Not My Romeo by Ilsa Madden-Mills

Chapter 17

JACK

Elena climbs out of my lap, jerking her skirt down. Her panicky fingers work on the buttons of her shirt she picked up from the floor.

“It’s our food,” I say, enjoying watching her. Goddess. She’s the sexiest woman I’ve ever met, and she doesn’t even know it.

“You missed one,” I murmur. “Middle button. Also can you throw me a blanket?”

“You’re cold?”

“Steel pipe in my pants.”

She blushes and dashes over to the armchair and grabs one of the fur blankets and tosses it back at me.

She darts over to the mirror above the desk and pats down her hair, trying to straighten out the mess.

“Oh my God. I look insane.”

“Yep.”

She throws a glare at me.

“What? You do.” I grin.

Ding-dong! Ding-dong!

“Our pasta’s going to be cold if you don’t get that,” I say, laughing because she’s now trying to put her hair back in some kind of bun, but it’s clear she doesn’t have the tools. “Man, that bread is going to be good, and all you want to do is fix yourself.”

I move to stand, and she points a finger at me.

“You. This is your fault. Don’t move. I’ll get this.”

Blowing out a breath, she gives up on her hair and marches to the door. I don’t have the heart to tell her that her skirt is on backward, the slit that was in the back now obviously in the front. And her shirt is crooked, one side tucked in, the other hanging out.

Damn, I love getting her ruffled. Contentedness washes over me. Something about her grabbed me from the moment she sat down with me at Milano’s, and it’s so new and refreshing, and she doesn’t care who I am . . .

Unease trickles in.

But what the hell am I doing? I was ready to fuck her right here on the couch without even thinking about protection.

I don’t have a view of who’s at the door, but the voice is instantly recognizable. Lawrence. I wince. He’s been sending me texts all day wanting to know how the breakfast with Timmy and Laura went and if I took any pics he could post on social media. I hadn’t. It never crossed my mind. I know I need to be spinning this and making the story into Football player spends time with young fan, but . . .

They’re murmuring, but I can’t hear them. I frown. Lawrence can be a bulldog when it comes to protecting me—that’s what I pay him for—but he isn’t the smoothest when it comes to women.

I’ve eased myself up to standing as they walk back into the den. Wearing a suit and his slicked-back Wall Street hairstyle, he walks ahead of Elena, whose face is blank, when normally she’s so expressive. It’s one of the little things I dig about her, the way I can read her. Milano’s: nervous as a poodle. VIP party: pissed. Church: shocked. Our kiss: hot as hell.

Then I see the papers she’s carrying in her hand.

Fuck. My eyes shut briefly. I was getting around to approaching the NDA topic, but Lawrence beat me to the punch with probably the finesse of a bull in a china shop.

“You aren’t answering your phone, asshole. And you know that makes me nervous,” is what he says as he walks in. He takes in my lack of shirt and pops an eyebrow. “I called Quinn when I couldn’t get you, and he said you had a spasm today—and that you had company. I brought new papers for her. You okay?”

“Good.” It still twinges. I’ve had worse injuries than this one on the field, yet this is the one that nags me whenever it wants to pop up. But it’s never hurt quite this bad. I don’t tell him that.

“Nice. You have training camp soon. You want to be on top.”

“I will be.”

“Right.”

“Anything else?” I ask, getting more tense as I watch Elena slap the papers down on my desk, then walk down the hallway to one of the bathrooms.

Lawrence watches her leave. “Good. Privacy.” He takes a few steps closer, keeping his voice low. “Talked to the principal at Timmy’s school. He’s down with you meeting some young fans, signing some footballs. I told him low key, no school-assembly-type thing. Good?”

“Make it casual. No media.”

“What the fuck is the point if no one takes a photo, Jack?”

I inhale, knowing he’s right. “You can take one photo for Instagram or whatever. I don’t want this to become a circus. I don’t want reporters outside Timmy’s school or his apartment. Laura wouldn’t like that.” She said as much at breakfast, and I want to make sure their lives aren’t upturned.

“Fine.” He breathes out a heavy sigh. “Timmy wants you to do this play thing. How are you going to manage that?”

I heave out a groan. I do not want to be on a stage. I picture me up there, weaving on my feet, my face bloodred, trying to get the words out. Hell no. My heart races at the mere thought.

