Not My Romeo (The Game Changers #1)(26)

I know because I stand there for at least three minutes, tapping my feet, getting my nerve up. Kinda hoping he sees me first. But he doesn’t. I’m too short.

On the other side, the blonde has her arm on his other shoulder; she’s leaning in, her silky hair brushing against his fancy button-up shirt, another expensive piece of tailored art. She’s speaking, too, agreeing with whatever Miss Red is saying. Then I’m distracted; his sleeves are rolled up, and my eyes get tangled up on those forearms again, how taut and muscular they are, how tightly he held me the night before, his hands on my hips as he thrust inside me—

Stop this nonsense right now.

“Jack Hawke,” I snap, and it comes out sharper than I thought it would.

Everyone around him stops talking.

He lifts his head slowly, and it seems to take a million years, only I’m sure it’s just a few seconds until those honey-colored eyes meet mine. His lush mouth parts as he sweeps me over from head to foot, recognition dawning on his face. A slow flush crawls up his neck to his face.

Then he frowns at me, as if I’ve done something wrong—when he’s the one who’s a liar.

That’s right, buddy.

I bet you thought you’d never see me again.

Yes, he wrote me a note with a cell number, but was it even real?

The girls check me out, and you know how that goes. They give me a once-over, rather dismissive and amused, taking in my glasses, teased hair, sweaty face, and pants. God, who can forget these horrible, tight, sticky pants? How the heck will I ever get them off me? Scissors.

“Elena.”

The way he says it, drawing out the syllables, the texture of his deep voice making me shiver.

I close my eyes briefly, feeling the force of his focus and presence like a huge hurricane that’s blowing straight in my face. He’s primal. He’s the god of fucking.

And I climbed him like a tree and enjoyed every moment.

And he did too.

I had him begging for it. Begging me to—

A tingle zips down my spine.

Screw that tingle.

I inhale a deep breath, my fists curling at my sides. “Weatherman, where are my panties?”





Chapter 11

ELENA

Jack does a slow blink just as Devon appears next to me, and although I’m not looking at him, I feel his eyes darting from me to Jack.

Jack shakes off the girls and moves toward us, his focus squarely on me, a scowl burrowing into his forehead as he leans down, keeping his voice low. “What are you doing here? Why haven’t you called me?”

Oh. Okay, maybe the cell number was real. I was too mad to try and also worried some weirdo might pick up, and then I’d have to ask, Are you Jack Hawke, famous football player I had sex with who kept my panties? I would have gotten around to calling the number eventually because my curiosity would have driven me nuts, but today I just needed . . . a day to process.

I feign composure, tilting my chin up. I ignore his last question. “I happen to love this club. I party here all the time.”

He studies me. “No, you don’t. Did you know I’d be here tonight?”

I scoff, frowning. What is wrong with him? “No.”

“Are you a reporter?” he snaps.

I gape. Jesus. He may be the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, but please.

“I’m a librarian,” I hiss. “I shelve books for a living, for God’s sake. I don’t have time to stalk you. I just want my undies! I spent hours sketching that design. It took weeks. Do you have any clue how hard it is to make those so that when you touch them, the image changes? They’re priceless panties!”

I’m close to a come-apart in public, and I don’t do those—I don’t. Mama taught me to hold it all in. Smile. Say please and thank you. Don’t cause drama. Don’t be the object of gossip. If you’re angry, say “Bless your heart,” and move on.

But bless your heart just won’t cut it here.

“Stop saying panties,” he hisses back, tossing a look around the room. He takes my arm and tugs me over to the side. His hands are gentle but a brand on my skin, a current that runs from him to me.

He lets me go, his gaze lingering where he touched me, as if he was just as aware of that electricity as I was. “How did you get in the VIP room?”

Devon, who’s been following us, approaches. There’s an odd look on his face. Maybe it’s surprise. “Dude. She’s with me.”

Jack rears his head back, as if he’s been slapped, and I guess he didn’t notice Devon following us. He puts laser-sharp eyes on him. “Is that right? And where did you meet her? Because seeing her again, here, is weird. I think she’s scouting hot spots to pick up NFL players. Everyone knows you own this club and I own Milano’s—”

I push my finger into his broad chest. “How dare you? I didn’t even know who you were. Trust me; if I’d known you weren’t the weatherman I was supposed to meet, we never would have . . .” I inhale. I can’t even finish that sentence.

Devon looks at me, then back at Jack. “Wait. You and her?”

Jack lets out a deep breath and gives Devon a sharp nod.

Devon’s mouth opens. “She’s the one you told me about?”

Anger stirs hotter, my face flaming. “You’ve talked about me to your teammates?” I cross my arms. “You two are the worst. Just full-of-yourselves athletes going around and picking up women willy-nilly—”