He nods grudgingly. “Kinda. I usually just call up the restaurant downstairs, and they deliver food to me.”
I smile. “Big strapping guys like you need a home-cooked meal. Me too. Look, we already have something in common. We’re gonna be besties. Be right back.”
After grabbing my purse and clothes, I dash into the marble-tiled master bathroom, taking in the opulent wall-to-wall white stone. I catch my reflection in the mirror again and groan. Rode hard comes to mind. By a lying football player. Not that I have anything against athletes, but me? I’m not the sexy-jock-type girl. I’m drawn to the intellectual types: lawyers, teachers, computer programmers—weathermen.
After washing my face and combing out my hair and putting it up in a messy knot, I dress hurriedly, minus the panties. I’m almost out the door when I turn back around. After fumbling through my purse, I pull out my cherry red and write on his mirror: Jack. I want my underwear back!
Chapter 8
ELENA
A few hours later, after a not-as-informative-as-I-would-have-wished breakfast with Quinn, I’m driving the twenty minutes back to Daisy on Interstate 40, my hands tight on the wheel. All Quinn wanted to discuss was Jack’s football career and nada about him personally. I did like him, though, and it’s not his fault Jack lied to me.
I’m feeling ashamed of my one-night stand, and I’m sure every car I fly past on the interstate can see the huge scarlet A on my face. Weak, I was weak. Throw in the gin and tonic, and all my inhibitions disappeared.
Okay, okay, also it might have been his kissing too.
And the fact that he’s hotter than a blazing fire.
My phone buzzes again with a text, and I figure it’s Topher checking on me, but I don’t text and drive or even talk on the phone while I’m behind the wheel. Plus, I sent him one earlier from the penthouse. I’m alive and on my way home. My cell goes off again, then again, and I dart my eyes over to the passenger seat where my phone is. Sexy Lawyer is the sender, and my jaw tightens.
Why haven’t I removed Preston from my contacts yet?
Cursing under my breath, I find an exit and pull off to the side at a gas station. I totally should ignore him, but Preston did see me leave with Jack, and I’m curious about what he has to say. I snap the phone up and read a series of texts from him; the first ones were sent earlier, but I missed them.
I came by your house this morning and you weren’t there.
Did you spend the night with him?
Elena. Are you crazy? He’s not a good person.
And then the latest one: Call me.
Call him? I sputter, that familiar hurt and anger rising up at the months I invested in him, in how I thought he understood me—until he didn’t. We met when he showed up at the library, decked out in a suit and tie, an engaging smile on his handsome face. Fresh out of law school to work at his uncle’s firm, he stayed for an hour talking to me, his warm-brown eyes the hottest thing I’d seen in Daisy since moving back. He left with two Stephen King audiobooks and my phone number, and we quickly became a thing in town. While the sex wasn’t off the charts, I just figured it would develop as our intimacy did.
Why does it matter?
My sister swept into town, and that was the end of that.
I change his name to Two-Timing Lawyer and get back on the road.
Taylor Swift is blaring “You Need to Calm Down” as I whip into the paved driveway that leads to my two-and-a-half-story white house on East Main. Over a hundred years old, the five-thousand-square-foot Victorian-style house was left to me by Nana when she passed away. It needs constant updates and renovations—obviously including a garage to hide my car from nosy people—but it drips in southern charm, the white wood pristine and crisp, a gingerbread-house-style turret on the right side. A small iron historical placard reading BELLE OF DAISY, ESTABLISHED 1925 sits near an azalea bush. It has been owned by three generations of my family. Stately pillars dot the broad front porch, and magnolia trees line either side of the yard. The house itself is bookended by two regal weeping willow trees. A gray-and-blue stone sidewalk leads to the porch, and I take it all in, letting the comfort of my home ease that tight feeling in my chest. On days when I feel like this small town is going to drive me bananas, coming home makes it worthwhile.
Topher opens the front door and takes the steps two at a time to reach me. Wearing white skinny jeans, an REM shirt, and ragged black Converse, he’s holding a wriggling pink Romeo, currently decked out in a red sweater I knit.
