Not My Romeo by Ilsa Madden-Mills

Chapter 24

JACK

“Elena!” I bend down to her body and pull her up. “Shit! I’m sorry. I didn’t even see that grate. Are you okay?”

Rain pelts us as she huddles against me. “I think so. My knees hurt, but I can walk.” She squints through the water as it falls on her face. “How far did we get?” She starts off again, and I pull her back and under an awning. Lightning strikes in the distance, making her flinch.

I glance down, eyes widening. “You’ve skinned them both. Blood is running down your legs. Dammit. I’m sorry I ran too fast.”

“Don’t apologize. It wasn’t your fault. My skirt is too tight, and these heels . . .” She grimaces, bending down to get a look at her legs. “They’re fine. Nothing a little soap and water won’t fix when I get home.”

Nope. She is not driving like that. I guess I muttered it, because she cocks her hip, then winces. “I can drive.”

“No, you can’t. Plus it’s a monsoon out here.” I look up at the sky as the wind picks up.

“Hang on,” I say and bend over and sweep her up in my arms.

“Jack Hawke, you can’t carry me all the way to my car!”

I duck out from under the awning and take off at a sprint. “I know. But my place is closer. Put your head down in my shoulder, and hang on to your stuff.”

She opens her mouth to say something—knowing her, it’s to protest—but another bolt of lightning flashes off in the distance.

“Besides, this is good for me. Cardio. How much do you weigh?” I grin, feeling exhilarated.

She snorts. “Like I’d tell you. Just stop talking, and get us there already.”

I huff out a laugh, hitching her up higher and jogging for the Breton about a block away. I weave in and out of pedestrians on their way home from work, feet slapping against wet concrete, concentrating on not slipping.

She glares up at me, clutching her purse and garment bag. The pie box is on top, and I don’t even recall giving it to her, but I must have. She has a death grip on it. I start laughing, and shit, I don’t even know why except that she looks angry and wet.

“Why are you laughing?” she calls over the rain.

“I don’t know! You always make me laugh.”

A smile starts across her face, steadily getting bigger until she’s giggling. “Oh my God, if you drop me and this pie, I will never ever forgive you.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll save the pie.”

“You will not get one piece!” She blows at a piece of wet hair in her face.

I gaze down at her, laughing more, then sobering as emotion claws at me, soft yet somehow terrifying as it tiptoes its way inside my chest. A knot forms in my stomach, and I can’t seem to take a breath, and it has nothing to do with running.

It’s the girl in my arms who’s got me freaked out.

“I’m dripping everywhere,” Elena mutters as I ease her down to her feet inside the foyer of the penthouse. She plops her purse, garment bag, and squashed pie box on the table near the door.

“But you look super sexy,” I tease as she whips off the knit hat and takes off her shoes.

“Wet is the new thing, I hear.”

“Hmm.” I tear my eyes off her face and take in her knees again, wincing at the scratches there.

“Whoa! Give me a warning next time,” she says as I sweep her up again and carry her into the den, setting her on one of the chairs. “Jack, I’m soaked! I don’t want to ruin your furniture.”

“I’m more worried about your knees than my stupid chair.” She looks up at me, hair wet and stuck to her face, her clothes dripping. Mine aren’t any better. She shivers, rubbing her arms as she stands.

My body clenches as I take her in, how her skirt clings to those full curves. Mind out of the gutter, Jack. She isn’t here for that.

“Do you mind if I use a towel?” She chews on her bottom lip. “Maybe borrow some old clothes? I can get them back to you at rehearsal.”

I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at her longer than I should have. Right, right.

I nod. “Yeah.”

She heads to the bathroom, and I dash to my bedroom, yanking open the drawers of my chest for something that might fit her. I find a pair of shorts with a drawstring and an old practice shirt from my college days. After I knock on the door, she reaches out and takes them, a fluffy white towel wrapped around her chest. I see creamy shoulders and avert my gaze. “Put these on, and when you’re dressed, let me take a look at those knees.”

