Not My Romeo by Ilsa Madden-Mills

Chapter 11

ELENA

Jack does a slow blink just as Devon appears next to me, and although I’m not looking at him, I feel his eyes darting from me to Jack.

Jack shakes off the girls and moves toward us, his focus squarely on me, a scowl burrowing into his forehead as he leans down, keeping his voice low. “What are you doing here? Why haven’t you called me?”

Oh. Okay, maybe the cell number was real. I was too mad to try and also worried some weirdo might pick up, and then I’d have to ask, Are you Jack Hawke, famous football player I had sex with who kept my panties? I would have gotten around to calling the number eventually because my curiosity would have driven me nuts, but today I just needed . . . a day to process.

I feign composure, tilting my chin up. I ignore his last question. “I happen to love this club. I party here all the time.”

He studies me. “No, you don’t. Did you know I’d be here tonight?”

I scoff, frowning. What is wrong with him? “No.”

“Are you a reporter?” he snaps.

I gape. Jesus. He may be the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, but please.

“I’m a librarian,” I hiss. “I shelve books for a living, for God’s sake. I don’t have time to stalk you. I just want my undies! I spent hours sketching that design. It took weeks. Do you have any clue how hard it is to make those so that when you touch them, the image changes? They’re priceless panties!”

I’m close to a come-apart in public, and I don’t do those—I don’t. Mama taught me to hold it all in. Smile. Say please and thank you. Don’t cause drama. Don’t be the object of gossip. If you’re angry, say “Bless your heart,” and move on.

But bless your heart just won’t cut it here.

“Stop saying panties,” he hisses back, tossing a look around the room. He takes my arm and tugs me over to the side. His hands are gentle but a brand on my skin, a current that runs from him to me.

He lets me go, his gaze lingering where he touched me, as if he was just as aware of that electricity as I was. “How did you get in the VIP room?”

Devon, who’s been following us, approaches. There’s an odd look on his face. Maybe it’s surprise. “Dude. She’s with me.”

Jack rears his head back, as if he’s been slapped, and I guess he didn’t notice Devon following us. He puts laser-sharp eyes on him. “Is that right? And where did you meet her? Because seeing her again, here, is weird. I think she’s scouting hot spots to pick up NFL players. Everyone knows you own this club and I own Milano’s—”

I push my finger into his broad chest. “How dare you? I didn’t even know who you were. Trust me; if I’d known you weren’t the weatherman I was supposed to meet, we never would have . . .” I inhale. I can’t even finish that sentence.

Devon looks at me, then back at Jack. “Wait. You and her?”

Jack lets out a deep breath and gives Devon a sharp nod.

Devon’s mouth opens. “She’s the one you told me about?”

Anger stirs hotter, my face flaming. “You’ve talked about me to your teammates?” I cross my arms. “You two are the worst. Just full-of-yourselves athletes going around and picking up women willy-nilly—”

“You picked me up,” Jack mutters, easing in closer until we’re almost chest to chest. “You sat down with me, and now that I think about it, how do I know if that whole ‘Oh, you have a blue shirt on, so you must be my date’ was legit? You didn’t even sign your real name on the NDA.”

What? His words give me pause, and I frown, trying to process. He did say how private he was, and I get that, but to be this paranoid . . .

Devon rubs his chin as he takes us in. “I just met her at the bar, and I picked her up—”

I snap my fingers at Devon. “You did not pick me up. I only came to find Jack.”

“Ouch,” Devon replies with a smirk.

“And you just happened to be here tonight?” Jack asks.

“Yes,” I say.

“I see.”

Some of that tightness leaves his face, and we stare at each other, both of us breathing harder than is necessary. He’s just so . . . full of himself!

“I am not.”

I must have said it aloud.

I shake my head. “I don’t watch TV. I don’t know football. Even if I did, I’d avoid you both like the plague. I like my dates to be sweet. Also not liars.”

Jack winces. “Elena . . .” But he doesn’t finish it, and Devon takes over.

“I’m sweet,” Devon says with a pout.

But I’m barely listening.

I study the planes of Jack’s face, trying to understand him. He’s not . . . he’s not the same man from last night. That person was into me, his kisses deep, like red wine, dark and rich and intoxicating—

Forget that.

“I just came back here to get my underwear.”

Jack scrubs his face, his tone softening. “Elena, please, this isn’t the place. People listen to every conversation I have. Can we just talk somewhere more private?”

Like his penthouse? Ha.

I shake my head. I get that he’s famous. He was on a billboard in New York, but . . .

“Was nothing real with you?” I ask.

Devon looks away from us, fidgeting, and I guess I’m saying too much, and it draws me up. Ugh. This isn’t me. I don’t walk into VIP rooms and approach superstar athletes. I lick my wounds and move on.

