Not My Romeo by Ilsa Madden-Mills
Chapter 3
ELENA
Well.
Well.
Well.
I keep sneaking little glances at my drop-dead-gorgeous blind date. Who knew weathermen were this hot? And that classically handsome face? He’s a Greek god on steroids. No wonder the TV loves him. He’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. Also, a bit of a badass. Giddiness races over me at how he handled Preston, towering over him, barely restrained anger held at bay. I don’t think two males have ever gotten into a disagreement over me. Especially when I’m wolfing down food like it’s my last meal.
I clear my throat. “Topher mentioned you’d broken up with someone. Have you tried those dating sites like Tinder? I haven’t been brave enough.”
He frowns. “Those sites make me wary. Don’t do Tinder unless you’re looking for sex, Elena. Even then, it’s dangerous.”
I’ve been blushing all night, but now my cheeks flush with heat even more, and I put a hand up to my cheeks. Yep. Hot. “Well, um, yeah . . . maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. ‘Be good and you’ll be lonely.’”
He arches a brow. “Mark Twain?”
Interest fires through me. “You read classics?”
“Try not to look so surprised.” His eyes lower, grazing over my face, lingering on my lips. “What kind of books do you enjoy, Elena?”
I pause. Not a good idea to mention all the steamy romance I consume, so I stick with the basics. “I’m a librarian. I read everything.”
“Shut up. An honest-to-God librarian.” He shakes his head. “Should have guessed it.”
But didn’t Topher tell him?
“Why are you smiling?” I ask instead.
He leans in over the table, and I get a whiff of his scent: male mixed with leather and fine scotch. “Because you fit every guy’s fantasy of a librarian: intelligent, studious, big glasses, tight pencil skirt.” He flashes a white smile.
Oh.
Oh!
My leg jiggles under the table, and I push my glasses up on my nose. They’ve been sliding down constantly, and I know it’s because the room seems warmer now, the tension in the air thicker.
“Guess I should have stuck a pencil in my hair tonight and carried a book in my hands to complete the look.”
“Hmm. Next time, maybe.”
My heart pounds at the way he’s looking at me, as if I’m a fine piece of Belgian chocolate. I look around the room. What universe is this where a guy like him has fantasies about girls like me? My nerves kick in even more.
Deflect, redirect. “Right. So what happened between you and your ex?”
His lips compress, his features hardening. “My ex left me for a professional hockey player, then wrote a tell-all book about me, right down to our sex life. She also said I was an abusive alcoholic.”
Crap. “Is it true?”
“No!”
“Why’d she do it?”
“People do crazy things for money, even people who say they care about you.”
He wears a distant, faraway look on his face. I understand gossip and the havoc it can cause. Preston and Giselle have kept everything that transpired between us quiet, but the entire town knows he dated me first. I’ve caught everyone’s pity-filled glances, and there’s no telling the stories they’ve concocted in their heads. Poor girl. Preston dumped her for her prettier, younger sister. Not quite the truth, but I shove those memories down.
“Want me to kick her ass? I can throat punch with the best of them.”
He laughs. “Nah.”
I take him in, letting my gaze linger on his powerful forearms, the light-brown hair there, the length of his fingers, the careful way he’s slowly rubbing his index finger over the top of his whiskey glass—his lingering glances. My buzz has definitely kicked in, because I say, “I’m just guessing here, but I bet the sexy bits were complimentary.” I take a sip of my drink. “You know, just trying to find the positive. What did she say, exactly?”
His finger stops, and those tawny-colored eyes spear mine. I blink. They’re not brown, not yellow, but somewhere in the middle, golden and piercing and intense, the color of a warm sunrise even in the dim lighting. A small grin starts slowly, easing up the chiseled lines of his face until it’s a full-blown smile. “Oh, Elena. She’ll never get over me.”
A tingle dances up my spine.
It’s such an arrogant comment, but dang it, curiosity wins out.
“Why’s that?” My heart thuds in my chest. We’ve gone from Mark Twain to a sex discussion, and I’m on the edge of my seat.
“Are you really asking how I am in bed?”
“Guess I can read the book myself. What’s it called?” I pull out my phone. “Everything’s on Amazon, right?”
It’s a challenge I’ve thrown down—and he picks it up.
“Please don’t.”
“Then tell me, and save me the money and time.”
He stares at me for a full ten seconds, lids lowering. His chest rises.
I swallow. I’ve gone too far. I shouldn’t press him. About sex! What is wrong with me? I blame it on seeing Preston and Giselle.
“Elena,” he says softly, as if tasting my name on his lips, dragging out the three syllables. His voice is low and husky, like an exotic silk, deep and rich with colors of gold and navy, gliding through my hands. “Let’s just say I know how to satisfy a woman, to have her crave me every moment we’re apart.”
I volunteer as tribute.
What?
No.
I suck in a deep breath.
Seriously, did they turn off the air in here?
Why am I sweating in February? I glance at my drink. I should really stop drinking.
“Nothing to say?” he asks softly.
I get it now. Greg is way ahead of me in the sexy-times department. I bet he’s banging chicks left and right. Weather groupies. After all, he’s practically a celebrity in Nashville—with a book about him! And here I am. Wasting away my prime years with a vibrator.
“That sounds lovely.” I keep my face composed, hoping it’s not bloodred. Heck, Preston wore a full set of pajamas to bed. A full set! Including socks. Those stinky, smelly black socks.
“Lovely?” He smiles. “That’s one way to describe it.”
I change the topic. “Preston is dating my sister. Do you see her over there?” My back is to them, but I nudge my head toward the middle of the restaurant. “She’s the tall pretty one. They met at our Fourth of July family barbecue last year when she moved back to Nashville.”
“Shit.”
“Double shit.” I gulp down the rest of my drink. The waiter dashes over with a new one.
“My ex wanted me to put a ring on it. Couldn’t do it, so she got back at me with the book.” He pauses. “She wasn’t the one.”
I snort. “The mythical one. I’ve come to believe there is no special person.”
He nods eagerly. “I’m with you. I’m not into relationships. All they bring is pain.”
I lean in over the table until we’re closer. “Preston couldn’t even find my c-l-i-t. It’s like . . . he didn’t try hard enough with me, and I guess something inside me, woman’s intuition, knew something was missing, but I ignored that voice in my head.” I wince as soon as I realize what I’ve revealed.
What am I doing? I’m being too flirtatious. I spelled clit! I sigh, backpedaling. “I’m sorry. I keep rambling. This whole Valentine’s Day blind date was a mistake—”
“Not a mistake, Elena.”