He reads me. “Do you have any clue how hard it is to manage you when you aren’t helping? Just go, and see what happens. Maybe you can be an assistant to the director or some shit.”

I nod, not liking the anxiousness in the pit of my stomach. “Yeah.”

He looks over his shoulder. “She still hasn’t signed the NDA. Told me so at the door. What the fuck? And she’s here now? One word to the press about an injury and—”

“She knows about the shoulder. She was there when it happened.”

Lawrence lets out a string of curses.

“She won’t tell, Lawrence.”

“Uh-huh. You’ve known this girl for three fucking days.” He shakes his head. “Be glad Sophia never knew that injury keeps popping up.”

True. Sophia knew about the scar because everyone in my hometown knew the details of that story, and it has circulated around me for years. Plus, Harvey’s sister wrote her article. I never got around to telling Sophia about my occasional pain, mostly because it happened rarely. I hesitated when it came to her, which should have been a clue that she was wrong for me.

Yet I told Elena. I could have brushed it off as a minor football thing, but I didn’t. I told her the story from start to finish, and I can’t recall doing that since Devon.

Lawrence is giving me details about Timmy’s school in Daisy, quieting when Elena walks back in the room. She doesn’t meet my gaze. Her clothes have been straightened, and her hair is smooth, the long strands gleaming, as if she’s brushed it. Fresh red lipstick is on her lips. She snatches the papers from the table and sits down at the desk a few feet away from us, her head bent as she thumbs through them, pointedly ignoring us.

Great. I run my hands through my hair.

“Is that all, Lawrence? We’re waiting for lunch to arrive.” I give him a pointed look. Get the fuck out.

He nods and pivots. “Don’t see me out. I know you’re hurting. I’ll let you know what day and time for the school thing plus the other we discussed.” He gives a nod at Elena. “Nice to meet you, Elena.”

She never looks up. “Of course.”

I grimace. Her voice is quiet, polite, exceedingly so. But she didn’t say Nice to meet you too.

Lawrence is oblivious and glances at me and gives me a thumbs-up and leaves.

I walk over to her, taking in the stiffness of her shoulders. “Elena . . .”

She holds a hand up. “Nope. Let me finish reading this fascinating document—which is backdated to Valentine’s Day, by the way.”

I cringe, knowing exactly what else is in those papers: a firm statement about consent and age; explicit description of sexual acts she’d do, from foreplay to anal, things she puts a check next to or doesn’t; an agreement of complete confidentiality for the entirety of her life, right down to the details of personal information including my cell number, the Wi-Fi password at the penthouse, the location of my apartment, even Lucy’s address in Brentwood. Lawrence and my lawyer came up with the language.

“What did Lawrence say to you?” Part of me is anxious at her expression—the other side of me, well, I want her to sign it.

“He’s a jerk.”

“He’s my jerk. Elena.”

She ignores me, her fingers trembling as she turns the page. “What strikes me as the most ludicrous is that you’d actually sue me for five million dollars if I speak to anyone about our private life. Hate to tell you, but Topher and Aunt Clara know we had sex. Already told him, and he told her. No telling who she might tell. She’s a stylist at a beauty shop in a gossipy small town. You should hear the things they talk about in there.”

She’s trying to get a rise out of me.

“Good luck,” she adds. “I don’t have any money. All I have is my house, and it’s not worth that. We might be in court for years.”

“Elena, please—”

“No, you don’t have the right to say my name like that.” She dips her head, her hair swinging to cover her face. “This is so . . . ridiculous and grotesque. I must have been trashed. What was I thinking?”

I lean against the wall at the disdain in her voice. Shit.

“I wish . . . I wish I had read it, because I never would have had sex with you, Jack.”

A long sigh comes from me. “It would make me feel better about us, Elena. Think about it. You sign, and we can start all over again—”

She stands, little fists curled, a defiant tilt to her chin. “How many girls have signed this? How many women have you kept at this fuck palace?”

My lips compress. “No one has been here since she was. I didn’t need an NDA until she did what she did. You’re the first girl I’ve even wanted to be with. No one else has been offered an NDA.”

“I’m so flattered.” She throws her eyes around the room. “You never even took Sophia to where you really live?”

