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.”
Chapter 4
JACK
I can’t believe I brought up Sophia and her tell-all about me. She may have been beautiful and said she loved me, but in the end, her true colors came out. I swallow, glancing down at my scotch. I’ve only had one, for Christ’s sake, yet I’m saying way too much. For some reason the thought of Elena reading about me being a bad-tempered jock with a penchant for drinking and hitting women is unsettling. It isn’t the image I want to leave her with at all.
She’s so . . .
I bite back a smile. She’s almost shy, yet not, speaking with a directness I appreciate.
Feeling a gaze on me, and not a friendly one, I look over her shoulder and frown at Preston, who’s sending me furtive side-eyes in between cooing at his date.
I try to imagine what it must be like for her to live in a small town and see them constantly.
Pure hell.
I know how reporters and fans look at me. Party boy. Rude. Super Bowl loser.
She leans in over the table, and her scent wafts around me, sweet and fresh, like honey mixed with spring flowers.
How long has it been since you got to meet someone who isn’t judging you on your past?
Fuck that.
How long since you got laid?
“What’s it like to be on TV?” She’s wrapped up in her pasta, her movements graceful, yet she’s consuming every bite. She gets another piece of bread.
Anxiousness tugs at me. I don’t like lying to her. “All eyes are waiting for me to make a mistake, and after the week I’ve had, my career might just be over.” It’s the truth.
Her hand that’s resting on the table reaches out and touches mine briefly before pulling back. “I’m sorry. That sounds terrible.”
When she moved, the candlelight accentuated the sheer quality of her shirt, and I freeze at the color underneath, something pink and sexy. Heat, hot and searing, flashes straight to my dick.
I’m caught up in wondering how she’d feel underneath me, those legs tight around my waist, her full breasts against my bare chest, those little heels digging into my back—
Just stop, Jack.
I grow silent, frowning, my head going back to the long line of faceless women who’ve drifted in and out of my life. Elena isn’t my type. She’s nursing a broken heart, and she’s . . . nice. But damn, this knot of worry and tension in my chest is killing me.
My fingers tap the table; I watch her as she eats the last piece of bread. I’m wired, my eyes moving from her to the people in the restaurant as I finish my drink, wondering when someone’s going to come over and ask for an autograph or tell me I’m an asshole, and shit, I don’t want her to know what people really think of me . . .
She studies me. “You’re quiet.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I frown. I don’t know how to explain what a tough week it’s been without revealing who I am.
Which I should! Right now.
“I’m normally quiet.”
“I’m not. I talk way too much.”
“I see.”
Tell her, Jack. Tell her you aren’t her date.
She grabs her drink off the table and chugs it down. With a sigh, she folds her napkin in elegant movements and then stands, a look of accomplishment on her face, as if she’s just completed a hard project.
I straighten in my chair.
She’s leaving?
After digging around in her purse, she pulls out a wad of twenties and places them on the table.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
She grimaces. “Heading home. Thank you for a lovely meal. This should cover my part. It was . . . great to meet you. Maybe I’ll even decide to watch the news.” She fidgets, her heels already pointing in the direction of the door.
“Wait, Elena.” I don’t have a clue what I’m going to say when I stand. She’s so small next to me, her frame about five-five in heels. My eyes go from the top of her head to her feet; that black skirt clings to her delectable hourglass figure, full and curvy and lush—one I didn’t notice before. Damn.
“Don’t go,” I murmur.
Abort, abort, my common sense yells, but I shove it down. I don’t know how the rest of my life is going to play out, and part of me . . . wants to just push it all away and forget about it—with her.
“Come on. This has been terrible.” She exhales. “I was late. You didn’t text me back. My ex showed up. It feels . . . off.”
“I admit, my social skills suck.” I pick up her money and stuff it back in her hands, our fingers brushing. “Why don’t we both get out of here and go somewhere else?”
Here I go, being impulsive.
“Where?” An uncertain expression crosses her face.
I could say another bar, maybe for a nightcap or dessert, but there’ll be people who know me; there’s only a handful of places where I feel comfortable, and this is one of them. Since Sophia’s book came out a year ago, I don’t get out much anymore. I’ve battened down the hatches and retreated inside myself, trying to protect my reputation as much as I can.
“My place. It’s not far from here.”
I take a step forward and tuck her hand through the crook of my arm. “Besides, your ex is here, and don’t you want to walk out of here with me by your side?”
“He really didn’t like you at all.” She stares at the floor, then back at me. “But I don’t go home with men I don’t know.”
“Elena . . .” My voice trails off.
“Yes?”
