Not My Romeo by Ilsa Madden-Mills

Chapter 13

ELENA

Around eleven, I pull up at my house and dash inside from the rain.

After pouring a small splash of Pappy from Nana’s well-stocked cupboard, I pace around, thinking about Jack. I picture him in the rain telling me who he was, and I can see there’s more to him than just a bad-boy football player, and it’s a little dangerous and a whole lot of sexy.

A shaky breath comes from me.

Forget him.

Even if it was the first time for him in a year. Right?

But why has he waited so long?

Was it the pain of his breakup with his ex and then the book she wrote? Maybe.

And he’s . . . shy?

I can’t imagine it, because he knew exactly how to charm me at the penthouse.

Then again, for a man like him, maybe he wasn’t referring to sex, per se, but to himself in general. Maybe sex is a whole new category for him, a way he lets himself go—

And now I’m horny.

Ugh.

Inevitably I end up in my sewing room with its high ceilings and heavy antique chandelier. This used to be Nana’s room, where she’d make me and Giselle matching dresses. Her sewing machine still sits in the corner, an ancient black Singer made of heavy cast iron. My space is directly in front of the bay window, a drafting table where I sketch my designs, a professional serger, and two sewing machines. Mannequins and dress forms dot the room, each one covered with one of my lingerie. Silk, lace, sequins, thread, ribbons, and scraps of fabric are arranged in neat order on shelves that Topher helped me put together.

A piece of paper, an email I printed out on Friday, sits on my drafting table, and I pick it up and read it again.

Dear Elena,

Thank you for your interest in our company and the sample sketches.

We currently have an intern position available in the design department. This position is for a year with the possibility for full-time employment with benefits. I realize this isn’t quite what you had in mind, but we’d love to talk to you about applying. Please give me a call and we’ll set up a meeting. I’d love to see your designs in person.

Marcus Brown

CEO of Little Rose Lingerie

Disappointment hits me as I take a sip of the whiskey, the burn smooth and gratifying. I emailed Marcus a few sketches a few weeks ago along with the link to my blog. I don’t know what I expected . . . maybe that they’d embrace me and offer me a real position.

Things don’t work that way, Elena.

I don’t have any experience in fashion—just an eye. My degree is in English.

I rub the letter. This could be a big step, but spending most of my time running errands and getting lattes for the real staff isn’t what I had in mind.

Then there’s Mama. She’d have a heart attack if I quit my job, the one she called a few influential friends in Daisy to get for me. Plus, she’d be mortified if she knew I was drawn to lingerie. The gossip would kill her.

I toss the letter aside and plop down in the dark-green velvet Queen Anne chaise longue in the corner and glare up at the chandelier.

I laugh out loud at the ludicrousness of me quitting my job.

Nana would have told me to go for it. She always encouraged my ideas, pushing me to get out of Daisy and see the world. When Mama pouted because I wasn’t moving back to Daisy after graduation from NYU, Nana threw a big party for me in this very house to celebrate my first job at a publishing house. Nana loved it when I took a trip to Europe alone. She always looked at me like she got the wild spirit inside me.

I push those memories away and set my glass down on the side table and pull out the scrawled note Jack left me in the penthouse, tracing my finger over the sloping stroke of his handwriting.

I left him there in the rain.

A little smile curves my lips. I walked away from the hottest man I’ve ever seen.

I wonder what he’ll do about it.

Because if men like Jack want something, according to their highly competitive nature, they’ll make it their goal to get it. That came straight from Devon.

We’ll see . . .

My phone wakes me up, and I curse.

Romeo, who’s been snuggling with me, digs his face further into my arm, making an unhappy sound as I reach over and grab my cell off the nightstand.

“Wakey, wakey!”

I groan at her chipper tone. “Mama. It’s eight in the morning.”

“And it’s Sunday. You promised me two weeks ago you’d come to church today!”

“Stop yelling,” I say and straighten up in the bed. “Did I really tell you that?” I scrunch up my nose, vaguely recalling her badgering when I was getting my ends trimmed last week at the Cut ’N’ Curl.

“Young lady, do you have a hangover? Drinking isn’t good for the soul.”