He stops in front of me. “Where have you been?” Without waiting for a reply, he continues, glaring down at Romeo. “Hog from Hell chewed up the toes on a vintage pair of Chucks I have. Lime green! High-tops! Do you know how much those are worth?”
I roll my eyes. My age, with a mop of long wavy white-blond hair and a slender build, he looks like he belongs in California on the beach with a surfboard in his hand. But he’s just a good old southern boy, a little misunderstood and a whole lot of wonderful. We met at the Daisy Community Center theater program when I first moved back to Daisy. He was Peter, and I was Wendy in Neverland. He moved in soon after, when his lease ran out on his small rental. Lord knows I have enough room: six bedrooms, four baths, and acres of beautiful rolling hills behind the house.
“Didn’t you get those at the Goodwill, Topher? And are they really worth money?”
He smirks. “Doesn’t matter where or how much I paid. Lime is my color, baby girl. I look good in it. Hog from Hell needs obedience school.”
Romeo grunts and sends a glare up at him, but Topher doesn’t try to hand him over.
“Nice sweater you put him in,” I say.
He shrugs. “It’s chilly.”
“Uh-huh.”
No matter what he says, he likes the tiny pink pig—a little.
“Fine. Forget the stupid shoes.” He kisses me on both cheeks, a look of concern on his normally amused countenance. “Greg texted me this morning and said he had the flu and was so out of it he didn’t get back to you last night when you said you were going to be late. He’s sad he missed you, begs forgiveness, and plans to call you, blah-blah-blah.” He pouts. “I’m sad because I just knew you two little nerds were perfect for each other.”
“Flu, huh?” He better have been sick as a dog.
“He wants to reschedule.”
“Not after last night. It’s just bad timing. I’m not ready to meet anyone right now.”
His summer-blue eyes rove over my disheveled shirt and skirt. A slow grin takes over his face as he lets Romeo down to follow us and hooks his arm through mine as we walk down the sidewalk. “So you didn’t go out with Greg. Which begs the question: Where have you been all night? Please tell me you weren’t crying somewhere over Preston.”
My lips compress, shoving down that hurt and grabbing onto anger instead. “To quote Aunt Clara: ‘Preston is a turd in a punch bowl.’ But I did see him last night at Milano’s with Giselle. Apparently, that’s the go-to place for Valentine’s Day. I had another date.”
He holds his index finger and thumb up within an inch of each other. “Well, I was this close to calling your mama when you didn’t come home.”
I freeze. “Traitor. I will stab you in your sleep if you even hint—”
“Sweet baby Jesus, I’m joking. She terrifies me.” He grins. “So who was your date with?”
I feel a slow blush building as I pick up Romeo and give his ear a little scratch. He buries his face in my arms, a long shuffling sigh coming from him. “No one important.”
“Did you pick someone up at the bar?”
Pretty much.
I dart a look over at the Cut ’N’ Curl across the street, Mama and Aunt Clara’s beauty shop, the place in Daisy to get your hair done and hear the latest gossip. The parking lot is packed, a typical Saturday. They opened at ten this morning and no doubt saw that my car wasn’t here. I could say I was out for errands if they ask, but Aunt Clara lives right next door and doesn’t miss a beat.
I smack him on the arm playfully and walk inside the house, but inside I’m not as perky as I let on.
He reads me like a book. “Stop that right now, Elena. You do you. So what if you had a fling with some guy you picked up—”
“Who said I had a fling?”
“Your hair is crazy, and your clothes are rumpled, and your lips have a deliciously swollen look to them.”
“What a vivid imagination you have.”
“I know what a good night of sex looks like.” He grins, white teeth flashing on his tanned face. It might be the middle of February, but he’s a sun worshipper and hits the tanning beds in the winter.
I set down my purse on the sofa and plop down in a faded-blue armchair, lace doilies Nana made draping the back. I still haven’t gotten around to updating the furniture in the house, mostly because I don’t have the money for it—and part of me likes the old furnishings because they hold memories.
