Not My Romeo (The Game Changers #1)(30)

“I like you all buttoned up,” I admit grudgingly.

“Why?”

I shrug, feeling bemused. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just you.”

“Oh.”

We stand there in the soft rain, staring at each other, and I clear my throat. “I’m sorry for lying to you. I wanted to tell you my real name half a dozen times. I didn’t, because it felt good to know you wanted me for me and not because of who I am.”

She looks away from me, watching a group of people laughing as they walk past us. They don’t seem to look at us, but I’m jonesing to get off this street and away from everyone.

“Are you into Devon?” I blurt, surprising myself.

She levels ocean eyes at me. “If I were?”

“Then I’ll back off.” Motherfucker. I will not back off.

“Back off from what? We aren’t a thing, Jack.”

“Is that so? Even after last night?” I watch her closely, trusting body language way more than words.

Her chest rises, and a slow flush colors her cheeks. She swallows and chews on those lips, and my body responds, hardening.

“You’re not into him, or you wouldn’t have flushed.” Gaining more confidence, I take a step closer to her. I reach out and touch a strand of hair, letting it trail through my fingers, recalling how I tugged hard on it the night before, increasing that pressure more and more, waiting for her to tell me to stop, but she didn’t. She groaned and came, her pussy tightening and spasming around my cock. Need washes over me. Just to have her one more time.

“We aren’t done, Elena. Come to the penthouse with me.”

Her little hands clasp together, and she opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Instead, she takes off walking again, and I blink, following after her. “What did I say?”

She’s reached a green car and hits her clicker. “You really know how to woo a lady, Jack. I guess you think all you have to do is snap your fingers, and I’m going to join you in that penthouse for some frolicking.”

Frolicking? I grin. “I’m not looking for a relationship, and you’ve just broken up with someone. Did I read you wrong?”

The rain kicks up, falling harder, drenching us both—yet neither of us seems to care.

“First of all, I don’t do one-night stands or two-night ones. You don’t know me at all.”

“Okay, then let me get to know you.” I nudge my head at a coffee shop down the road. “Let me buy you a coffee. Get to know me.”

Shit.

Shit.

I hate public places where the owners don’t know me.

But . . .

A cold wind blows, and I frown when she shivers. She wipes at the rain in her eyes.

“Here,” I say and unbutton my shirt and whip it off and hold it over her head. It doesn’t help much, but at least she’s not getting any wetter.

“You should have worn a coat,” I mutter, staring down at her. “It’s forty degrees and raining.”

She glances at my now-soaked white T-shirt, then meets my eyes again. “You a weatherman now?”

I grin. “Rain. It’s wet.”

She gives me a wan smile, and a long sigh leaves her chest—and I see a distant expression growing on her face. “Here’s a tip for the next time you have sex with a girl: don’t lie about who you are, and don’t leave before she wakes up. Bad form.”

That fucking nightmare that woke me up.

Part of me hesitates as I consider trying to explain it, but . . .

I don’t know her. My gut senses she’s genuine, but . . .

You can’t really trust anyone, a voice tells me. Whatever I share with her might eventually be passed on, even if it’s just to a friend, and then that friend decides to tell someone else. Pretty soon it will get leaked to the media, and they’ll concoct a story out of it. After all, it wasn’t just Sophia who betrayed me. Harvey’s sister profited off the story of my life after I was drafted, an article in Sports Illustrated that detailed my early years with my mom. It reeked of lies, painting Harvey as misunderstood and blinded by love.

“You’re right. I should have stayed. I should have pulled you in my arms and woken you up.” I grimace. “I’m not good with stuff like that.”

She studies me for several seconds.

“Elena, I don’t know how to do this.”

“This?”

I hesitate before answering. “Look, can we just start all over?”

Without waiting for a reply, I stick my hand out and take hers. “Hello. I’m Jack Eugene Hawke, quarterback. I collect cheesy coffee mugs and magnets from every city I’ve been to. I can do a push-up with you on my back—yeah, I thought about it today. I read a lot, mostly thrillers. I grew up in a small town in Ohio. My mom is dead. Don’t know where my dad is. I love to sketch but am too embarrassed to show anyone. I won a national championship my senior year, the Heisman when I was a junior. I’m actually . . . shy. Dwight Schrute from The Office makes me laugh until I cry. And recently, I’ve discovered I have an insatiable penchant for hot librarians.”

She looks down at the concrete, then back up at me, and for some crazy reason, I feel winded as her blue-green gaze holds mine, my breath held, waiting for her reply. I’ve never said a few of those things to a girl. Never wanted to.