Not My Romeo

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  OTHER TITLES BY ILSA MADDEN-MILLS

  Very Bad Things

  Very Wicked Beginnings

  Very Wicked Things

  Very Twisted Things

  Dirty English

  Filthy English

  Spider

  Fake Fiancée

  I Dare You

  I Bet You

  I Hate You

  Boyfriend Bargain

  The Last Guy (w/Tia Louise)

  The Right Stud (w/Tia Louise)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2020 by Ilsa Madden-Mills

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542021883

  ISBN-10: 154202188X

  Cover design by Hang Le

  Cover Photography by Daniel Jaems

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1 ELENA

  Chapter 2 JACK

  Chapter 3 ELENA

  Chapter 4 JACK

  Chapter 5 ELENA

  Chapter 6 JACK

  Chapter 7 ELENA

  Chapter 8 ELENA

  Chapter 9 JACK

  Chapter 10 ELENA

  Chapter 11 ELENA

  Chapter 12 JACK

  Chapter 13 ELENA

  Chapter 14 JACK

  Chapter 15 ELENA

  Chapter 16 ELENA

  Chapter 17 JACK

  Chapter 18 ELENA

  Chapter 19 ELENA

  Chapter 20 JACK

  Chapter 21 JACK

  Chapter 22 ELENA

  Chapter 23 ELENA

  Chapter 24 JACK

  Chapter 25 ELENA

  Chapter 26 ELENA

  Chapter 27 JACK

  Chapter 28 JACK

  Chapter 29 ELENA

  Chapter 30 JACK

  Chapter 31 ELENA

  Chapter 32 JACK

  Chapter 33 ELENA

  Chapter 34 JACK

  Chapter 35 ELENA

  Epilogue JACK

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Chapter 1

  ELENA

  If I smoked, I’d have one in my mouth right now. Maybe two.

  But I don’t, so I settle for chewing on my thumbnail as I whip my little Ford Escape into Milano’s jam-packed parking lot. Glancing around, I take in the stone-and-cedar exterior, the flickering gaslights by the door. It’s a five-star restaurant, one of the best in Nashville, with a monthlong reservation wait, yet my date managed to get us one on short notice. Points for that.

  A long sigh leaves my chest.

  Who, tell me who, agrees to a blind date on Valentine’s Day?

  Me, apparently.

  “I’m breaking the seal!” I announce to no one.

  That’s right. Tonight, I’m meeting Greg Zimmerman, the local weatherman for the NBC affiliate here in the Music City. Supposedly he’s tall, dark, handsome, a little nerdy, and fresh from a breakup. Perfect for me. Right?

  So why am I so anxious?

  For a brief moment I contemplate a pretend headache. Dang it. I can’t do that. For one, I promised my roommate, Topher, I’d follow through; two, I have nothing better to do; and three, I’m starving.

  And this is just a quick dinner, no matter what Topher says. I recall him in the library today. He’d been wearing his Grateful Dead T-shirt and skinny jeans, bouncing up and down in the romance section as he mimicked riding a horse. Straddle him like a thoroughbred, Elena. Take those reins, dig your spurs in, and ride him until you can’t walk the next day. Pound him so hard he can’t even say “Cloudy with a chance of snow” the next day.

  I blow at a piece of hair that’s fallen out of my chignon, then tuck it neatly behind my ear. No horsing around tonight. I’m here for a nice meal. Italian is my favorite, and I’m already picturing a nice bowl of pasta and garlic bread.

  Just say hi, be nice, eat, then get out.

  Besides. What can go wrong from meeting someone new?

  I pull down the rearview mirror and check my appearance. Pale as paper. After scrambling around my bag, I pull out my cherry red and roll it over my full lips, then blot them with a tissue. I sigh, studying my features as I adjust my pearl necklace and matching earrings. The truth is there’s nothing spectacular about me. My nose is a hair too sharp, and I’m annoyingly short: five feet, three inches and a quarter in bare feet. That quarter is very important. Floating somewhere in between a true petite and the “standard” size, I’m stuck with clothes either too long or too short. If I want something that fits well, I make it myself.

