Not My Romeo (The Game Changers #1)(18)

Topher opens the front door and takes the steps two at a time to reach me. Wearing white skinny jeans, an REM shirt, and ragged black Converse, he’s holding a wriggling pink Romeo, currently decked out in a red sweater I knit.

He stops in front of me. “Where have you been?” Without waiting for a reply, he continues, glaring down at Romeo. “Hog from Hell chewed up the toes on a vintage pair of Chucks I have. Lime green! High-tops! Do you know how much those are worth?”

I roll my eyes. My age, with a mop of long wavy white-blond hair and a slender build, he looks like he belongs in California on the beach with a surfboard in his hand. But he’s just a good old southern boy, a little misunderstood and a whole lot of wonderful. We met at the Daisy Community Center theater program when I first moved back to Daisy. He was Peter, and I was Wendy in Neverland. He moved in soon after, when his lease ran out on his small rental. Lord knows I have enough room: six bedrooms, four baths, and acres of beautiful rolling hills behind the house.

“Didn’t you get those at the Goodwill, Topher? And are they really worth money?”

He smirks. “Doesn’t matter where or how much I paid. Lime is my color, baby girl. I look good in it. Hog from Hell needs obedience school.”

Romeo grunts and sends a glare up at him, but Topher doesn’t try to hand him over.

“Nice sweater you put him in,” I say.

He shrugs. “It’s chilly.”

“Uh-huh.”

No matter what he says, he likes the tiny pink pig—a little.

“Fine. Forget the stupid shoes.” He kisses me on both cheeks, a look of concern on his normally amused countenance. “Greg texted me this morning and said he had the flu and was so out of it he didn’t get back to you last night when you said you were going to be late. He’s sad he missed you, begs forgiveness, and plans to call you, blah-blah-blah.” He pouts. “I’m sad because I just knew you two little nerds were perfect for each other.”

“Flu, huh?” He better have been sick as a dog.

“He wants to reschedule.”

“Not after last night. It’s just bad timing. I’m not ready to meet anyone right now.”

His summer-blue eyes rove over my disheveled shirt and skirt. A slow grin takes over his face as he lets Romeo down to follow us and hooks his arm through mine as we walk down the sidewalk. “So you didn’t go out with Greg. Which begs the question: Where have you been all night? Please tell me you weren’t crying somewhere over Preston.”

My lips compress, shoving down that hurt and grabbing onto anger instead. “To quote Aunt Clara: ‘Preston is a turd in a punch bowl.’ But I did see him last night at Milano’s with Giselle. Apparently, that’s the go-to place for Valentine’s Day. I had another date.”

He holds his index finger and thumb up within an inch of each other. “Well, I was this close to calling your mama when you didn’t come home.”

I freeze. “Traitor. I will stab you in your sleep if you even hint—”

“Sweet baby Jesus, I’m joking. She terrifies me.” He grins. “So who was your date with?”

I feel a slow blush building as I pick up Romeo and give his ear a little scratch. He buries his face in my arms, a long shuffling sigh coming from him. “No one important.”

“Did you pick someone up at the bar?”

Pretty much.

I dart a look over at the Cut ’N’ Curl across the street, Mama and Aunt Clara’s beauty shop, the place in Daisy to get your hair done and hear the latest gossip. The parking lot is packed, a typical Saturday. They opened at ten this morning and no doubt saw that my car wasn’t here. I could say I was out for errands if they ask, but Aunt Clara lives right next door and doesn’t miss a beat.

“No one’s popped by. They’re clueless,” Topher says, a gleam in his eyes. “But if you don’t tell me what’s going on, I might just have to go in for a trim and let it drop that a certain librarian didn’t come home.”

I smack him on the arm playfully and walk inside the house, but inside I’m not as perky as I let on.

He reads me like a book. “Stop that right now, Elena. You do you. So what if you had a fling with some guy you picked up—”

“Who said I had a fling?”

“Your hair is crazy, and your clothes are rumpled, and your lips have a deliciously swollen look to them.”

“What a vivid imagination you have.”

“I know what a good night of sex looks like.” He grins, white teeth flashing on his tanned face. It might be the middle of February, but he’s a sun worshipper and hits the tanning beds in the winter.

I set down my purse on the sofa and plop down in a faded-blue armchair, lace doilies Nana made draping the back. I still haven’t gotten around to updating the furniture in the house, mostly because I don’t have the money for it—and part of me likes the old furnishings because they hold memories.

“Who was it? Was it one of those Tinder guys—”

“No,” I murmur. “Um, Jack Hawke.”

He does a slow blink. “The Jack Hawke? Quarterback for the Tigers? Hot as hell with guns big enough to crush a grown man? That Jack Hawke?”

“Yeah?”

Glee grows on his face as he lights up the room with his smile.