My anger deflates, and a long exhalation leaves me. Fine, fine.

I’ve had my say. I should go. I eye the exit.

“Elena, wait . . .” He shoves a hand through his hair, the golden highlights glinting. “Look, it’s just . . . this is such a coincidence, and a VIP party is the last place I’d thought you’d appear.” He pauses. “This isn’t how I wanted to see you again.”

Yeah, because he had three girls with him.

“Hey. I don’t think we’ve met,” comes a male voice who’s joined our little circle. “Aiden Woods, quarterback. Saw you walk in. Love the pants.”

Damn these pants. I take my eyes off Jack to see the guy who has slid up next to us. He’s young, a classic boy-next-door type, his chin square, dimples in his cheeks. He takes my hand and shakes it.

“Alabama, chill. She’s with Jack and me,” Devon says in exasperation.

Aiden—or Alabama—gives me a wide smile. “You open for a foursome too?”

“She doesn’t do that,” Jack growls. “She’s not a jersey chaser.”

I don’t even know what a jersey chaser is.

“Huh. I haven’t seen you around. You got a name?” Alabama asks me, ignoring them. He hits me with light-blue eyes and an award-winning smile.

Jack bumps his shoulder with his. “No, she doesn’t have a name for you. She’s with me. She’s a lady.”

Well.

Well.

First I picked him up, and now I’m a lady? Does he have emotional whiplash?

Jack’s got his focus on Alabama, who seems cool as a cucumber, even after the shoulder bump. I sense backstory.

“I like ladies,” Alabama murmurs, giving me a cocky grin. “I take it you’re friends with Jack. How did you two meet?”

I lick my lips, choosing my words carefully. I may be angry with Jack, but I don’t want to cause any problems for him. “We just met,” I tell him.

“Really?” he replies. “Because he’s barely taken his eyes off you since you walked up. Did you call him ‘weatherman’? Is that a cute nickname you two have?”

Alabama is pushy—but charming with that southern accent.

“No,” I reply. Short. Succinct.

Jack’s nose flares as he watches us. He leans down and whispers something in Devon’s ear, too low for me to hear. Devon watches my face, listening to Jack and nodding.

“I bet they’re plotting to get you away from me,” Alabama murmurs as he leans his head down to me. “Jack’s a bit territorial. You sure you guys aren’t dating?”

“Nope.” We just had sex.

“Which means you’re available?”

Good Lord. I stare at him. “Do all football players just assume every woman in the place wants them?”

He lifts his hands. “Yeah.”

Jack and Devon finish their conversation, and Devon sends me a big smile. “Um, you ready to get out of here?”

Jack’s eyes cling to mine, searching before looking away. “I’m sure she is,” he says tightly.

He’s getting rid of me.

“So ready,” I mutter.

Alabama gives me a disappointed look, but I don’t think it’s so much about him finding me attractive but more along the lines of who I am to Jack. “Hey, it was nice to meet you. Maybe I’ll see you again.”

I nod.

Devon hooks my hand through his bent arm, and we leave the VIP room. He is oddly quiet, his brow pulled down as we go back to the bar.

I plop down on the barstool and send a glance up at the huge glass window where the VIP room is.

Is he watching us right now?

Or is he already squished between three models?

Who cares?

Devon lets out a long sigh, his gaze following mine. “Trust me; he’s watching now that he knows you’re here. Jack never misses anything.”

I signal for another water, taking a long sip on the straw. Topher and company are still dancing, the song “Greased Lightning,” and I’m betting Topher talked the DJ into it. Topher sees Devon next to me, his grinning face telling me he knows who Devon is. I grimace and hold my hands up. What are the odds? my face says. He blows me a kiss.

“Your bestie?” Devon asks.

I nod.

“Jack’s my best friend, has been since college days; plus we live together. We’re brothers in a sense, I guess. I’d do anything for him.”

“Escorting women out of the VIP?”

He grimaces. “It wasn’t like that. He was protecting you. If reporters knew he was seeing you, trust me, they might not leave you alone.”

“Were reporters in there?”

“No, but people in there might talk. He doesn’t trust easy, especially Aiden.”

I order another water and sigh, feeling let down about Jack—about how different he was tonight.

He settles in next to me, concentration on his face, as if he’s choosing his words carefully. “Also, he did not give me details about last night. He just wanted to know who you really were. In fact, I’ve never seen him—”

“I’m no one.” I shrug.

Devon nods. “Tell me—did Jack leave you his cell number?”

“Yes.” I guess he did.

“He never does that. I bet five people have that number.” He waggles his brows.

“Well, I’m not calling him.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I won’t.”