Then why did Nana leave me a cupboard of expensive whiskey?

“Jesus drank wine, Mama, but I just got in late. What’s the big deal about church today?”

“Don’t you worry about that, darlin’. But you did promise.”

“Mama, I need to work around the house.” I want to sketch and clean up some. It’s been a busy weekend, and I’ve barely had time to think.

“God does not listen to excuses.”

He also doesn’t dance for hours, then face off with a quarterback either.

I sigh.

“Wear something pretty—one of your little blazers with a skirt.”

My tone lowers. “Mama, what did you do?”

“Nothing at all. Aunt Clara and I will meet you outside at nine, and we’ll walk in together.”

“The Daisy Lady Gang?”

“I don’t even know what that means. You and Clara made that name up. Wear your contacts. Wouldn’t hurt if you put on some makeup . . .”

I smell fix-up. I should go full-on hooker to church.

“Also, you never told me how the weatherman worked out—”

“It didn’t.”

There’s a small silence, and I can picture her in her stately brick house on the other side of town, just a few blocks away. Those wheels in her head are turning, wondering why I’m not offering more info. She’s probably tapping her heels, drinking her coffee, already dressed and ready for church. Heck, she’s probably cleaned her whole house already since waking up.

“Well, I never liked him. He always says we’re gonna get snow, and we never do. You can do better.”

“Right.”

“Did you hear that the high school got a new basketball coach this semester? Brett Sinclair. Nice boy. You went to school with him. He married some city girl from Los Angeles—a singer—and you know how wild they are. No one is surprised. No kids either. If the preacher doesn’t work out—”

I fumble out of bed, kicking the covers off me as I stand up. “Preacher! Mama, no. Hell no.”

“Elena Michelle, I am still your mother. And you promised you’d come. It’s his first Sunday, and you know all I’m doing is trying to fill the pews and make him feel welcome. It’s what I do. I support the church.”

She is involved. Runs a Wednesday-evening ladies’ Bible class. Takes food daily to the elderly or sick who can’t get out. Checks in with the women’s shelter in town.

But that’s not all she’s doing.

Dammit.

“What did you say?” she asks.

I must have cursed aloud. “Nothing. Just stubbed my toe.”

She exhales. “Look, I know Topher already told you about Preston and Giselle. They won’t be there. They went to Mississippi to tell Preston’s family. I’m sorry, love. You’ll find someone—”

“Jeez, I don’t need a man to be happy!”

“Uh-huh. I’ll see you at nine. Get dressed. Bye.”

“Mama—”

And she hangs up on me.

Shit.

One hour.

I look down at Romeo, and he kinda grins back at me. “Traitor,” I murmur and scratch his nose. He loves Mama.

My leather pants on the floor catch my eyes, and I snort. I didn’t have to cut them off, but I came close last night after spending an hour googling Jack Hawke, then downloading that horrible book about him. I only got through the first chapter before I tossed it across the room. According to Sophia Blaine, she met him at a postgame party and immediately fell head over heels in love—only she didn’t realize he was a drunk and abusive. I’m sure those specific details are outlined in the coming chapters, but I don’t think I have the heart to read them. I hate that my place of former employment actually published her book.

I pick the pants up and look over at Romeo. “Mama’s lucky these are absolutely shitty, or I’d put them right back on.”

Romeo sticks his head under the covers.

Exactly.

I walk down the sidewalk toward the arched wooden double doors of the First Cumberland Church, a nondenominational congregation that sits right next to the library on West Street. It’s the biggest church in Daisy, boasting over 300 members—350 on Easter and Christmas. It’s an old structure, built from bricks that used to be red but were recently painted a startling white. Lots of opinions about that at the beauty shop.

Taking a deep breath, I straighten my outfit, a white shirt with tiny pink butterfly buttons I sewed on myself. On my hips is a vintage black velvet pencil skirt, something I found in the attic. Nana’s. Lucky for me, she and I share the same curves. Still, the skirt is snug. Might need to go easy on the carbs for a while.

Serves Mama right that I left the blazer behind. She better watch out. I’m feeling rebellious.