“Who was it? Was it one of those Tinder guys—”
“No,” I murmur. “Um, Jack Hawke.”
He does a slow blink. “The Jack Hawke? Quarterback for the Tigers? Hot as hell with guns big enough to crush a grown man? That Jack Hawke?”
“Yeah?”
Glee grows on his face as he lights up the room with his smile.
“Stop grinning,” I groan, rubbing at the headache that’s decided to pop back up. I let Romeo down, and he runs in circles before darting off to his small tent set up in the den. I hear him rooting around before he gets comfy. “It was terrible.”
“The sex? Ah, dammit, I’ve had daydreams about that man, the way he—”
“Stop!” I hold my hand up. “I just want to forget it ever happened.”
“Well, then how did it happen?” He takes a seat on the old velour sofa across from me and crosses his legs. “I’m picturing it now—you at the bar looking all sad that Greg didn’t show, and in waltzes this hot jock who takes one look at your dainty black pumps and does a double take.”
If only that had been how it happened, then maybe I wouldn’t feel so bad.
“Not exactly.”
“Stop tormenting me. I want every detail.”
I shake my head. “I walked up and sat down at his table.”
He leans forward. “You picked him up? Oh shiiiiitttt. This is going to be so good. Spill, Elle, spill.”
“You are annoying.”
“Am not.”
“Are.”
“Fine, maybe I’m a teensy bit annoying, but I did take care of Hog—”
“Romeo.”
“Whatever. Just tell me. Please. Ever since Matt and I split, you know I’m living through everyone else’s love life.”
I let out a sigh. He’s over Matt, but I see what he’s doing. He’s worried about me. I guess he has been since Preston and Giselle.
“Fine. I sat down at Jack’s table because I thought he was Greg. He had a blue shirt on, and he was alone and broody, and you know I don’t follow football. Daisy is so small we never even had a football team growing up. Plus, no TV . . .” My hands cover my face for a moment of embarrassment. “It’s ridiculous! You’d think I would have at least recognized his face from . . . somewhere . . . like a bar TV, and he did seem a bit familiar, but I just assumed it was just Greg—that I’d caught him on TV before.”
He laughs. “You fucked the baddest, sexiest jock in Nashville. Do you have any clue how women have chased him his entire life? I hear he even needs security.” He grabs his diary from the coffee table. “I’m writing this down. It’s going in that great American novel I’m going to write—”
“Not a good idea,” I mutter, recalling the NDA. I stand up and pace as he eyes me, frowning.
“Do you plan on seeing him again?”
“One-time thing.”
He looks crestfallen, slumping back against the cushions. “Was it good, at least? Is his lower body proportional to the rest of him?”
My face flames as my entire body clenches, recalling the orgasms I had. Oh boy. He did deliver on that front. The first one in the kitchen with him on his knees; the second time on the floor in the master bedroom, him behind me; the third time, we finally made it to the bed—
I suck in a breath.
“Your face is redder than a stop sign.” Topher chuckles.
“Here’s the kicker: Jack didn’t tell me who he really was, and he left before I woke up.”
He winces, closing his notebook. “Ouch. That is not diary worthy at all. Asshole.”
I exhale, thinking again about how I assumed he was Greg. “He mentioned my blog, and I assumed he meant where I post my designs, but I wonder if he thought I was another blogger . . .” I frown. “Why wouldn’t he just tell me he wasn’t my date? Why keep it a secret?”
He shrugs and waggles his eyebrows. “You wore your naughty things?”
“Unicorn set.”
He lets out a low whistle. “Nice.”
“And he kept the panties.”
“Not nice. We need to get those back.” Topher knows how important my work is, how much I love creating fanciful pieces, things I want to wear. Not those ill-fitting, basic, run-of-the-mill scraps of lace sold in stores. I yearn for unique clothing, something eye catching and sexy yet quirky. Made for full-figured women with moxie.
Topher’s frown turns into a scowl, deepening. His feet shift around as he stands, walking over to me. “Elle, honey, I have other news, and I want to tell you before you find out some other way.”