“No.”

“How long were you with her?”

“A year, give or take.”

She shakes her head, eyes flaring. “You really don’t trust anyone.”

“Can you blame me?” My voice is low. “I have a career to protect. And my privacy. I don’t want any more stories about me, Elena.”

She licks her lips. “For a weird reason, I really thought you walked in church to see me, but really it was all about these papers.”

“Not true.”

“Oh, I think it is. Deep down, this NDA has been on your mind.”

I pause. “Yes.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t brought it up earlier.”

I dreaded it . . . maybe because I sensed she’d be offended.

My skin crawls with unease, but all I can see is Sophia on Good Morning America, talking about our sex life, how I beat her up when she got out of line. Even though she never had one police report or photo or a hospital record to back her up, that shit still got published. It was my word against hers, and when I don’t give interviews . . .

Sure, I put out a comment through Lawrence saying it was untrue and even tried to sue her, but it was pointless, a waste of money—and people ate it up. Even Coach grilled me when it came out. Shit. That was a tense few weeks, but he knows the man I am. Adidas was incensed at the book, especially when I refused to publicly comment about it.

“I want to trust you, but . . .”

“Right. Walls.” She picks up the papers and wads them into a ball. “This is what I think of your NDA.”

I close my eyes, a hard anvil landing on my chest, and it’s not so much about the fact that she isn’t signing it but that I’ve disappointed her.

“You’re right,” I mutter. “You are better than me. You deserve a nice guy and not a banged-up bad-boy superstar football player. I hear you. Do you think I like this? Being alone? It sucks, okay; it fucking sucks. Next up, she’s writing an article for Cosmo about how I forced her to have an abortion.”

She bites that lip and looks away from me, her eyes glistening, and I pause; shit, is she going to cry—

“That isn’t true, Elena. She was never pregnant. I’m not like that. I may have grown up with a man who slapped me around, but I respect women.”

“I believe you.” Her words are quiet.

Thank God.

Her ocean-blue eyes are clear when they land back on me. “I will never tell a soul about our night. I will go back to Topher and Aunt Clara and swear them to secrecy. If I stumble across you at a restaurant or a VIP room—which is highly unlikely—I promise to not even give you a second glance. Besides, you have plenty of other options, don’t you, Jack? Why not ask one of those supermodels at the VIP room to be your penthouse girl?”

Been there. That road is bleak and empty.

And those girls aren’t Elena, with her pouty lips and little skirts and glasses.

She scoffs. “Tell me, what do I get out of signing the NDA? Jewels, evening gowns, galas, an allowance, a new car—”

“Stop. It’s not like that. It’s not a transaction.”

“Well, it sure seems like it. What happened to good old-fashioned hanging out and seeing where it goes? Maybe a date. Maybe more conversations about who you are and who I am? Because I refuse to be some girl you bang when you’re horny and need a warm body who’s signed some stupid papers. I’m a person. And full disclosure . . . ha ha . . . I don’t want to be your hookup, okay? I don’t! I’m team boyfriend all the way, Jack.”

Her chin is tilted up, eyes blazing at me, and I wonder how I ever thought she was shy.

My throat tightens. Here’s the part where I should say something right and good and fix this mess, maybe tell her that she makes me feel like no one ever has . . . but fuck, I don’t know how to even be myself with a girl anymore. She’s right. My walls are up. I’m living in a fortress.

She looks at me. “I’m waiting, Jack. I just said some real stuff. Say something.”

Several moments pass as we stare at each other, and I’m racking my brain to figure out how to get us out of this conversation, to get her on my side—and back in my arms.

“Whatever,” she mutters.

Dammit. I’ve waited too long, and she grabs her purse and shoes and stalks to the door.

I should beg her to stay. I should. Because it feels like that—like I’d be willing to walk across hot coals just to get her to be with me.

Shit.

That is just . . . crazy.

I barely know her!

I clamp my lips together as she opens the door.

She looks back at me, a flash of vulnerability on her face, as if waiting for me to stop her.

I just stare at her, getting a good look at her face, that long auburn hair, those big eyes. Fuck. I’m never going to see her again. She’s done. I feel it.

She lets out a sigh and darts out, brushing past the concierge fellow who’s in the hall holding our food.

Dammit.