Not My Romeo (The Game Changers #1)(35)

She elbows me, and I see that Mama is glaring at us, and I figure we’ve missed something.

Oh yeah. The preacher.

Mr. Rhodes meets my eyes; then his gaze drifts down and lands squarely on my shoes. Four-inch heels and delicate. I pranced around in them for several minutes trying to get the feel of them.

His gaze comes back to my face, a slow grin there. “Nice to meet you.”

I nod as he takes my hand and shakes it. “Welcome to Daisy, Mr. Rhodes. I’m glad you’re here.” And I am. The former preacher was seventy and had needed to retire years before.

“Call me Patrick, please. Cynthia talks about you constantly. She says you’re doing the play again this year, Romeo and Juliet? I’m going to check it out myself.”

Talks about me constantly to him? I wince.

She really is worried about me. Underneath all her blustering about how I need to settle down, she must sense I’m at a crossroads; something inside me is stirring to break out. She’s probably terrified I may move back to New York.

“Of course. You should.” I paste on a smile.

There’s a tiny glint of interest there in his gaze.

Well, heck, if the shoes don’t deter him . . .

Nope. Nope. Nope.

I could never be a preacher’s girlfriend or wife.

I like whiskey and vibrators and sexy lingerie—

“Thank you, yes, glad to be here,” says the deep, unmistakable voice behind me, and every muscle inside me stiffens in disbelief (and relief?) as I turn to see Jack. He’s just come in the door and is chatting with the couple designated to be greeters. Mama totally dashed past them, but he hasn’t.

A dark scruff shadows his jawline, as if he didn’t have time to shave, and his hair is slightly damp, as if he’s recently showered.

“What the heck?” I say.

Mama elbows me. “Who is that?”

“J-a-c-k.”

Aunt Clara giggles. “And now she’s spelling words. Somebody get the smelling salts.”

What? No. I shake my head.

“Why, I believe that’s the Tigers quarterback,” Patrick murmurs. “Wow. You really did fill up the pews, Cynthia.”

Mama just shrugs.

Jack slowly turns and looks at me.

He gives me a smile, a flash of white teeth on his tanned face, his eyes crinkling in the corners. He rakes a hand through his dark waves, his gaze sweeping over me before coming back to my face. He gets a hesitant look on his face, seeming to waver, but then takes the steps to reach us.

“Elena.”

He says my name slowly, the tone warm with a hint of bemusement.

I feel a slow blush starting at my toes and growing all the way up to my face.

I can’t even. My ability to even is severely warped.

What . . . is . . . he . . . doing . . . here?

Several seconds pass as we stare at each other, and in my head I’m seeing him last night in the rain . . .

Clara has popped out her lace fan, and she’s swishing it around furiously.

Mama turns beady eyes on me. Waiting for an introduction. I refuse.

My mouth opens and closes more than once, and Jack sees it all.

How flustered I am.

He can probably see my nipples tightening inside my bra.

He’s wearing low-slung jeans, tight and fitted through the legs, leather loafers, and another button-down, this time a navy-and-yellow windowpane design. Those sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, the hair on his muscled forearms sun kissed.

“I’m going to get my seat,” Mama says to no one in particular, but she doesn’t move a hair.

“We should. We don’t want those Palmers getting the back row. Don’t they know that once you claim a row, it’s yours forever?” comes from Aunt Clara.

No one budges.

“I hate it when they do that,” Mama murmurs. “I’ve been here longer than they have. That is my seat. We should make a rule about that.”

Aunt Clara nods. “And your husband, God rest his soul, was the mayor of this town for fifteen years. You’re a pillar of the community. Practically royalty.”

Patrick clears his throat. “Uh, the front row is typically always clear. At least that’s how it was at my last congregation.”

“No one likes the front row. Put some whiskey up there, and they might come,” Aunt Clara says in my ear, but I’m barely noticing, looking at Jack.

He’s still standing there, eyes on me. He hasn’t stopped looking!

“Let’s go save our row, Cynthia,” Aunt Clara finally says loudly and shoos Mama into the auditorium.

They scurry away, tossing looks back at us.

Now it’s just me, the preacher, and the football player.

Definitely the beginning of a bad joke.

Jack breaks our gaze to shake Patrick’s hand.

“Jack Hawke. Glad to meet you. Nice place.”

They share a much firmer handshake than he and I had.

“Welcome,” Patrick says with a big smile. “I’m a huge fan, actually. Used to play in high school. Wide receiver. What brings you to Daisy? You know Elena?” Patrick arches an eyebrow.

“I do. And a couple of others here in Daisy—” Jack says, then stops when the choir starts in with “Amazing Grace.”

“Oh, sorry, that’s my cue. Have to go.” Patrick nudges his head toward the auditorium. “First day and all. Great to meet you.” He gives me a smile. “You too, Elena. I’ll see you at auditions hopefully?”