“What if I told you that c-l-i-t-s are my specialty.”
She laughs, color flaming on her cheeks, her head dipping. “I never should have told you that.”
“Every word we use has meaning and purpose—and you said it. Why do you think that is?”
She bites her lip, and there we are, standing face to face, staring at each other for a little too long, and people are staring and probably snapping pics with their phones.
“It’s Valentine’s Day. What else do you have planned to
night? Crying into your ice cream over your ex?”
“Maybe.”
“I’m better than ice cream.”
“Obviously you haven’t had Ben & Jerry’s Rocky Road.”
“Obviously you haven’t met me before.” I reach out and briefly touch her plump bottom lip, grazing my thumb across her silky skin, my cock swelling inside my slacks.
Her eyes close, and her throat moves as she swallows, her mouth slightly parted. “Um . . . I don’t know.”
“Elena, are you going to make me beg for it?” My eyes are hot, this need for her rising and growing every moment we stand here looking at each other.
Please say yes.
Chapter 5
ELENA
I look around the room, a penthouse on the top floor inside the Breton Hotel, a posh place near the restaurant. I glance over at Greg, who’s at the minibar, making us drinks. I don’t need another drink, obviously, because I’ve had enough already, and I’m buzzing, and What the hell am I doing?
I was ready to cut the date off early because he grew quiet on me, and I knew I was rambling too much about exotic pigs, stray cats, and Preston. Jeez. I need a dating class.
But was it ever worth it to walk out of Milano’s on his arm, with Preston and Giselle gaping at me. Greg tossed his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close to him as we waltzed past them. Then he phoned a town car he said he had on call and whisked us over to the hotel.
The ride over was quiet. He kept darting me little glances, his eyes on my face, but when I’d look back, he’d drop his eyes and stare straight ahead. He looked as if he wanted to say something, and I chalked it up to him being as nervous as I was.
We walked inside the lobby, and he whispered for me to ignore anyone I might see. There wasn’t anyone around, except for the security guard who stood sentinel outside the double doors of the penthouse the elevator took us to on the twentieth floor.
His back is to me, and my gaze eats up those impossibly broad shoulders, the way his mahogany-colored hair has highlights, as if he spends a lot of time outdoors. He’s wearing expensive gray slacks that have to be tailor made, the fabric clinging to his powerful thighs, tapering down to a narrow leg opening.
He slides around the bar, adding tonic to my gin, the movement lithe and precise, like a tiger in the jungle. Greg may walk and talk like a man, but he’s pure animal underneath.
I lick my lips, one side of me ready to bolt, but the other side has had a slow flame burning inside my body since the moment he stood up to Preston, using that low husky voice of his—
He turns, and I start.
He walks—no, stalks—toward me.
You don’t even know him and . . .
I need this, I counter. Plus, he’s Topher Approved. I’ve been sitting on my butt at home for months, and I need something, just something, to knock me out of this funk and get me on with my life.
You are only confined by the rules you set for yourself. Live your life, Nana says in my head. She told me that when I dropped the bomb on my family that I wasn’t going to medical school. She wanted me to be true to myself. I think she would have approved of the weatherman.
He hands me my drink and takes a sip of his, his eyes at half mast, a hint of wildness there. I suck down my G and T, holding his gaze. I want to be wild. I want to be wild with him.
No you don’t, the rational side of me counters.
“Is this where you live?” I set my glass down on the table. Dumb question, Elena.
He pauses for a moment. “I own an apartment nearby, but the penthouse is close to work.”
A restaurant and two residences? Greg is wealthy.
“I see.”
I eye the king-size bed in a bedroom I can see down the hall, the opulent white down comforter, the millions of fluffy pillows. I’ve been with two men in my life. One was Tad, my college sweetheart, who moved to Silicon Valley after graduation. He didn’t ask me to move with him—he needed to get a foothold on his new job and find a place to live—and I didn’t press him. We parted ways with promises of keeping in touch and flying out to see each other, but for some reason, neither of us ever did. We had a benign, comfortable relationship, and after a few months of him being gone, I found that I hardly thought of him at all. About a year ago, I looked him up online and saw that he’d recently gotten married. Then came Preston, and look how that turned out. Men keep leaving me, and I wonder if it’s something missing in me.
“You look nervous, Elena. Don’t be.”
Right. That’s like telling my pet pig to not eat cucumbers.
“If you’d rather me call you a car to take you home, I will. I just thought you and I . . . we seem to . . . have . . .” His voice trails off, as if he’s not quite sure what to say.
“No, I want to be here.”
“Good.” We look at each other for several moments, and I fidget, moving from one foot to the next.