I groan. “Please tell me it’s nothing to do with Mama or Aunt Clara.” They are constantly popping over. I’ve even taken to locking my sewing room.
He shakes his head, his pretty hair swishing around his shoulders.
“Okay, tell me.”
“I ran over to the Cut ’N’ Curl to get a Sun Drop a few minutes ago. You know they have those from the distributor, when we can’t even buy them at the Piggly Wiggly. Giselle was there . . .” His voice trails off, and my stomach drops.
“She saw me with Jack.”
He watches my face. “She didn’t say a word about you and Jack . . .”
“But?”
He grimaces and takes a big breath, his eyes soft and careful. “She was showing everyone her ring. Flaunting it around, waving it in people’s faces. I’m so sorry.”
A huge chunk of lead lands on my heart, and I wrestle to throw it off, to eviscerate it from my chest and make it go away. I feel winded. “Ring, huh?”
He sits on the arm of the chair. “Preston proposed last night. Had the ring hidden in the cheesecake. So stereotypical. What a snooze fest.”
I clasp my hands together. Part of me knew this was coming. It was apparent in the Sunday lunches where I’ve been forced to sit across from them. Giselle can’t keep her eyes off him. She’s completely enamored with him.
I recall how she waltzed into my Fourth of July party and met him for the first time. She’d been living in Memphis, and somehow the two of them had never crossed paths in the six months I dated him. Tall, leggy, and blonde, she’s three years younger than me—and beautiful with her heart-shaped face and baby-blue eyes.
I recall that sinking feeling when I introduced him to her, the way his eyes flared when he took her hand in an energetic handshake.
I barely notice as Topher dashes to the kitchen and returns with a splash of bourbon in a glass. “I think this calls for the expensive stuff.”
I take a small sip. “Nana’s twenty-year Pappy. So much for never drinking again.”
“She’d want you to have it. Lady was a rebel. Like you.”
I slump down in the chair, feeling incredibly tired and not like a rebel at all.
“I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again. Preston wasn’t right for you. He’s a pomp
ous jerk with a stick up his ass. I mean, what man doesn’t see you and all the sweet things you do for . . . for . . . even an ugly pig!”
Romeo sticks his head out of the tent and glares at Topher, and his eyes clearly say I know what you said about me.
“He’s smart, you know.” When someone dumped him in the parking lot of the beauty shop a year ago, he was near death, wrinkled pale skin that clung to his bones, so weak and thin, barely breathing. I cried the entire way to the vet’s office, begging the heavens to let the little thing live, promising to take care of him forever.
Topher picks up Romeo and gives him a reassuring pet. “Fine, he’s a little bit cute. And even though he has hooves—freaking hooves, okay—I let him get in my thousand-thread-count sheets last night when he was running around looking for you.”
“Did you give him a bath too?”
“Of course. Hog from Hell likes to make a mess, water everywhere. He also chewed up a rubber duck.”
I smile at that, but I’m not feeling it.
“But seriously, Elena, Preston doesn’t see the woman underneath, all this amazing talent you have.”
“Stop.” I smile wanly.
He gives me a tight hug. “Come on; go put on some comfy clothes, and we’ll pile up in my bed upstairs and read. Later, though, I’m taking you out. You should consider a nap, old lady.”
“I’m only six months older than you, and no, please, I do not want to go anywhere. I just want to hermit-crab and stay home.” Plus, I could get some sewing done, especially if I want to really commit and meet with the lingerie company.
He winces. “You can’t. It’s Michael’s birthday. Remember?”
Ugh. I totally forgot. Michael is one of Topher’s friends from Nashville who periodically hangs out with us. He’s straight, but he and Topher go back to high school days.
He gives me a careful look, and I know he’s still gauging my reaction to the engagement, but I paste on a brave face.
I sigh. Maybe I should go out, forget everything, dance myself silly. “I’m never good at nightclub outfits.”
He presses his hand against his chest. “It will be my pleasure to pick out your clothes.”
Not My Romeo Page 6