  Another glance in the mirror. Another sigh.

  I hope Greg isn’t disappointed.

  I get out of the car and approach the beautifully stained oaken double doors, where a doorman dressed in a black suit gives me a smile and opens the door. “Welcome to Milano’s,” he murmurs, and I swallow down my qualms as I step into the foyer and squint around the dark interior.

  Dang.

  Dread inches up my spine.

  Why did I insist on not seeing a photo of Greg before the date?

  Mostly I just wanted to be . . . surprised. When your existence is as boring and mundane as mine, it’s the little things that spice it up. Instead of my normal coffee, let’s try the peppermint latte. Mind blowing. Instead of wearing my hair in a bun, let’s make it a messy topknot. Amazing. Instead of seeing a picture of your blind date, go anyway, and look for the guy wearing a blue shirt. Sounded exciting at the time, but I’m cursing myself as I check out the interior. There’s no one waiting for me in the foyer. I did text him to let him know I was caught in traffic, yet I got no response back. Perhaps he’s already seated and waiting for me.

  The hostess whisks a lovey-dovey couple to their seats in the back of the restaurant, leaving me alone and fidgety. I brush down my black pencil skirt. Maybe I should have changed into something flirtier? I do have a closetful of slinky dresses Nana left me—

  Nope.

  This is the real me, and if he doesn’t like what he sees, then, well, he can suck it.

  I am who I am.

  After five more minutes have passed and the hostess still hasn’t come back, my nerves have ramped up, and I’ve broken out in a small sweat, the nape of my neck damp. Where did she go? Is she on a break?

  I take a seat on a long bench, whip out my phone, and send him another text.

  I’m here in the foyer, I send.

  No reply comes back.

  Annoyed and running on hunger fumes, I decide I can find him myself. Feigning confidence I don’t have, I waltz out of the foyer and make a quick perimeter of the restaurant. A few minutes later I feel like a stalker as I peer at the patrons, so I move to stand in the shadowy alcove next to the restrooms, scanning for men alone on Valentine’s Day.

  Topher should have chosen a different night for us to meet, considering I have a horrible history with Valentine’s Day. At my high school Sweetheart Dance, my date, Bobby Carter, drank so much spiked punch that he barfed all over my white dress. My college boyfriend’s idea of a romantic night was ordering in sushi—his favorite—then playing video games with his friends online. I can’t recall one decent Valentine’s Day in all of my twenty-six years.

  Bam. My eyes land on a tall dark-haired man wearing a blue button-down, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He’s in the far
corner, sitting apart, almost tucked away. His table has several empty ones around it, and I find it curious that he’s managed to get privacy on such a busy night. A waiter sets down his food, and my lips tighten.

  He’s eating without me?

  I spy his phone next to him on the table. The nerve! Why hasn’t he responded to me?

  He’s taller than I expected, judging just from how he sits in his plush leather armchair—

  Wait a minute. He does look vaguely familiar, like a face you’ve caught briefly but can’t put a name to. Mama and Aunt Clara always have the TV on at the beauty shop, so it’s possible I have actually seen him on the news.

  I pull my white cat-eye glasses out of my purse and slide them on for a better look. My heart flip-flops as butterflies take flight in my stomach. Oh heck no. That can’t be him. He’s . . . he’s . . . freaking gorgeous, and I don’t mean regular handsome but like a movie star: dark hair swept off his face, the strands wavy and unruly with copper highlights, soft and silky brushing against his cheeks, and too long for a newscaster, in my opinion—but what do I know? I don’t own a television.

  He lifts his arm to shove his hair back, and my eyes pop at the tightly roped muscles of his forearm and biceps straining through the fabric, the impossibly broad shoulders that taper to a chest.

  Well, would you look at that.

  And this has to be him, right?

  I’m in the right restaurant. He’s alone. He’s wearing a blue shirt. He has dark hair. Odds point to yes. Usually the most simple explanation is exactly what it appears. Therefore, he must be my date.

