Not My Romeo (The Game Changers #1)(34)

I send a beseeching look up at the sky. Lord, I’m serious. I know I haven’t been the best girl, especially this weekend, but please help me deal with my pushy mother.

“Stop wavering, and come on, Elena,” Mama says, tugging on my arm.

I glare at her. She’s done worse. My senior year in high school, when my boyfriend suddenly dumped me a week before the prom, she called a girlfriend in Nashville and convinced her to send her college son down to take me. He did. He showed up in a limo with a rented tux to match my dress, plus a beautiful corsage. We went to prom and barely spoke to each other. My friends were so infatuated with him they spent most of the time talking to him and not me.

Mama is a well-oiled machine with secret ways. Scary.

“Mama. This is the twenty-first century. I don’t ever have to get married. I can live with Topher until the day I die,” I say, lowering my voice as several parishioners walk past us, murmuring “Good morning” as they take us in.

Mama eyeballs them, too, her spine straightening. “Let’s not discuss Topher.”

I know she has an issue with him, although it’s not that he’s gay—which is surprising. But he is a man, and he does live with me, and that causes talk in town. When she first questioned me about Topher living with me, I got ruffled and put my foot down hard. Nana left me that house, and it is mine. I may let her push me around some, but when it comes to the people I love . . . nope.

The steeple bell rings, and I drag my feet, debating running back to my car.

Mama knows. “Look, you’re already here; just shake his hand at the door, and that’s all I ask. You do work at the library—right next door. You’re going to meet him eventually. Plus, you never know when you’ll need a preacher. They can be handy. He’s quite forward thinking, too, painting the church white and asking for new hymnals. He’s like you. Modern.”

He is nothing like me.

Aunt Clara gives me a grin. “What she’s not telling you is she invited him to Sunday lunch. She’s made a chicken casserole and homemade yeast rolls. Heard there might be okra and cheddar mashed potatoes.”

“Ohh, big guns,” I say.

“And we’re using the good china.” Mama beams.

“Monogrammed napkins?” I ask.

She nods.

“And I bet you got fresh flowers for the table,” I add.

She grins.

I curse under my breath.

Aunt Clara holds her hands up. “FYI, I got nothing to do with the preacher. It’s that weatherman I want to hear about. I heard he’s quite a player.” She giggles, and I narrow my eyes. Topher. Those two are thick as thieves.

“Topher told you?” I hiss at her. When did he have time? I bet he texted her. Ugh.

She just grins.

We open the door and walk inside. Mama immediately bypasses several members at the entrance who call out her name, giving them her practiced smile as she drags me toward a man near the front of the auditorium.

Mama nudges me in front of her like a prize goat.

“Patrick, dear, this is my daughter Elena.” She’s got her hand on his arm like a vise as he turns around.

I arch my brow at her. Oh, a first-name basis. I’m not surprised.

Okay. Well. Patrick Rhodes is a nice-looking man, scholarly almost, with thick sandy-colored hair and intelligent eyes behind black-rimmed modern-style frames. He’s not too handsome—like someone I know—and even resembles my ex from college. Mama. I sigh. She knows my type.

“Hi.” His voice is nice and deep, and he’s tall with a lean build that fills out his blue suit very well. He’s younger than I expected, maybe midthirties.

What happened to his wife? I’m sure Mama knows.

Her hand is tight on my arm, as if I might bolt for the door at any moment. She’s holding us both hostage. Maniacal woman.

“Elena is the town librarian. She does the most adorable story hour on Tuesdays and Thursdays with the preschoolers. She loves kids so much. It’s why she became a librarian.”

I groan inwardly. Lie! She’s making me out to be some ready-to-settle-down-and-have-kids woman. I want to someday when I meet the right person. I love my job because there are books, but story hour with the three-and four-year-olds is like herding angry cats. Topher does a better job than I do.

She’s still talking. “You should stop by sometime. They have a new biography section.” Mama flashes a smile at him. “You did mention you love biographies.”

“I did indeed.” His voice is a tad dry, and he raises an eyebrow at Mama.

I bite back a grin. He’s no dummy, and I bet he’s seen plenty of matchmaking mamas since his wife passed. He knows dang well he’s being maneuvered into a wedding about a year from now.

Aunt Clara whispers in my ear as Mama keeps talking to Patrick. “I’d do him. I may have to start coming more regular.”

“Yeah, what would Scotty say about that?” I whisper back. “I’m betting he walked to your house last night and left before dawn. Hussy. When are you going to make a decent man of him?”

She gives me a little pinch on my arm—subtly, so no one notices—and I cough to cover up my laugh.

I dart a look at her face, and she’s glowing. Probably thinking about Scotty putting his mail in her slot . . .

She blushes at my scrutiny. “I like it on the down low—isn’t that what you kids call it? More exciting.”