“She’s lucky I even came,” I mutter to no one.

Mama is getting out of her Lincoln and calls my name, waving me over. Tall and thin, she’s stately with her coiffed blonde hair, elegant blue suit-dress, and midheel black pumps. Classy. She and Giselle are replicas—beautiful, cool, and reserved.

Her sharp blue eyes run over my outfit, lips tightening at my shoes. She sighs. “Pink shoes? Really? That’s not like you.”

But they are; she just doesn’t see it.

Good thing Topher and I are both a size eight. He was snoring loudly when I tiptoed in his closet and picked out the brightest, sluttiest pair I could find.

“Cynthia, leave the poor girl alone.”

I smile when Aunt Clara bounds up next to me, wearing a bohemian-style dress with purple flowers and lace. I grin. She looks a little mussed, her little feathered matching hat not quite on straight. She and Mama are ten years apart in age and are as opposite as night and day. Most days, Aunt Clara feels like my older sister.

“I love your shoes. You should wear them every day. I bet Mr. Rhodes is going to flip,” Aunt Clara says, crooking her arm through mine. “He’s going to be up there preaching, get a peek at those, and lose his place in the scripture. Saint Peter, save me from this woman!” She does a Hail Mary.

Mama slaps her on the arm. “Stop that. We aren’t even Catholic.”

“Mr. Rhodes is the preacher, I assume,” I say as we walk.

“Yes!” Aunt Clara says. “You’ve missed all the good gossip at the Cut ’N’ Curl this week. Goodness, did you hear about that Tigers football player and little Timmy Caine—”

“Never mind that,” Mama says as she slides in on the other side of me and pats my hand. “Let’s make a game plan for the preacher.”

Aunt Clara does a fist pump in the air. “The Daisy Lady Gang strikes again. We own this town. Nobody compares to our casseroles—or your mama’s matchmaking.”

“The plan is . . . there is no plan,” I say curtly.

Mama continues, as if I didn’t speak. “His wife died three years ago, bless her heart, and you know he’s lonely.”

I picture an old man with gray hair and a Bible.

Lord.

Help me.

I let out a sigh. “You both need to be committed to the nuthouse. If I’d known this was your plan, I never would have promised.”

Mama shrugs. “I just think you need to start dating; that way it will be easier when Preston and Giselle, you know . . .” She sends me a careful look.

“When they get married,” I say flatly.

Aunt Clara makes a gagging motion.

Mama scowls at her. “Stop it, Clara. This is serious. Elena is the oldest, and she should be the one getting married. She’s going to be an old maid—”

I send a beseeching look up at the sky. Lord, I’m serious. I know I haven’t been the best girl, especially this weekend, but please help me deal with my pushy mother.

“Stop wavering, and come on, Elena,” Mama says, tugging on my arm.

I glare at her. She’s done worse. My senior year in high school, when my boyfriend suddenly dumped me a week before the prom, she called a girlfriend in Nashville and convinced her to send her college son down to take me. He did. He showed up in a limo with a rented tux to match my dress, plus a beautiful corsage. We went to prom and barely spoke to each other. My friends were so infatuated with him they spent most of the time talking to him and not me.

Mama is a well-oiled machine with secret ways. Scary.

“Mama. This is the twenty-first century. I don’t ever have to get married. I can live with Topher until the day I die,” I say, lowering my voice as several parishioners walk past us, murmuring “Good morning” as they take us in.

Mama eyeballs them, too, her spine straightening. “Let’s not discuss Topher.”

I know she has an issue with him, although it’s not that he’s gay—which is surprising. But he is a man, and he does live with me, and that causes talk in town. When she first questioned me about Topher living with me, I got ruffled and put my foot down hard. Nana left me that house, and it is mine. I may let her push me around some, but when it comes to the people I love . . . nope.

The steeple bell rings, and I drag my feet, debating running back to my car.

Mama knows. “Look, you’re already here; just shake his hand at the door, and that’s all I ask. You do work at the library—right next door. You’re going to meet him eventually. Plus, you never know when you’ll need a preacher. They can be handy. He’s quite forward thinking, too, painting the church white and asking for new hymnals. He’s like you. Modern.”

