’all look great onstage, Elle,” Topher murmurs.

  I sigh. “Yeah.”

  Laura nods. “Best couple ever. I’m so happy you guys are dating.”

  “Yeah.” I nod, that trickle of uneasiness hitting me when someone uses that word.

  He still hasn’t come to Sunday lunch. He still hasn’t told me how he feels . . .

  Neither have you, a voice says.

  But we haven’t spent one night apart—at my house. I’ve gotten used to him getting up before the sun is up and making me coffee, then chatting with me on the back porch before I go to work and he heads off to Nashville. Then he comes back in the afternoon, and we eat and laugh and read, then make love. I’m living in a bubble of us. I feel . . . disoriented and at sea . . . waiting for the tide to push me back onshore, to reality.

  Our play will be over soon, and then, yes, then, I’ll make a decision for us to really talk.

  But for now . . .

  I just want him.

  Giselle walks up, wearing a guarded look. She wasn’t right tonight during practice. I take in the dark shadows under her eyes.

  “You okay?”

  She dips her head. “Yeah.”

  I watch her walk away, frowning. I don’t like that slump in her shoulders at all. Are she and Preston okay? They seemed fine at lunch this past Sunday, but then my head was on Jack. I haven’t really been noticing everyone else around me.

  My phone rings, and I glance at the caller—my old boss from New York. He gives me a call every three or four months to check in and offer me a job.

  I wave at Laura and Topher as I walk to the empty stage and sit down on the floor.

  “Marvin! How are you?” I laugh. “Kind of late for you to call.”

  “Ah, you know me,” his deep voice says. “Always working. How’s library life and lingerie?”

  I grin. When I worked for him, he’d catch me on my break sketching. An older man with a head of white hair and a big smile, he hired me fresh out of NYU as one of their copy editors. I climbed the ladder fast in two years, scoring a senior editor position, hungry for the work, missing my family more than I’d thought I would. I focused on romance, a small imprint of Blue Stone.

  “You want a job?”

  I laugh. “Again?”

  I hear a crunch as a chuckle rumbles out of him, and even though it’s nine o’clock at night, his time, I know he’s still at his desk, munching on Doritos and drinking Diet Coke.

  “Can’t help it. My managing editor of our historical line just resigned, and I thought of you. You were one of my best editors, authors adore you, and I figured you might want to move back to where the fashion world really is.”

  I grin. “Dangling fashion as a carrot.”

  “Worth a shot. Fashion industry has to be ridiculous in Tennessee.”

  “You have no idea.” I’ve given up for the time being, just taking one day at a time.

  “You could have say over all manuscripts, hiring and firing, deadlines, schedules, and a nice fat salary. What do you make these days?”

  “It would make you weep.”

  He laughs. “See. Come back to New York. My wife will help you find an apartment. She loves you.”

  Oh, he’s a smooth one, bringing up Cora, his adorable wife, who fed me more than once at their apartment on the Upper East Side.

  “You talk sweet, but . . .”

  “Damn. You actually love that place, don’t you?”

  I giggle. “It’s crazy. Mama is still driving me up the wall, and God, wait until I tell you about—”

  I stop. I almost brought up Jack. My chest twists. I should be able to talk about us.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Just excited about a new play.”

  “You love those. Right. Listen, let me send you the job description, and you take a look at it and get back to me. Maybe fly up here, take a look at the department, see what you think?”

  My eyes land on Jack as he throws the ball to Timmy.

  “Daisy is home now, Marvin.”

  Even if Jack and I don’t work out, I love this place.

  A long exhale comes from him. He munches on a chip. “Okay, there’s something else, and I swear it has nothing to do with the job offer.”

  “Okay.”

  “You remember that book we published a while back, Sophia Blaine’s story, The Real Jack Hawke?”

  “Piece of trash.”

  “Ah, well, yeah, you were here when she came to New York and met with our team.”

  “I didn’t meet with her. That wasn’t my department.” Uneasiness fills my gut. Two weeks ago after Jack saw Sophia, he came back strange, asking me if there was anything I should tell him, and while my former job did cross my mind, I stayed quiet. I’d told him I used to edit romance. Surely, it wouldn’t matter.

  “Right, right, but you are seeing him, Elena. Hell, I barely keep up with football, but my son does, and he told me he saw you in that video and a photo on a morning show.”

  I frown. “What does that have to do with anything? My personal life is private.”

  “I know, but Carla Marsden—you remember her—she handled that book, and she saw the video too. She came in and asked if I’d give you a call—”

  “Marvin! I’m not telling her anything about Jack! I’m not Sophia Blaine.” My voice has r
isen, and Jack darts his eyes at me, a questioning look on his face. I smile and turn to the side, putting my face away from him. “It’s not cool for you to even ask me about him.”

  “Agreed. I don’t like it, but she asked because she knows you and I are close. And she doesn’t want you to write some nutty book about Jack. She wants his story. She was never thrilled with Sophia, even though that book sold like hotcakes—”

  “His story is his. Why are you asking me?” My tone is aggravated.

  “Because nobody can get close to him. His agent doesn’t take publishers’ calls for him. His PR guy doesn’t respond to anything from Carla. No one even has an address for Jack to mail an offer. She can’t get through.”

  “For a reason!”

  He sighs. “But if he did want to tell his story, she wants it. And she’s using me to get to you, and shit, I’m sorry. I’ve totally fucked up this convo when I really would love to have you back at Blue Stone.”

  My hands tighten around the phone. “Tell her I barely know him, Marvin.”

  And that stings, even though I know that isn’t true. I do know him.

  But I don’t know what we are.

  “You’re pissed at me.”

  I sigh. “You offer me a job, then throw that at me?”

  “But I offer you a job all the time, Elena. I meant that. I only brought him up because her department is bigger, and she’s foaming at the mouth to talk to him.”

  And underneath his big smile, he’s a publisher. A good one.

  “Would you get a cut if Jack signed with Blue Stone through me, Marvin?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe. Yeah.”

  I swallow, feeling shaken, just now realizing the ramifications of that video, how terrible for Jack to never have even an ounce of privacy. And Marvin is my friend—yet here he is, using me to get to Jack.

  “I’m angry with you,” I say tightly, lowering my voice to a whisper.

  He sighs heavily. “Yeah. Cora said you’d be. But I had to try.”

  I circle back to Carla Marsden, whispering, “Tell her what I said tonight, and don’t call me for a while. Goodbye, Marvin.”

  I end the call.

  “Who the fuck is Marvin?”

  I twist around on the stage. Jack stands on the floor about five feet away, his face stony, his eyes dark and hard.