  The man in question turns to look out the window, tapping his fingers on the table impatiently, and I take in his profile. Long straight nose, full dark arching eyebrows, and a sharp, bladed jawline. Sensuous lips, the lower one decadently full. Almost wicked. He’s the kind of hot that draws your eyes over and over just to make sure it’s not a mirage. I knew guys like him at NYU—sexy, athletic gym types who played a sport. And those types never gave me a second look. I’d watch them work out while I fumbled my way around one of those god-awful butterfly machines, while beautiful, tall, svelte girls who weren’t sweating fawned over them, bringing them towels, water bottles, and sexy promises.

  He isn’t beefy, though, like those brawny guys with thick necks and flushed faces. His muscles are taut and powerful, nothing too overstated, yet tight and no doubt firm—

  Elena. Enough with the body. It’s to your taste. Move on.

  He takes a sip of an amber liquid, long tanned fingers grasping the fragile container as his eyes rove across the room. They prowl around the restaurant, as if he’s assessing every person in sight, and I feel the sizzle of him even from twenty feet away. Prickles of awareness skate down my spine. Greg has massive raw animal magnetism coming from him in waves. I’m the alpha, his body language yells. Come and challenge me. I watch as a few ladies eye him—even some of the guys are turned and checking him out. Some are whispering. Interesting. I guess he has quite the following on the news.

  His gaze drifts right over me without stopping.

  Not surprised.

  I duck back into the shadows.

  Dang it. My hands clench. I wanted nice and nerdy, not this . . . sexy beast!

  And judging by the scowl on his face, he’s grumpy. Life’s too short to be dour, Mister. And what is he annoyed about? I am here!

  And he did see a picture of me. Topher said so.

  Yeah, maybe he doesn’t really want to meet you.

  Maybe he’s hoping you won’t show up.

  I tap my foot. I should leave. Really.

  I have a ton of things to do at home. Some sewing, snuggling up with Romeo—

  The smells of Milano’s waft around me, spicy and tantalizing, and my stomach lets out an angry howl. I move from one foot to the next. Every place to eat between here and Daisy is going to be packed. I could always hit a drive-through on the way back home—but how pathetic is a Big Mac and fries on Valentine’s Day? Plus, I’ll have my entire nosy family to answer to tomorrow. They’ve built up this blind date so much: Oooooh, Elena has a date with a weatherman. Ask him if that’s a barometer in his pocket or if he’s just glad to see you. That nugget came from Aunt Clara. If I chicken out now, there’ll be hell to pay, because no matter the brave face I put on, everyone knows I haven’t been myself in months.

  I give myself a mental pep talk.

  Grow some balls, Elena.

  You can’t keep living life on the sidelines.

  Sometimes you have to go out and take what you want.

  So what if he’s hot enough to suck the dew off a rose.

  So what if he’s got a dangerous look on his face.

  You are hungry. Do it for the pasta.

  He is your date. Go get ’em, girl.

  I gather my resolve, point my little black pumps in his direction, and start marching.

  Chapter 2

  JACK

  “Um, you’re him, right?” A nervous laugh. “The guy?”

  I glance up from my glass of scotch and take in the petite auburn-haired woman standing in front of me as I try my best to enjoy my meal—damn hard to do these days with my face all over the media. Every eye in the place is either glaring at me or pointedly turning their noses up.

  She’s wearing a shirt buttoned all the way to her neck, a black pencil skirt, and low-heeled shoes. I move my eyes up to the intruder’s face, taking in the uptight hairstyle and big white glasses.

  Dammit. Another reporter. My hands tighten in my lap, and I dart my eyes around for the server. A deep exhalation leaves my chest when I don’t see him. I lean back in my leather chair and glare at her. Part of me is nervous; the rest of me is pissed.

  “Yeah, I’m the guy.” What the hell do you want? my face says.

  Dark lashes flutter against a creamy complexion as she seems to gather herself, a determined grimace on her delicate face. She swallows, and before I can protest, she’s taking the seat across from me.