He is nothing like me.

Aunt Clara gives me a grin. “What she’s not telling you is she invited him to Sunday lunch. She’s made a chicken casserole and homemade yeast rolls. Heard there might be okra and cheddar mashed potatoes.”

“Ohh, big guns,” I say.

“And we’re using the good china.” Mama beams.

“Monogrammed napkins?” I ask.

She nods.

“And I bet you got fresh flowers for the table,” I add.

She grins.

I curse under my breath.

Aunt Clara holds her hands up. “FYI, I got nothing to do with the preacher. It’s that weatherman I want to hear about. I heard he’s quite a player.” She giggles, and I narrow my eyes. Topher. Those two are thick as thieves.

“Topher told you?” I hiss at her. When did he have time? I bet he texted her. Ugh.

She just grins.

We open the door and walk inside. Mama immediately bypasses several members at the entrance who call out her name, giving them her practiced smile as she drags me toward a man near the front of the auditorium.

Mama nudges me in front of her like a prize goat.

“Patrick, dear, this is my daughter Elena.” She’s got her hand on his arm like a vise as he turns around.

I arch my brow at her. Oh, a first-name basis. I’m not surprised.

Okay. Well. Patrick Rhodes is a nice-looking man, scholarly almost, with thick sandy-colored hair and intelligent eyes behind black-rimmed modern-style frames. He’s not too handsome—like someoneI know—and even resembles my ex from college. Mama. I sigh. She knows my type.

“Hi.” His voice is nice and deep, and he’s tall with a lean build that fills out his blue suit very well. He’s younger than I expected, maybe midthirties.

What happened to his wife? I’m sure Mama knows.

Her hand is tight on my arm, as if I might bolt for the door at any moment. She’s holding us both hostage. Maniacal woman.

“Elena is the town librarian. She does the most adorable story hour on Tuesdays and Thursdays with the preschoolers. She loves kids so much. It’s why she became a librarian.”

I groan inwardly. Lie! She’s making me out to be some ready-to-settle-down-and-have-kids woman. I want to someday when I meet the right person. I love my job because there are books, but story hour with the three- and four-year-olds is like herding angry cats. Topher does a better job than I do.

She’s still talking. “You should stop by sometime. They have a new biography section.” Mama flashes a smile at him. “You did mention you love biographies.”

“I did indeed.” His voice is a tad dry, and he raises an eyebrow at Mama.

I bite back a grin. He’s no dummy, and I bet he’s seen plenty of matchmaking mamas since his wife passed. He knows dang well he’s being maneuvered into a wedding about a year from now.

Aunt Clara whispers in my ear as Mama keeps talking to Patrick. “I’d do him. I may have to start coming more regular.”

“Yeah, what would Scotty say about that?” I whisper back. “I’m betting he walked to your house last night and left before dawn. Hussy. When are you going to make a decent man of him?”

She gives me a little pinch on my arm—subtly, so no one notices—and I cough to cover up my laugh.

I dart a look at her face, and she’s glowing. Probably thinking about Scotty putting his mail in her slot . . .

She blushes at my scrutiny. “I like it on the down low—isn’t that what you kids call it? More exciting.”

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?”

“Sure.”

And then he walks away, his rather nice frame disappearing through the doors that lead to where the choir sings. There’ll be a chair up front for him to sit in while the song leader leads the choir.

I frown, turning back to Jack, finding my voice. “What on earth are you doing here?”

He winces, and what I think is a guilty expression crosses his face. “I swear, I didn’t know you’d be here, but this day just got a whole lot more interesting.”

I replay his words in my head. “So you just happened to come to Daisy today—for church?”

“Not exactly.”

“Ms. Riley!” The voice comes from the door as Timmy Caine bounds into the foyer. I smile, glad of the distraction, when he rushes me and wraps his good arm around me, the other one in a cast. The white plaster has names written in bright colors. I see Jack’s and a drawing of a Tiger that looks a whole lot like Jack’s tattoo on his back . . .

