My eyes flare. Surely she means work date?
She straightens her spine and sends a longing look at my pasta. “And I’d like whatever he’s having with extra bread.” She waves her hand at my bowl of half-finished bolognese. “And a glass of red. No. Make that a gin and tonic with a double shot of Hendrick’s with a cucumber. In fact, if you could just keep those drinks coming, that would be fantastic. Thank you.” Her voice has just a tiny bit of that southern accent that makes everything she says sweet yet layered with a tenacity that almost makes my lips twitch. She reminds me of a little poodle my mom had once, ready to pounce at any moment if there’s an injustice.
The waiter blinks at her, then glances back at me, a pleading expression on his face. “Sir, again, my deepest apologies—”
I wave him off, making an impulsive decision, brushing away the reminder that those ideas tend to get me in trouble. “No worries. Let’s feed the lady, yes?”
He bows deeply and darts away, and I turn my eyes back to the girl.
I study her features carefully, cataloging them more, instead of the cursory glance a few minutes ago. She’s not beautiful in a magazine way, but there’s something captivating about her. Could be the stuffy, conservative clothes that hint at soft curves underneath. Maybe it’s the lips. Most definitely the lips. And whether it’s unintentional or not, she’s using them to her advantage, one minute pursing them, the next chewing on the bottom one.
As one of the best quarterbacks in the league, one of my special skill sets is reading facial expressions and tics that telegraph a play on the field. And I can’t help but notice that she looks at me as if I’m no one special, no glint of excitement in her eyes, no fluttering lashes, no awe at the weight the name Jack Hawke carries. Fascinating.
“Is that . . . are those tiny flying pigs on your shirt?” I ask as I narrow my gaze, taking in the white shirt buttoned up to a black velvet Peter Pan collar.
“Yes. The fabric is from a designer in New York. I ordered it a month ago and went crazy. I even made Romeo a pillow.”
“Is that the new wide receiver for the Saints? Drafted last year?”
She cocks her head. “Hardly. He’s my little potbellied pig. A teacup. He’s a rescue and the sweetest. Okay, maybe not the sweetest, but I couldn’t resist taking him in when someone dumped him off at the Cut ’N’ Curl across from my house. He was near death’s door. Just last month, someone left a box of kittens on my front porch with a note addressed to me; can you believe it? It’s like they know I’ll take care of them. I found homes for all of them except for one of the males. You interested? He’s black and gray, adorable, and litter trained; I swear.”
I huff out a laugh. This girl is—
If Romeo is a miniature pig and not a football player—what the hell is going on?
“I’ll pass on the cat.”
“Every man needs a cat. Might make you softer.”
“Do I need to be softer?”
“Wouldn’t hurt. Might take more than one cat to do the trick, though. You seem . . .” She waves her hands around. “Tense.”
She has no idea.
“I see.”
“Are you a dog person, then?” she asks.
“I don’t have time for pets.”
She grimaces. “Well, if you change your mind, I recommend the cat. Nothing against dogs, but they will love just about anyone. Cats are pickier, and the men who have them can appreciate moodiness and definitely handle personality issues—which might be key in a relationship. Also cats are hilarious. Do you have any idea how many cat videos there are on the internet? Over a billion! Isn’t that crazy?”
Is she crazy? Who the hell is she?
Yet I’m hanging on her every word, slowly warming up, feeling . . . interested.
“You mentioned fabric. You made your shirt yourself?”
She pushes her glasses up. “Stores don’t market to my tastes or to my figure. In fact, the majority of clothing in stores is designed by people who have no idea what a woman like me wants. But then if you know about my blog . . .” Her face flames red. “Then you know my specialty is lingerie.”
Lingerie? The plot thickens.
I tap my fingers on the table, some of that earlier interest waning. Is she looking for an endorsement from me? I briefly dated a girl who wanted me to promote her makeup. People, whether they initially intend to or not, somehow always circle around to using me in some way.
I can see it now.
NFL superstar Jack Hawke likes blah-blah lingerie for his girlfriends.
The waiter sets down her drink, and she gulps it down completely, then plops it down on the table as a long sigh comes from her. “God. I’ve needed this since the moment I walked in and tried to find you.”
Surprisingly, sympathy rises up and eclipses any misgivings. “Bad day?”
She huffs out a laugh. “Bad year. I moved back to Daisy two years ago from New York, and it’s been one insane day after another. My family, my job, my small town.”
I set my fork down. “It’s been a shitty week for me as well.”
She nods. “Let’s try this again, shall we? Tell me about you. What’s it like being a weatherman on TV?”
I’m in the process of taking a sip of my drink when the question comes, and it gets caught in my throat, and I sputter, then cough, grabbing my white napkin to cover my mouth.
“Are you okay?” Her eyes are huge, luminous, the color of the sea.
“Fine,” I say in a strangled voice.
She thinks I’m a . . . weatherman.
What. The. Hell.
I shake my head, processing what she said . . . about sending the text . . . her comment about my blue shirt . . . her indignation with the maître d’ . . . and it all clicks into place.
A date. Obviously a blind date.
But girls have tried all kinds of tricks to get in my bed. Once, on the road, I walked into my hotel room and found a naked girl in my closet. Took hotel security to remove her as she screamed “I love you, Jack!” the entire time.
“You’ve seen me doing the weather?”
She grimaces. “Actually, no. The news is worrisome; plus I rarely watch TV.”