“Jack, you don’t have to do that. I can wash up in here.”

“No. I want to see them. Meet you in the den.”

“Thank you.” Her lashes flutter against her cheeks as she nods, taking the clothes and shutting the door.

Five minutes later, after changing into a pair of joggers and a T-shirt, I come out to the den holding antiseptic and bandages. She’s sitting back in the chair I put her in, hands clasped as she looks around the room. Her expression is reserved, her shoulders tense as she waits for me, and I sigh.

Fucking penthouse.

She doesn’t want to be here, and I know it, but my real home is two blocks from here.

Would you have taken her there anyway?a voice says in my head.

I don’t know!

Maybe.

Stop.

Just stop.

You need to stay away from any romantic involvement with her.

Plus, she’s too good for you. She wants more than you can give. Remember.

Right.

But it’s . . .her.

And I’ve never . . .

She smiles at the wad of bandages I have in my hand. “You look serious. Are my knees that bad?”

“Uh, yeah.” Shit, I can’t seem to think straight. I sit on the floor in front of her, my eyes running over her from head to foot. I clear my throat, and my voice is gruffer than I intended. “You look good in my clothes.”

She blushes, and I watch as the color rises.

“What? Why are you staring at my face?”

I focus on her knees. “Never realized how much I enjoy a girl who still blushes.”

“Oh.”

We stare at each other. I exhale.

Have I ever stared at a girl this much in my entire life?

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Her gaze drops first. “Warning here. One reason I couldn’t do med school is I’m a big scaredy-cat when it comes to blood. Crazy. I passed out once when a window broke at Nana’s when I was trying to lift it. It was old and stuck, and I pushed too hard and cut my hand. It bled everywhere. And I hate pain. Like, I might cry.”

“Right. Your knees,” I murmur as I tear open an alcohol wipe and brush it across her lacerations. There are several on each knee, and I dab as gently as I can.

“Stings! Oh my God!” She inhales a sharp breath and clenches the side of the chair. “Jack, Jack, talk to me; tell me something good or funny or something, please!”

I huff out a laugh. “I love Justin Bieber’s music. Listen to it when I run.” I give her a fake hard look. “You are sworn to secrecy. If Devon knew, he’d never let me forget it.”

She gives me a wide-eyed look. “No way.”

“Yes way. ‘Love Yourself’ is my favorite.”

“Sing it.”

I hum the first few lines.

“Don’t stop,” she murmurs, eyes on my face.

“Kinda hard to concentrate and work on your knees.”

“Pretty pleeeeaasse.”

I scoff but start the song again, singing the words, getting all the way to the chorus. I feel my own blush rising. I can’t sing worth shit.

I look up at her. “How you feeling?”

She’s watching me intently. She licks her lips. Swallows. “You know any Taylor Swift? I mean, if you like the Biebs . . .”

I laugh. “Right. That’s me, football player who digs pop music. Sorry, don’t know all the words to hers.”

She arches a brow. “How about Meghan Trainor’s ‘All about That Bass’? That’s my theme song, and if you sing it, maybe I’ll leave you the pie.”

“Hmm. Your theme song should be something by Lizzo, maybe ‘Good as Hell.’ I see you like that—a hair toss, checking your nails, and walking your fine ass out the door.”

“But if you know Meghan Trainor . . .” She winks. “I’ll make it worth your while.” Another blush. “Pie, I mean. Food.”

“Hmm. How about one of those make-out kisses?” I keep my head down, carefully tearing open one of the wide Band-Aids so she can’t see my face. I want her. And it’s not going away like I need it to.

“Okay, it’s a deal—because I don’t think you know it.”

“Mmm, ‘All about That Bass.’ Let’s see, I seem to recall that song . . .”

“You don’t know it!”

“Oh, Elena, I so know it, every fucking word.” My eyes find hers.

“Sing it.” She bites her lip, anticipation evident by the gleam in her eyes.

