Not My Romeo (The Game Changers #1)(92)

He searches my face, and I know what he sees. Haggard face. Stooped shoulders. Fucking deceived. Again.

He gives me a sharp nod. “Pour it. Tomorrow we talk.”



The next morning, Devon walks in my bedroom and yanks on the blinds. Sunlight blares in the window.

“Get up, asshole. You missed your workout at the stadium, and Aiden’s been calling wanting to know why.”

Grunting, I sit up in bed. “Tell him to fuck off.”

Devon stares at me, sweeping his gaze over the empty bottle of vodka on the nightstand. “Been years since you got trashed, Jack. Not you.”

I ignore him and scrub my face, weaving as I stand up. I move toward the shower. “What time is it?”

“Noon.”

I start, my past dancing in front of me, the booze I consumed in my early twenties. It was nearly three o’clock in the morning before I passed out in the bed, replaying Elena’s conversation in my head a thousand times. “Don’t tell Aiden shit. I’ll call him tomorrow or something.” That’s the last thing I need, my backup knowing about Elena.

“Okay. Lawrence came by earlier. He drove to Daisy this morning and was there when she opened the library.”

Unease lands, snaking inside me.

“And?”

“He asked her to sign the NDA.”

Anxiousness builds, my heart pounding. “What did she say?”

“More like what she did. She ripped it up and threw it in his face. Topher tossed him out of the library.”

My head throbs, and I squint. “Did she now?” I picture her in her little skirt, hair up, face red with anger like last night, eyes blazing. “Figures.”

“Hmm. She isn’t an NDA girl, Jack. She’s the one you keep.” He lingers at the door. “I called her.”

“Why?” I snap.

“Because I don’t think she’s—”

“What did she say?” And I hate the words, because they sound weak, and my chest hurts. I rub at it.

“She’s as tight lipped as you are. The girl is a vault, Jack. I don’t buy for a minute that she’s talking to anyone about you. She isn’t like that, and if you’d just stop—”

I feel dizzy. “I let go with her, Devon. I . . . I . . .”

“You fell in love.”

My entire body shudders. Love? Love.

I don’t even know what that is. I know that it’s dangerous.

“At least talk to her.”

I shake my head. “Whatever I say now, she might use it.”

“You been with her every day for weeks. You’ve slept in her bed every night without coming home. You never do that! You were livid that night I danced with her. You wrangled us up to go work at her house! Every time you talk about her, you’re different, Jack. When you look at her, hell—”

“Get out.”

He frowns. “You’re fucking up.”

“I know. I trusted her.”

“Maybe in your head you think you did.”

I lick my lips, feeling unsure, waves of grief hammering inside me, a tsunami of emotions I don’t want to dwell on.

Devon walks out, and I stumble into the bathroom, groaning when I see the dark circles under my eyes, the desolation . . .

Fuck that.

I can’t be in love with her, because that will . . .

It will kill me even more.

Everything from last night piles up again in my head, and I lean over the counter, that nausea rising back up as images of her devastated face slam into me—when I confronted her, her anger, her quiet dignity when I pressed her.

But . . .

She gave me no real explanation.

I love you, she said. Those three little words linger, tugging . . .

Then . . .

Why didn’t she tell me about Blue Stone?





Chapter 31

ELENA

“Here, let me do that,” Aunt Clara says as she comes in my bathroom and takes the curling iron from my hand and proceeds to take over doing my hair. She showed up after work to help me get ready. I’m moving on autopilot since two nights ago. And then Lawrence showed up at the library yesterday, dressed in an expensive suit, bulldogging his way through the door and barreling his way to me at the checkout desk. With a grim face, he slapped down another NDA, and I barely managed to hold myself steady when he asked me how much money it would take for me to sign it. I told him there wasn’t enough money in the whole world. With anger flaring, I pulled out the scissors and cut it into small strips and threw them at his feet. The man sputtered and looked at me as if I had two heads. Topher took care of the rest, escorting him to the exit.

Last night at our last rehearsal, Jack arrived late, his face stoic. He spoke to everyone but me, except for when we ran through our lines. When it came to the kissing scenes, he told Laura he had a cold. I kept myself together, my hands clenched, my heart torn and angry and just . . . broken. Laura frowned at us, but whatever she read on our faces, she let it go and didn’t press us.

After practice, he stalked out without a word to anyone, shoulders tight and drawn.

“Thanks for helping.” I blink at my reflection, my throat dry.

“Want me to do your makeup too?” Aunt Clara asks.

I don’t answer her. My face is pale. My head a million miles away, circling back to his cold demeanor. How could he just walk away . . . then send his jerk of a PR guy to clean up? My face feels tight, stretched over the bones, and I suck in a breath.