I rub my neck. “And you agreed to this date without seeing my face? That’s rather . . . bold.”
She gives me her first real smile. “It’s my version of living dangerously.”
“You a football fan?”
“Men pushing each other around in tight pants, fighting over a ball? Please. Very caveman. I prefer books and podcasts. You?”
I take in the blank look on her face. Well, damn.
About ten seconds go by as we stare at each other.
I feel a brush of excitement rising inside me, gently at first, then all at once, flooding my senses. No. Freaking. Clue. She doesn’t know me! I want to hug her. Maybe take that cat. Kidding.
I laugh for the first time in a week. It’s as if I’m in a parallel universe where I get a do-over. Shit. It’s a clean slate, sparkling white.
But . . .
Jack. You can’t not reveal who you are . . .
If she thinks I’m her date, I should come clean right now and tell her the truth. Save her the embarrassment of dragging this out further.
But . . .
What do I have to go home to but an empty apartment and my face on ESPN?
Plus, she’s hot in an understated way, everything all buttoned up and just waiting to be unleashed—
My gaze brushes over that tight-fitting shirt, taking in those full curves straining against her blouse.
And I’m a tit man.
Tell her. I open my mouth, and she speaks.
“What’s your favorite part of doing the weather? Is it the snowstorm, when you know the city is hanging on every single word, when they run out and buy bread and milk?” She takes a huge bite of pasta the waiter has set down, using a fork and a spoon to twist the pasta, giving me a couple of seconds to think of a reply.
“Hmm, I like
clouds. And rain. It’s . . . wet.”
She gives me a swift look and pats her mouth delicately with her napkin, capturing my attention with the ultrafine bones of her wrists, the elegant way she moves. Once, a long time ago, when I was just a poor kid from Ohio, I might have wanted to draw those hands, the delicateness of them. She looks as if she might break in my arms—
“Wow, you like clouds?”
“Yeah, those puffy cumulus ones.” I have no clue. “They’re . . . white.”
“I see.” Her brow wrinkles. “It’s me, isn’t it? I’m talking too much, and I was late and rude to the waiter, and you are so not into this—”
“Elena? What are you doing here?” The words come from a stocky, well-dressed, brown-haired man who’s stopped at our table. He moves his gaze to me, and I see instant recognition in his face, the way his mouth gapes. Yep, there it is. He knows me.
I glance at Elena—thank you, Jesus, for the name—and she’s gone white, her hands twisting the pearls around her neck. I frown, my gaze darting from her to him, wondering what the connection is.
“I’m on a date, Preston. Isn’t it obvious?”
He sputters, his eyes widening as he looks from her to me. “Tonight? I assumed you’d be . . . home.”
Elena stiffens. “I’m not pining away.”
Preston smooths down his tie, lips tightening. “Of course. It’s just if I had known you’d be here, I never would have come here with Giselle.” He nudges his head toward the middle of the restaurant without taking his eyes off Elena. “We just arrived, and we’re sitting over there. I was on my way to the bar to grab another drink and happened to see you—”
Her eyes flash like lightning, and I think I see pain in those depths. “Well, forget you saw me. Go back to Giselle.”
He pushes his hands inside his slacks. “I never meant to hurt—”
“But you did.” She points to her pasta. “Also, I’m trying to eat here, and you know how much I enjoy my food. Remember?”
He opens his mouth to speak.
“Piss off,” I say, rougher than I intended.
He isn’t budging, his eyes squarely on my . . . date. They sweep over her, from head to toe, his face settling into disapproval. “I can’t believe you’d be interested in him,” he says under his breath.
My body tenses up, shoulders tightening.
He takes a step closer to her. “Everyone wants you to move on, but this guy is not—”
I stand, my six-four frame towering over his, and you can tell he’s forgotten how tall I am, bigger than I seem on TV. My fists curl, everything from this week building up and threatening to erupt. Usually I’m in tight control of my temper, knowing that every little thing I do is scrutinized, but I’ll be damned before I let him talk to her as if she’s a child.
“Go back to your table now, or I’ll have you removed,” I murmur softly. “This is my restaurant.”
He holds his hands up, as if to ward me off. “See. Trouble, Elena.”
She shrugs. “Maybe trouble is just what I need, Preston. A little adventure.”
He darts a glare at me, then scurries off across the restaurant before taking a seat with a blonde lady.
I settle back in my chair and meet her shiny gaze.
Nah, please don’t cry. Females weeping always make me think of my mother. I saw her cry more than she ever smiled. And it makes me want to fix things . . .
“Are you okay?”
She nods, seeming to gather herself as she clears her throat and stares down at the table. “Thank you for running him off. I had no idea he’d be here.”
“No problem,” I say gruffly.
“You own this place?”
I shrug. “Just diversifying. I don’t want to be a chef or anything. It looked good on paper, and I bought it.”
“Why did he say you were trouble?” She slides butter on a piece of bread, eyes down.
I pause. “When you’re famous, people either love you or hate you.”
The waiter takes my plate and sets down another gin and tonic for her.
“Your ex, right?” I finally say. “And let me guess . . . you aren’t over him?”
“Long story.” She sighs, still not looking at me, and it’s driving me a little crazy, this need to have her eyes on me. People always stare at me. Why doesn’t she?
I picture her in my penthouse, her auburn hair down, her body spread out on my bed—
Damn.
Where did that come from?
You don’t know her, Jack.
You just met her.
Ease up.
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 d
own.
“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.
Not My Romeo Page 2