With thick wraparound glasses, a tiny frame, and clothes that I think have been worn by someone before him, Timmy is small for his age and one of my favorite students who pop in the library. He’s had a rough time, his dad passing away last year in a drunk-driving accident. He was coming home from the Piggly Wiggly when a car ran a red light and plowed into his driver’s side. He died at the scene. Mama was terribly upset, taking food and visiting with Laura for several days. This little town is gossipy, but when one of our own needs us, people stick together.

Jack ruffles Timmy’s hair. “Hey, little man. I beat you here. Told you I would. My car is fast.”

“Thank you for meeting us for breakfast! And for the new bike,” Timmy says. “Those banana pancakes at the diner were so good. Mama says we’ll have to do it again.”

He took the Caine family to breakfast?

Jack smiles. “Next time, we’ll try the waffles. Sound good?”

“Yeah!” Timmy dashes away and peeks into the sanctuary. “The place is packed. We’ll have to sit on the front row. Mama, remember that time Mrs. Claymont was singing in the choir, and her teeth came flying out?”

I laugh, recalling that story from Mama, then suck in a breath, connecting the dots from the googling I did on Jack Hawke last night. I watched snippets of his press conference online, getting the highlights, but the kid he ran over was never named since he was a minor. I eye the cast on Timmy’s arm and look back at Jack.

Jack has been watching me, and when I look up at him, he reddens. “Elena, I know what you’re thinking. I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

“You don’t know what I’m thinking,” I say softly as Timmy darts around the foyer, grabbing crayons and a program for the service. He keeps looking over at Jack and grinning.

Laura has reached us and stands next to Jack. “You did not have to come to church with us. Breakfast was plenty.” She gazes up at him and smiles, and dang, I forgot how pretty she is with her bobbed golden-brown hair and peaches-and-cream complexion. She’s a few years older than me but was one of those popular pretty girls in high school.

My hackles rise until I stomp them right back down.

I have no right to be jealous of Laura.

Timmy tugs at her hand. “Come on. I don’t want to miss when they introduce the preacher. I heard he’s tall. I want to be tall.” He grins at Jack. “Are you staying?”

Jack looks at me, his face unsure. “Ah, I’m not sure.” He glances down at his jeans. “I’m not really dressed for church.”

Then why did he walk in here?

Timmy glances from me to Jack. “Do you know each other?”

“Yes,” Jack says.

“No,” I say at the same time.

Timmy frowns. “Adults are weird.”

“We are,” Jack agrees, then turns his attention to Laura, who has her hand on his shoulder.

She gives Jack a hug, and I . . . I . . . frown.

She smiles at us and opens the door to the sanctuary. “Seriously, Jack. Don’t feel like you have to stay. We’ll see you later.”

Later?

They wave goodbye and disappear through the door, and Jack turns back to me. There’s a long silence in the foyer as we eye each other.

Why did he walk in the church?

Is he interested in Laura? She’s not one of his jersey chasers, but she’s absolutely pretty. And they’ve obviously spent some time together.

The foyer is empty, and he’s just watching me, hands in his pockets, and I can’t seem to find my words.

He gives me a grin, looking much more relaxed than last night. “You should have seen your face when you saw me. Priceless. I should have taken a pic. I mean, your mouth was open. Flies could have gotten in.” He pauses. “Are you mad I’m here?”

I give myself a mental shake. Am I? I don’t know. “It’s church. Everyone is welcome.”

He smirks, a rather boyish expression on his face. “It feels as if we can’t stop running into each other. Is that fate?”

“It’s something.”

“Hmm. I have your panties, Elena.” He pulls a piece of the fabric out from his front pocket, just a few inches, but the sequins are right there.

My mouth gapes as I dart my eyes around the foyer. Still empty.

“Because you knew I’d be here?” How is that possible?

“No, I didn’t know you’d be here, but I hoped to see you today.”

Oh.

His finger rubs at the fabric, never taking his gaze off me. “Do you want them?”

I lick my lips, my finger twitching with the urge to snatch them away from him.

“Come get them.”

I shiver at the authority in his tone, at the tug I feel when he talks, that husky, dark voice . . .

I curl my hands into little fists.

How dare he bring those panties to church? With Mama right here.

I’m really going to kill the football player this time.