Not My Romeo (The Game Changers #1)(3)

“Yeah, I’m the guy.” What the hell do you want? my face says.

Dark lashes flutter against a creamy complexion as she seems to gather herself, a determined grimace on her delicate face. She swallows, and before I can protest, she’s taking the seat across from me.

I blink.

She exhales. “Thank God. It was the blue button-down that gave it away—and the fact that you’re alone.” Her eyes roam over my chest, lingering for a moment on my shoulders. “I’m just glad I found you. Forgive me for being late. I did a photo shoot for Romeo—he has quite the following on Instagram—and then the downtown Nashville traffic is just insane.”

Forgive her for being late?

And photo shoot with Romeo? The name’s familiar. New player in the league?

“Hmm.” I hide my confusion by taking another sip of scotch, keeping my gaze on her, distrustful. Lawrence, my PR guy, mentioned a female sports blogger who was sympathetic to my most recent falling-out with fans and who might be willing to write a favorable story.

But he knows I detest reporters.

And why didn’t he let me know?

Dammit, he’s always doing shit without telling me.

I consider calling him to confirm who she is, but . . .

“So you’re the blogger?” I ask.

Her eyes widen, her face paling. “I have a blog.”

“Hmm.”

She stares at me for several moments and shakes her head. “Gah, I’m going to skin Topher alive for telling you that. Of course, he thinks I should tell everyone. Only he doesn’t understand how small towns work, especially Daisy. Once they know your deepest secrets, it’s literally all they think of when they see you on the street. And the whispers . . . goodness.”

I watch her with lowered lids, assessing. I don’t know anyone named Topher. And why would she hide her blog? Maybe it isn’t the sports blogger. I’m used to women coming up to me, mostly jersey chasers. In the past, especially in college and my early years of professional football, I ran with it, choosing the most beautiful and taking them up on their offers: keys to hotel rooms, phone numbers pressed in my hands, girls who tagged along to our VIP parties—but this girl doesn’t fit that category. No tight dress. Minimal makeup. Studious looking.

She continues. “True story: my aunt Clara sneaks her boyfriend in through her back door to keep people in town from seeing him. He parks his car behind the church and walks to her house—and she’s forty. I wish she’d just tell everyone she’s in love with the mailman.” She arches an elegant eyebrow. “Scotty is ten years younger than her and quite the catch.”

“I see.” Black Pumps talks a lot. And not about football.

She gives me a half smile. “You must know how that is, wanting to stay out of the limelight and keep your personal business quiet.”

Indeed. Even enjoying a nice glass of whiskey in public makes me paranoid. I picture everything I do as a headline. Jack Hawke drinking! Does this mean another DUI for the Nashville quarterback? That DUI happened five years ago, my second year in the NFL, yet no one forgets. I partied a lot in those early years. I thought fame and money made me invincible. Stupid.

“Yes. I like my privacy very much.” I take a bite of my pasta, chewing and swallowing, eyes on her, taking in the stiffness of her shoulders, the way she’s breathing in long, slow breaths, as if she doesn’t really want to be here.

Shit. Perhaps she isn’t sympathetic at all.

Perhaps it’s all a ruse to get a story from me.

Several seconds go by as neither of us speaks, and she squirms a little in her chair, her eyes following me. It’s rude to keep eating, but no reporter or blogger or random person is going to keep me from— She chews on her plump red lips, as if she’s angry. Full and overly lush, they’re a deep crimson. A little sinful.

Behind big white glasses, her eyes hold mine for several moments. A vivid aquamarine color, outlined in black and heavily lashed, they spear me with sudden ferocity. “You know, I think it’s rude you started dinner without me—even after I texted you and said I’d be late.”

“Didn’t see your text, and I was starving. Sorry.” I shrug nonchalantly, not sounding sorry at all.

The server scurries over to our table, straightening his black suit.

“Sir.” He darts his eyes at . . . whoever she is . . . and then comes back to me. “I’m so sorry she got past. You know it’s the busiest night of the year. Please forgive me. Would you like me to call security?”

Black Pumps goes from all nerves to annoyance. She glares at the waiter with laser focus, her face indignant. “I’m sitting right here. And I’m supposed to be here. It was arranged. This is a date.”

My eyes flare. Surely she means work date?

She straightens her spine and sends a longing look at my pasta. “And I’d like whatever he’s having with extra bread.” She waves her hand at my bowl of half-finished bolognese. “And a glass of red. No. Make that a gin and tonic with a double shot of Hendrick’s with a cucumber. In fact, if you could just keep those drinks coming, that would be fantastic. Thank you.” Her voice has just a tiny bit of that southern accent that makes everything she says sweet yet layered with a tenacity that almost makes my lips twitch. She reminds me of a little poodle my mom had once, ready to pounce at any moment if there’s an injustice.