Not My Romeo (The Game Changers #1)(5)

“You’ve seen me doing the weather?”

She grimaces. “Actually, no. The news is worrisome; plus I rarely watch TV.”

I rub my neck. “And you agreed to this date without seeing my face? That’s rather . . . bold.”

She gives me her first real smile. “It’s my version of living dangerously.”

“You a football fan?”

“Men pushing each other around in tight pants, fighting over a ball? Please. Very caveman. I prefer books and podcasts. You?”

I take in the blank look on her face. Well, damn.

About ten seconds go by as we stare at each other.

I feel a brush of excitement rising inside me, gently at first, then all at once, flooding my senses. No. Freaking. Clue. She doesn’t know me! I want to hug her. Maybe take that cat. Kidding.

I laugh for the first time in a week. It’s as if I’m in a parallel universe where I get a do-over. Shit. It’s a clean slate, sparkling white.

But . . .

Jack. You can’t not reveal who you are . . .

If she thinks I’m her date, I should come clean right now and tell her the truth. Save her the embarrassment of dragging this out further.

But . . .

What do I have to go home to but an empty apartment and my face on ESPN?

Plus, she’s hot in an understated way, everything all buttoned up and just waiting to be unleashed— My gaze brushes over that tight-fitting shirt, taking in those full curves straining against her blouse.

And I’m a tit man.

Tell her. I open my mouth, and she speaks.

“What’s your favorite part of doing the weather? Is it the snowstorm, when you know the city is hanging on every single word, when they run out and buy bread and milk?” She takes a huge bite of pasta the waiter has set down, using a fork and a spoon to twist the pasta, giving me a couple of seconds to think of a reply.

“Hmm, I like clouds. And rain. It’s . . . wet.”

She gives me a swift look and pats her mouth delicately with her napkin, capturing my attention with the ultrafine bones of her wrists, the elegant way she moves. Once, a long time ago, when I was just a poor kid from Ohio, I might have wanted to draw those hands, the delicateness of them. She looks as if she might break in my arms— “Wow, you like clouds?”

“Yeah, those puffy cumulus ones.” I have no clue. “They’re . . . white.”

“I see.” Her brow wrinkles. “It’s me, isn’t it? I’m talking too much, and I was late and rude to the waiter, and you are so not into this—”

“Elena? What are you doing here?” The words come from a stocky, well-dressed, brown-haired man who’s stopped at our table. He moves his gaze to me, and I see instant recognition in his face, the way his mouth gapes. Yep, there it is. He knows me.

I glance at Elena—thank you, Jesus, for the name—and she’s gone white, her hands twisting the pearls around her neck. I frown, my gaze darting from her to him, wondering what the connection is.

“I’m on a date, Preston. Isn’t it obvious?”

He sputters, his eyes widening as he looks from her to me. “Tonight? I assumed you’d be . . . home.”

Elena stiffens. “I’m not pining away.”

Preston smooths down his tie, lips tightening. “Of course. It’s just if I had known you’d be here, I never would have come here with Giselle.” He nudges his head toward the middle of the restaurant without taking his eyes off Elena. “We just arrived, and we’re sitting over there. I was on my way to the bar to grab another drink and happened to see you—”

Her eyes flash like lightning, and I think I see pain in those depths. “Well, forget you saw me. Go back to Giselle.”

He pushes his hands inside his slacks. “I never meant to hurt—”

“But you did.” She points to her pasta. “Also, I’m trying to eat here, and you know how much I enjoy my food. Remember?”

He opens his mouth to speak.

“Piss off,” I say, rougher than I intended.

He isn’t budging, his eyes squarely on my . . . date. They sweep over her, from head to toe, his face settling into disapproval. “I can’t believe you’d be interested in him,” he says under his breath.

My body tenses up, shoulders tightening.

He takes a step closer to her. “Everyone wants you to move on, but this guy is not—”

I stand, my six-four frame towering over his, and you can tell he’s forgotten how tall I am, bigger than I seem on TV. My fists curl, everything from this week building up and threatening to erupt. Usually I’m in tight control of my temper, knowing that every little thing I do is scrutinized, but I’ll be damned before I let him talk to her as if she’s a child.

“Go back to your table now, or I’ll have you removed,” I murmur softly. “This is my restaurant.”

He holds his hands up, as if to ward me off. “See. Trouble, Elena.”

She shrugs. “Maybe trouble is just what I need, Preston. A little adventure.”

He darts a glare at me, then scurries off across the restaurant before taking a seat with a blonde lady.

I settle back in my chair and meet her shiny gaze.

Nah, please don’t cry. Females weeping always make me think of my mother. I saw her cry more than she ever smiled. And it makes me want to fix things . . .