  I blink.

  She exhales. “Thank God. It was the blue button-down that gave it away—and the fact that you’re alone.” Her eyes roam over my chest, lingering for a moment on my shoulders. “I’m just glad I found you. Forgive me for being late. I did a photo shoot for Romeo—he has quite the following on Instagram—and then the downtown Nashville traffic is just insane.”

  Forgive her for being late?

  And photo shoot with Romeo? The name’s familiar. New player in the league?

  “Hmm.” I hide my confusion by taking another sip of scotch, keeping my gaze on her, distrustful. Lawrence, my PR guy, mentioned a female sports blogger who was sympathetic to my most recent falling-out with fans and who might be willing to write a favorable story.

  But he knows I detest reporters.

  And why didn’t he let me know?

  Dammit, he’s always doing shit without telling me.

  I consider calling him to confirm who she is, but . . .

  “So you’re the blogger?” I ask.

  Her eyes widen, her face paling. “I have a blog.”

  “Hmm.”

  She stares at me for several moments and shakes her head. “Gah, I’m going to skin Topher alive for telling you that. Of course, he thinks I should tell everyone. Only he doesn’t understand how small towns work, especially Daisy. Once they know your deepest secrets, it’s literally all they think of when they see you on the street. And the whispers . . . goodness.”

  I watch her with lowered lids, assessing. I don’t know anyone named Topher. And why would she hide her blog? Maybe it isn’t the sports blogger. I’m used to women coming up to me, mostly jersey chasers. In the past, especially in college and my early years of professional football, I ran with it, choosing the most beautiful and taking them up on their offers: keys to hotel rooms, phone numbers pressed in my hands, girls who tagged along to our VIP parties—but this girl doesn’t fit that category. No tight dress. Minimal makeup. Studious looking.

 
She continues. “True story: my aunt Clara sneaks her boyfriend in through her back door to keep people in town from seeing him. He parks his car behind the church and walks to her house—and she’s forty. I wish she’d just tell everyone she’s in love with the mailman.” She arches an elegant eyebrow. “Scotty is ten years younger than her and quite the catch.”

  “I see.” Black Pumps talks a lot. And not about football.

  She gives me a half smile. “You must know how that is, wanting to stay out of the limelight and keep your personal business quiet.”

  Indeed. Even enjoying a nice glass of whiskey in public makes me paranoid. I picture everything I do as a headline. Jack Hawke drinking! Does this mean another DUI for the Nashville quarterback? That DUI happened five years ago, my second year in the NFL, yet no one forgets. I partied a lot in those early years. I thought fame and money made me invincible. Stupid.

  “Yes. I like my privacy very much.” I take a bite of my pasta, chewing and swallowing, eyes on her, taking in the stiffness of her shoulders, the way she’s breathing in long, slow breaths, as if she doesn’t really want to be here.

  Shit. Perhaps she isn’t sympathetic at all.

  Perhaps it’s all a ruse to get a story from me.

  Several seconds go by as neither of us speaks, and she squirms a little in her chair, her eyes following me. It’s rude to keep eating, but no reporter or blogger or random person is going to keep me from—

  She chews on her plump red lips, as if she’s angry. Full and overly lush, they’re a deep crimson. A little sinful.

  Behind big white glasses, her eyes hold mine for several moments. A vivid aquamarine color, outlined in black and heavily lashed, they spear me with sudden ferocity. “You know, I think it’s rude you started dinner without me—even after I texted you and said I’d be late.”

  “Didn’t see your text, and I was starving. Sorry.” I shrug nonchalantly, not sounding sorry at all.

  The server scurries over to our table, straightening his black suit.

  “Sir.” He darts his eyes at . . . whoever she is . . . and then comes back to me. “I’m so sorry she got past. You know it’s the busiest night of the year. Please forgive me. Would you like me to call security?”

  Black Pumps goes from all nerves to annoyance. She glares at the waiter with laser focus, her face indignant. “I’m sitting right here. And I’m supposed to be here. It was arranged. This is a date.”