Not My Romeo (The Game Changers #1)(25)

I look over my shoulder and give Topher and Michael a thumbs-up sign. I elbow Devon. “My bestie knows I’m with you, so no funny stuff.”

“Ah, I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.”

My nerves are stretched thin as we breeze past the bouncer, walk down a hallway and inside a dimly lit room with a smaller bar and a raised dais for a dance floor. Nicely dressed servers roam the room with platters of champagne. A longer table of food lines the back wall, filled with cold shrimp, fruit and cheese, and little quiches. I eye those.

There’s a window that faces the dance floor, and I see Topher, although I’m certain the regular people out in the club can’t see inside the bar. I hadn’t even noticed the window.

“There’s quite a crowd in here,” I murmur as I pull my pale-pink cat-eye glasses out of my purse and slide them on. They’re bigger than my white ones and have little jewels on the sides. My dress-up pair.

Devon leads me around the room, randomly calling out to people. Men slap him on the back, wishing him happy birthday. He glances down at me a few times, as if to introduce me, and I grin because he doesn’t even know my name. Several women rush up to him, pressing kisses to his cheek, edging me out of the way, and I let them and step away, drifting back to the food. I grab a plate and load it up. After snatching a glass of champagne, I stand in the shadows and survey the area. I’ve never seen so many big muscular guys in one place, and I feel small even in my heels. Beautiful women, and I mean freaking supermodel types, dot the room, hanging on muscular arms and cooing at the men. Not my kind of place, and all at once, my bravado about finding Jack sinks like the Titanic. I came in here on an impulse without thinking too hard about it, but it’s clear I don’t fit in here. Even with these stupid pants!

I’m stuffing a quiche in my mouth just as Devon reappears. “You snuck off.”

I chew and nod. “Food.”

“I can see.”

“Do not judge. I believe food should be appreciated.”

“I admire any woman who doesn’t eat salads constantly.”

I smile around a shrimp. Devon’s not too terrible—even if he is a bit of a player. “Unless it’s a pasta salad, maybe with some tortellini and a pound of bacon, am I right?”

“Totally. I could go for a bacon sandwich right now.” He slides in next to me and watches the crowd.

I wave my hands at a group of pretty girls dancing on a raised dais, the music in here piped in through speakers from the ceiling. “It’s your birthday. Why aren’t you out there getting some action?”

“Meh. I think I’ve screwed every girl here at least once.”

I cough and almost spit out part of my shrimp, and he pats me on the back. “Babe, you okay?”

I swallow down my bite. “Devon, look, I’m not a hookup. I don’t want to give you the wrong idea.”

“I think the thump on my forehead was a clue.”

“Good. I’m just here to see if J—”

The crowd parts, and there he is. Every hot-AF inch of him—dark hair swept off his face; chiseled jawline cut like glass; sinful, sensuous lips full and pillowy. He could be a movie star. I squint. Wait. Clarity slaps me in the face. Isn’t he the . . . Adidas guy? My mouth parts. He is! I definitely recall seeing his face on a billboard in Times Square when I lived in New York. That was several years ago, but damn, I had sex with . . . that.

Whatever.

He’s standing near the back, and three women are all over him—a redhead, a brunette, and a blonde. Color me not surprised. He’s got a harem of every flavor.

My chest rises, and I set down my plate of food and narrow my eyes at him.

“J-a-c-k. There you are.”

Devon follows my eyes. “You a Jack Hawke fan? Want to meet him?”

Fan? Fan?

And meet him? I fucked him!

I straighten my shirt to make sure my chest is adequately covered and tug up my pants, ready for battle. I don’t know why, when it comes to Jack, I don’t dwell on my usual politeness or inherent shyness. Something about him brings out the warrior in me. Maybe it’s because Preston screwed me over, and I’m angry in general, or perhaps it’s because I was really into Greg—

“You could say I know him. Excuse me, Devon, someone owes me an apology.”

His eyes flare. “You know Jack? He owes you an apology?”

“Winner, winner, chicken dinner.” I set my plate down on a passing platter and point my stilettos in his direction.

I’m going to kill that quarterback.



It seems to take forever to cross the room to get to where he is, and I feel people looking at me. No doubt they’re wondering who I am and why I’m so much shorter than the supermodels. F them. I may not be the usual for this crowd, but I will get my say.

I have to actually push through several people to get to him, using my shoulders to jam my way into his little circle. This isn’t me at all, but I’m running on adrenaline. I come to a halt about three feet away while he gazes down at a redhead in a tiny cutout black dress that’s at least two sizes too small. She’s got ruby lips and the biggest set of breasts I’ve seen on a girl so skinny. Good for her. An elegant hand curls around his biceps as she smiles up at him and chats. I cock my head, noticing how he looks past her, nodding his head, but he isn’t actually talking, just taking it in, a slightly bored expression on his face. Oh, he’s responding with nonverbal cues in all the right places, yet his mind seems far away.