Not My Romeo (The Game Changers #1)(17)
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?”
He nods grudgingly. “Kinda. I usually just call up the restaurant downstairs, and they deliver food to me.”
I smile. “Big strapping guys like you need a home-cooked meal. Me too. Look, we already have something in common. We’re gonna be besties. Be right back.”
After grabbing my purse and clothes, I dash into the marble-tiled master bathroom, taking in the opulent wall-to-wall white stone. I catch my reflection in the mirror again and groan. Rode hard comes to mind. By a lying football player. Not that I have anything against athletes, but me? I’m not the sexy-jock-type girl. I’m drawn to the intellectual types: lawyers, teachers, computer programmers—weathermen.
After washing my face and combing out my hair and putting it up in a messy knot, I dress hurriedly, minus the panties. I’m almost out the door when I turn back around. After fumbling through my purse, I pull out my cherry red and write on his mirror: Jack. I want my underwear back!
Chapter 8
ELENA
A few hours later, after a not-as-informative-as-I-would-have-wished breakfast with Quinn, I’m driving the twenty minutes back to Daisy on Interstate 40, my hands tight on the wheel. All Quinn wanted to discuss was Jack’s football career and nada about him personally. I did like him, though, and it’s not his fault Jack lied to me.
I’m feeling ashamed of my one-night stand, and I’m sure every car I fly past on the interstate can see the huge scarlet A on my face. Weak, I was weak. Throw in the gin and tonic, and all my inhibitions disappeared.
Okay, okay, also it might have been his kissing too.
And the fact that he’s hotter than a blazing fire.
My phone buzzes again with a text, and I figure it’s Topher checking on me, but I don’t text and drive or even talk on the phone while I’m behind the wheel. Plus, I sent him one earlier from the penthouse. I’m alive and on my way home. My cell goes off again, then again, and I dart my eyes over to the passenger seat where my phone is. Sexy Lawyer is the sender, and my jaw tightens.
Why haven’t I removed Preston from my contacts yet?
Cursing under my breath, I find an exit and pull off to the side at a gas station. I totally should ignore him, but Preston did see me leave with Jack, and I’m curious about what he has to say. I snap the phone up and read a series of texts from him; the first ones were sent earlier, but I missed them.
I came by your house this morning and you weren’t there.
Did you spend the night with him?
Elena. Are you crazy? He’s not a good person.
And then the latest one: Call me.
Call him? I sputter, that familiar hurt and anger rising up at the months I invested in him, in how I thought he understood me—until he didn’t. We met when he showed up at the library, decked out in a suit and tie, an engaging smile on his handsome face. Fresh out of law school to work at his uncle’s firm, he stayed for an hour talking to me, his warm-brown eyes the hottest thing I’d seen in Daisy since moving back. He left with two Stephen King audiobooks and my phone number, and we quickly became a thing in town. While the sex wasn’t off the charts, I just figured it would develop as our intimacy did.
Why does it matter?
My sister swept into town, and that was the end of that.
I change his name to Two-Timing Lawyer and get back on the road.
Taylor Swift is blaring “You Need to Calm Down” as I whip into the paved driveway that leads to my two-and-a-half-story white house on East Main. Over a hundred years old, the five-thousand-square-foot Victorian-style house was left to me by Nana when she passed away. It needs constant updates and renovations—obviously including a garage to hide my car from nosy people—but it drips in southern charm, the white wood pristine and crisp, a gingerbread-house-style turret on the right side. A small iron historical placard reading BELLE OF DAISY, ESTABLISHED 1925 sits near an azalea bush. It has been owned by three generations of my family. Stately pillars dot the broad front porch, and magnolia trees line either side of the yard. The house itself is bookended by two regal weeping willow trees. A gray-and-blue stone sidewalk leads to the porch, and I take it all in, letting the comfort of my home ease that tight feeling in my chest. On days when I feel like this small town is going to drive me bananas, coming home makes it worthwhile.