Not My Romeo (The Game Changers #1)(32)

A piece of paper, an email I printed out on Friday, sits on my drafting table, and I pick it up and read it again.

Dear Elena,

Thank you for your interest in our company and the sample sketches.

We currently have an intern position available in the design department. This position is for a year with the possibility for full-time employment with benefits. I realize this isn’t quite what you had in mind, but we’d love to talk to you about applying. Please give me a call and we’ll set up a meeting. I’d love to see your designs in person.

Marcus Brown

CEO of Little Rose Lingerie

Disappointment hits me as I take a sip of the whiskey, the burn smooth and gratifying. I emailed Marcus a few sketches a few weeks ago along with the link to my blog. I don’t know what I expected . . . maybe that they’d embrace me and offer me a real position.

Things don’t work that way, Elena.

I don’t have any experience in fashion—just an eye. My degree is in English.

I rub the letter. This could be a big step, but spending most of my time running errands and getting lattes for the real staff isn’t what I had in mind.

Then there’s Mama. She’d have a heart attack if I quit my job, the one she called a few influential friends in Daisy to get for me. Plus, she’d be mortified if she knew I was drawn to lingerie. The gossip would kill her.

I toss the letter aside and plop down in the dark-green velvet Queen Anne chaise longue in the corner and glare up at the chandelier.

I laugh out loud at the ludicrousness of me quitting my job.

Nana would have told me to go for it. She always encouraged my ideas, pushing me to get out of Daisy and see the world. When Mama pouted because I wasn’t moving back to Daisy after graduation from NYU, Nana threw a big party for me in this very house to celebrate my first job at a publishing house. Nana loved it when I took a trip to Europe alone. She always looked at me like she got the wild spirit inside me.

I push those memories away and set my glass down on the side table and pull out the scrawled note Jack left me in the penthouse, tracing my finger over the sloping stroke of his handwriting.

I left him there in the rain.

A little smile curves my lips. I walked away from the hottest man I’ve ever seen.

I wonder what he’ll do about it.

Because if men like Jack want something, according to their highly competitive nature, they’ll make it their goal to get it. That came straight from Devon.

We’ll see . . .



My phone wakes me up, and I curse.

Romeo, who’s been snuggling with me, digs his face further into my arm, making an unhappy sound as I reach over and grab my cell off the nightstand.

“Wakey, wakey!”

I groan at her chipper tone. “Mama. It’s eight in the morning.”

“And it’s Sunday. You promised me two weeks ago you’d come to church today!”

“Stop yelling,” I say and straighten up in the bed. “Did I really tell you that?” I scrunch up my nose, vaguely recalling her badgering when I was getting my ends trimmed last week at the Cut ’N’ Curl.

“Young lady, do you have a hangover? Drinking isn’t good for the soul.”

Then why did Nana leave me a cupboard of expensive whiskey?

“Jesus drank wine, Mama, but I just got in late. What’s the big deal about church today?”

“Don’t you worry about that, darlin’. But you did promise.”

“Mama, I need to work around the house.” I want to sketch and clean up some. It’s been a busy weekend, and I’ve barely had time to think.

“God does not listen to excuses.”

He also doesn’t dance for hours, then face off with a quarterback either.

I sigh.

“Wear something pretty—one of your little blazers with a skirt.”

My tone lowers. “Mama, what did you do?”

“Nothing at all. Aunt Clara and I will meet you outside at nine, and we’ll walk in together.”

“The Daisy Lady Gang?”

“I don’t even know what that means. You and Clara made that name up. Wear your contacts. Wouldn’t hurt if you put on some makeup . . .”

I smell fix-up. I should go full-on hooker to church.

“Also, you never told me how the weatherman worked out—”

“It didn’t.”

There’s a small silence, and I can picture her in her stately brick house on the other side of town, just a few blocks away. Those wheels in her head are turning, wondering why I’m not offering more info. She’s probably tapping her heels, drinking her coffee, already dressed and ready for church. Heck, she’s probably cleaned her whole house already since waking up.

“Well, I never liked him. He always says we’re gonna get snow, and we never do. You can do better.”

“Right.”

“Did you hear that the high school got a new basketball coach this semester? Brett Sinclair. Nice boy. You went to school with him. He married some city girl from Los Angeles—a singer—and you know how wild they are. No one is surprised. No kids either. If the preacher doesn’t work out—”

I fumble out of bed, kicking the covers off me as I stand up. “Preacher! Mama, no. Hell no.”

“Elena Michelle, I am still your mother. And you promised you’d come. It’s his first Sunday, and you know all I’m doing is trying to fill the pews and make him feel welcome. It’s what I do. I support the church.”