I burst out laughing, putting the last Band-Aid on her knee. “Again, our secret.”

“Right.”

I don’t know who I am when I stand up, grab the remote to use as a microphone, and belt out the song. I stumble over the words a little, making up words that fit, but the song is mostly the chorus, and I give it all I’ve got.

“Can you dance a little? Do one of those body rolls?”

I roll my chest. I’m not a terrible dancer, yet she’s crying/laughing, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Damn, girl. You make me do crazy shit.”

“If football doesn’t work out, I’m sure you can sing backup for some pop star.”

I plop down on the couch. “I sing all that shit in my head on the field when I’m pissed off and need to calm down. When I’m nervous too. That first practice for Romeo and Juliet, I was humming ‘Dark Horse’ by Katy Perry under my breath.”

“Shut up.”

“True story.” I spread my hands. “I’m basically a teenage girl.”

She shakes her head at me, her eyes shining.

I pat the seat next to me. “Come on. Let’s watch my K-drama. There’s a new episode this week, and I haven’t seen it.”

“Thank you for fixing my injury,” she murmurs as she stands.

I jump and take her hand and help her as she walks over to me, my baggy navy shorts swishing. She’s rolled them under a few times, and they hit around her upper knees.

I click on the remote, my arm going around her shoulders and pulling her against me. She doesn’t protest, sighing as she leans into me.

“So what’s up with Lee and Dan-i? Have they kissed yet?”

“No. Dammit. I mean, what’s wrong with them?”

“Guess they still have things to work through?”

I watch the characters on the show. Lee is running after Dan-i after he saw her on a date with another guy. “He has trouble talking about his feelings. He’s holding back.”

“Why?”

“He’s never been this crazy about a girl, I guess. Doesn’t know how to handle it.”

Her head fits snugly on my shoulder. “Hmm. What about her?”

“She likes him, but she’s scared. Past issues. Terrible boyfriend from before.”

“Silly people. Why don’t they just talk?”

“Right.”

We get quiet, and I inhale, feeling like . . . like maybe we aren’t discussing Lee and Dan-i anymore, but us.

“Elena?”

“Hmm.”

I glance down at her. She wears a blank expression, fighting drowsiness. “You know that feeling of déjà vu? Where it seems as if something is familiar and has happened before?”

Her eyes close, flutter open, then shut again.

I smile. “Sleepy?”

“Tired. Hard week with Romeo. He drives me crazy at rehearsals. Always looking at me and . . .” Her voice trails off. “Yeah, I get déjà vu. We’ve watched this show before; maybe that’s it?”

Her eyes close, her mouth parting softly.

I give her a few minutes to settle into sleep before I reply. “No, it’s not that. It’s as if I’ve dreamed about this before—you here with me, images of us together . . . just this feeling of . . .” Completeness comes to mind, but I disregard it. “Like if there was such a thing as a past life, which I’m not some woo-woo person and don’t buy into souls that always end up together, but if I did, I’d say we had something before . . . like a whole life . . . shit, that is totally stupid. I’m only saying this because you’re asleep, by the way.”

She gives me a little snore, and I push hair out of her face.

Mine.

No, Jack.

Not yours.

You don’t do those deep feelings . . .

I sigh and focus back on the show, watching as Lee tries to explain to Dan-i how he feels, but he gets quiet and stalks off. True, man. I feel you.

But damn—I’m legit losing my mind with Elena.

What the hell is wrong with me?

You know what’s wrong with you, asshole.

Love ruined your mom. Sophia nearly ruined your career.

Right.

Caring for someone isn’t what I need right now. I have to focus on my upcoming surgery and image problems. And if I want to win a Super Bowl, I absolutely have to give everything, starting with training camp. Elena is just an interlude before football.

And once the play is over, I’ll never see her again.

But why do I feel so . . . wrong?

Sure, we can fuck, but she wants more.

Everything I can’t give her. Full trust, commitment.

A long exhalation leaves my chest as I lean my head back against the couch.