He comes closer, setting his glass down on the end table where mine is. “May I take down your hair?” His voice is hesitant, and it comforts me to think that he really is nervous.
“Okay.”
He tugs at the upswept hair I carefully arranged before work this morning.
He sighs when it’s down, running his hands through the long strands as they fall to the middle of my back. My hair is my treasure, long and thick and lustrous, a coppery color with gold highlights. Topher is always telling me to wear it down, that it’s my best attribute, but it’s easier up or pulled back with a headband.
“Beautiful. I didn’t realize it was so long,” he murmurs.
His hand massages my scalp in a way that makes me step closer to him, my body loose and melting under the intensity of his golden eyes.
“I need you to sign some papers. Are you okay with that?”
Papers?
I blink.
His thumb tugs at my bottom lip, brushing against it softly like he did at Milano’s. “It’s just basic stuff about confidentiality, an NDA form. Because of who I am and what my ex did, I don’t take any chances. Cool?”
“You aren’t that big of a deal.”
He stills and takes a step back from me, and I immediately want him back.
“Elena, there’s something I should tell you . . .” He rubs at his face. “Shit.”
He’s wavering.
I exhale. Preston’s taking Giselle home, and even though he’ll be in his full set of pajamas and smelly socks, I’ll be the one alone tonight.
“Are you married?” I ask.
“No!”
“Girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Serial killer?”
“No, but would I admit that if I was?” He smirks.
“Do you have an STD?”
He scoffs. “Hell no. I just got my physical. Plus, I never have unprotected sex.”
Then why does he look so conflicted? Maybe it’s me. I’m not his usual.
“Then we’re good. This is what it is, right? Just sex between two lonely people.”
He releases a sigh and gives me a lingering glance. “You should never be lonely, Elena.”
My entire body softens at the sincerity—and heat—in his voice. I like his growly tone. Masculine and nothing like Preston’s. He takes my glasses off, and I stare at his lips. They’re insanely lush, full, and totally bitable, a deep indentation on the bottom. No man should have such a wicked mouth.
“Which is why we’re going to do this,” I murmur.
He seems to come to a decision and guides me to a huge modern kitchen, where he pulls a few pieces of paper out of a drawer and lays them down on the white marble countertop.
I do my best to focus on the papers, but it’s difficult when he moves behind me, his body pressed against mine as he lifts my hair to the side and brushes his lips lightly over the sensitive skin on the back of my neck.
Fire licks at me, rising higher and higher, from the brief contact. We haven’t even kissed for real yet, and I’m already incinerating f
rom the outside in.
With a shuddering inhale, I give the papers a cursory look. A nondisclosure agreement. Gross. I’m a trustworthy person. I’d never share my dalliances with anyone. Good grief, I have my own secrets to keep! Hello, sexy lingerie.
His hands are undoing the clasp on my pearls, the soft graze of his hands against my skin making my legs weak.
“Hurry up, Elena.”
The soft words shoot straight to my core, heat pooling as I shiver. I grab the pen and scribble in a name and address.
I turn to face him, chewing on my lip. “All done.”
He wears that wild look in his eyes again when I face him, his chest rising rapidly as he takes me in from head to toe. I don’t know what he sees except that my hair spills around my shoulders, and I’m pretty sure my nipples stand at attention.
I put my hand on his chest. “First, tell me three things about you.”
His fingers unbutton the top button of my shirt. “Let me see. My middle name is Eugene, and coupled with the fact that I didn’t hit my growth spurt until sixteen, it got me beat up a lot in middle school.” He undoes the second button. “Secondly, I’m absolutely terrified of water. You’ll never see me swimming or on a beach vacation.”
He’s so athletic looking. “Why?” I breathe as he goes for the next pearl button.
He puts his face in my neck, inhaling. His lips brush at my ear. “Not telling you. Fuck, you smell good. What kind of perfume is that?”
I let out a ragged breath. Something Topher gave me. “I can’t recall, and third?”
He fingers the last button on my shirt, not quite undoing it. “You really need to know?”
I nod, my body tingling when his hand pulls at my hair, the hold making me arch my neck up. It’s a little commanding and sharp, that motion, but it only sends sizzles of electricity down my spine.
“I like my sex hard and dirty. Does that scare you?”
“As long as you don’t pull out the handcuffs.” I must be drunk because I might not mind those one little bit.
He kisses my collarbone. Barely. “And you didn’t ask for a fourth, but the truth is I may have to jack off in the bathroom before I fuck you, Elena.”
A long breath comes out of me. “Greg . . .”
Not My Romeo Page 3