“Sure, sure.”

“I’ll thump you again.”

He grins and checks his watch.

“You late for somewhere?”

“No. Just waiting.”

“For Jack?”

He gives me a hesitant nod. “Yeah, he wants to talk to you. He told me to get you out of there. He doesn’t like Aiden talking to you. Thin ice there.”

“Oh.”

He nods. “Think about it. Football players at the top get there because number one, we’re talented as hell; number two, we’re highly competitive; and number three, we all want that glory and the money. It’s a team sport, but you’re always looking out for yourself. Alabama wants to bring Jack down hard and take his spot.” He clinks his beer with my water glass and leans down. “Dance with me. I love this song.”

“Really? Who sings it?” It’s Sam Smith’s “I’m Not the Only One.”

He rolls his eyes and takes my hand. “Who cares? Let’s just dance.”

He tugs on my hand until I agree—he’s like a sweet puppy—and leads me out to the dance floor.

Devon takes me in his arms, his hands on my waist, mine on his shoulders, and we sway to the slow song. He keeps a respectable distance and stares down at me, a look of bemusement on his face.

“What?” I ask.

He just smiles, his teeth a flash of white on his tanned face, and like Jack, I guess he’s outdoors a lot. “I see why he likes you. You’re really an open book, you know. Your face says exactly what you’re thinking. No guile. No subterfuge. When you were, um, asking for your panties, it was refreshing . . . to see him flummoxed. Women flock to him, and all they say is ‘Yes, Jack, whatever you want, Jack.’” He chuckles. “After you’ve been around as many women as we have, you figure out the real ones.”

His large hands drift to my lower back, close to my ass. I give him side-eye. “Watch it there, Mohawk.”

He laughs. “Also, I give him sixty seconds before he’s down here.”

I blow at a piece of my hair. “You’re convinced that he cares that I’m dancing with you? Please. Let’s make a bet. A buck he doesn’t show.”

“Damn, I like you. Okay, you’re on.”

I count to sixty in my head, and the song changes to another slow one. “He isn’t here. Not that I wanted him to be. You owe me.”

Devon thinks, his gaze going back to that window. “Right. Okay, let’s play it a little meaner. Double or nothing?”

I nod. Why not? For one thing, I do want to see Jack—because hello, panties. I need them back.

Devon arches a brow. “I’m going to play dirty; you feel me?”

Play dirty?

And before I can respond to that, Devon stops our dance, putting my back to the window. Wrapping an arm tight around my waist, he steps in closer. His hand moves my hair, and he kisses my cheek, much like Topher would, yet his lips skate over to my ear. He nips my lobe, and I giggle because it tickles but mostly because the entire time he’s murmuring, counting the seconds. To anyone else, I imagine it appears as if we’re in an embrace and he’s sucking my neck area. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten—”

“Devon!” Jack says from next to us, a good two inches taller than Devon. He scowls as he puts his hand on Devon’s shoulder. “What the hell? I said keep her company, not make out.” His voice is all growly.

Devon lets me go, holding his hands up in a placating manner. “Sorry, man. You said to get her out of there, and a good song came on. Couldn’t stop myself.” He winks at me, sticks his hands in his jeans, and waltzes off the floor. I hear him whistling.

“You can pay me later, Elena,” he calls from the edge of the dance floor as he gives me a jaunty wave. He strolls up to the brunette at the bar and leans his head in. No doubt calling her pretty girl.

Jack looks back at me, his gaze indecipherable as it drifts over me. “Pay you for what?” He shakes his head. “Never mind. Come with me. Let’s find a private room.”

He holds out his hand for me to take, and I stare at it. His tone screams alpha, and every atom inside me vibrates from being near him.

Couples move around us, the beat of the song playing getting faster, matching the pounding of my heart.

“Elena. Come with me. Please,” he adds softly when the tempo of the music grows. “We can’t talk out here. It’s too loud.”

At least I got a please.

“No.” I brush past him and head for the exit of the club. En route, I pull my phone out of my crossbody and type out a text to Topher that I’m heading home. No one expected me to stay as long as they’d planned, so I drove myself. They’ll close this bar and hit a few others.

“Elena, wait,” Jack calls behind me as I weave through the crowd and reach the exit. I feel him behind me, the heat of his skin, the smell of him, spicy with hints of pine and male.

I don’t turn around, but I do see a few girls whipping out their phones ahead of me, snapping pics and probably videoing. I dip my head and stare at the ground. If he’s as hot with the media as everyone says, I don’t want to be part of that, especially when it’s obvious I don’t fit in with his crowd. I recall those “Yes, whatever you want, Jack” willowy creatures in the VIP room.

Yeah, Jack and I don’t go together. That is crystal clear.