Not My Romeo (The Game Changers #1)(40)

Well.

I let out a shaky breath and hold his keys up. “What are you driving?”

“Black Porsche. When you come out, it’s to the left, next to a big Lincoln.” He sends me a look. “Can you drive a stick? This car is kind of my baby, and the thought of you grinding gears—”

“My nana taught me to drive a tractor when I was ten. I can handle your fancy little car. The issue might be getting you in it.”

“I’ll take care of that. Meet you outside in three minutes?”

I give him a nod and open the door.

He grabs my hand before I can exit. “Elena . . .”

I look up at him. “Yeah?”

He licks his lips, a look on his face I can’t decipher. “Thank you.”

I smile. “For what? I’m helping you get out of here and back home. I’d do that for anyone.”

He flashes a half grin, half grimace. “Yeah, I think you would. What I meant is thank you for . . .”

“What?” I’m whispering. Again.

“For being you. For forgiving me for lying. You have more capacity for kindness than most.”

I shake my head at him. “You just haven’t met the right people, Jack.”

“Maybe.” He closes his eyes as another flicker of pain crosses his face.

“Okay, I’m going to get your car.”

He nods.

“Jack?”

“Yeah?”

I glance down at our intertwined hands. “You have to let me go.”

He flushes and drops my hand. “Sorry. See you in three.”

I exit and shut the door behind me, scanning the area. Usually there are people dashing to the restrooms or latecomers still coming in, but since it’s the preacher’s first day, it’s quiet as a . . . church. I snort and dash out the front door and head to the sleek black Porsche.

I slide inside and adjust the leather seat, my nose filling with the scent of him inside the interior, all male and him. I rub my hands over the steering wheel, caressing it, thinking about Jack driving it . . .

Forget daydreaming. Right. I have a mission.

I crank it, and the engine rumbles, powerful and ready to eat up the road. I whip it in reverse and drive over to the side entrance. He’s already waiting for me outside, his shoulders straight, his face stony.

I jump out and open his door, and he walks to the car, pauses for half a second as he takes in the low passenger seat. He lets out a string of curses, and I grimace as he manages to bend over and arrange himself. He attempts to reach for the seat belt, but I beat him to it, pulling it across him and snapping it together.

“There,” I say.

I’m rising up when he tugs on my arm, pulling me back to him.

“Things were just getting good in there, and . . . I may not ever get another kiss.” He cocks an eyebrow. “Am I right?”

Instead of answering him, I just smile and shut the door and get back in and speed away from the church.





Chapter 16

ELENA

Where are you?

Your car is still at church. Everyone can see it.

Did you leave with that football player?

Elena Michelle, you missed Sunday lunch.

Okay, okay, I’m sorry about the preacher. But I think he liked you!

FYI, I saw on the internet that Jack Hawke has a drinking problem. He is NOT marriage material.

I sigh as I read the series of texts Mama has sent me. Nothing about Jack screams drinking problem. He’s viscerally alert and focused, too competitive to allow alcohol to rule him. I’m not sure how I know this, but I do. Yes, he had the scotch on Friday, but there’s nothing wrong with a good whiskey. Plus, he didn’t even have a drink in his hand at the VIP party.

And then there’s Aunt Clara’s texts:

You should have seen Cynthia at lunch. She chewed so hard I thought her teeth might break. You’re with Mr. Hottie Footballer, aren’t you? Sneaky devil. Take some pics for me. Bare-chested? Dick pic? LOL.

I put my phone down as the young male trainer approaches. Gideon something. We’re inside Jack’s penthouse, and he’s just wrapped up a session of working on Jack’s back and shoulders. “He needs rest. I’ve worked out most of the kinks, but if he has any more pain, just give him the Aleve again. He won’t take anything harder because of drug screens.” His next words make my eyes flare. “He really does need rest. No workouts today; know what I mean?”

“I’m not with him.” Get a grip, water boy.

“Uh-huh.” He eyes my neck for some weird reason.

I open the door. “Jack and I are friends.”

He blushes all the way to the roots of his gelled hair at teacher voice. “Sorry, I just assumed. Jack, ah, women, everything I hear—”

I open the door wider. “Please don’t assume. I’m sure you have other things to do on a Sunday afternoon. Goodbye.” I smile politely in a way that says, I may appear sweet, but don’t mess with me, bucko.

He walks through it, and I shut it firmly.

We arrived here about two hours ago. After I called Quinn, who lives in an apartment close by, together we got him up to the penthouse through a side entrance and a private service elevator.

Gideon arrived in fifteen minutes, whipped out a massage table and oils. Jack changed into athletic shorts, crawled on top of the table, and the trainer went to work. My eyes kept going to that black-and-yellow tiger tattoo on his back, that snarl, the sharp teeth bared and ready to bite. I barely recall it from our night together, just catching glimpses, but mostly I didn’t pay much attention to his back. I really should have. It’s menacing looking but beautiful. I’d like to trace my fingers over it . . .