Not My Romeo

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  She looks down at the concrete, then back up at me, and for some crazy reason, I feel winded as her blue-green gaze holds mine, my breath held, waiting for her reply. I’ve never said a few of those things to a girl. Never wanted to.

  “That wasn’t bad. Thank you.”

  I’m still holding her hand, and my thumb brushes against her wrist. “Why do I hear a but there, Elena?”

  A long sigh comes from her as she eases her hand out of mine.

  Nerves fly all over me. “Elena . . .”

  She’s taking a step back from me, and shit, I don’t want her to. It feels like she’s just going to disappear at any minute . . .

  “I need to get going. Nice to meet you, Jack. Take care.”

  She pivots and ducks her head out of the protection of my shirt and moves to her car.

  “Elena!”

  She turns and looks at me. “Yeah?”

  I lick my lips, my shirt clenched in my hands, rain falling harder now, the drops hitting me on the face. “You’re the first girl I’ve been with in a year.”

  I don’t know how long we stand there; maybe it’s only a few moments, but I’m cataloging everything she does, committing it to memory. The way her eyes flare, the rise and fall of her chest. Disbelief crosses her delicate face, her gaze searching mine.

  Then she turns back around, opens her car door, and gets in.

  I close my eyes, and a long sigh comes from me. You suck so bad, Jack.

  She backs up and drives away, and I watch her taillights get smaller and smaller.

  I look up at the dark sky, processing, planning.

  I whip my cell out of my pocket and press Lawrence’s number.

  “Yo!” he answers. “Where did you go? I can’t find you in here. Quinn can’t either. This place is packed. Devon said you took off. We should talk—”

  “Did you find out her last name?”

  He pauses, and I can hear the music from the club bleeding in through the phone. “This girl is not your type, Jack.”

  “Who is she?” My hand grips the phone.

  “You should be focusing on your career right now. Let’s have a meeting with your agent this week. Maybe we can get that Adidas endorsement back—”

  “It’s dead. Aiden told me tonight he’s already got a meeting with them. Let it go.”

  He lets out a string of curses. “Sonofabitch. That young buck is riding your coattails so hard—”

  “Don’t care about the money, Lawrence. Tell me about the girl.”

  He sighs. “Elena Michelle Riley from Daisy, age twenty-six, librarian. Father dead, mother alive. One sibling. Never been married or arrested or dated a professional athlete. Moved here from New York and moved in her grandmother’s house.” He pauses. “I’m never doing this shit for you again. I’m supposed to be fixing your image, not checking out your hookups.”

  I detect hesitation in his voice.

  “Yeah? What else?” I want to know fucking everything about her.

  “She lives with a man.”

  Jealousy spikes.

  “His name?”

  “Topher Wainscott. Your girl is taken. Let it go.”

  Topher . . . hmm.

  “Address?”

  He blows out a long breath. “Seriously, Jack? You can’t show up at her house. She never signed that NDA.”

  “I’m not an idiot, Lawrence. Give it to me.”

  He rattles off an address, and I imprint it to my memory.

  “Thanks. Later.” I hang up on him while he’s still lecturing me about not getting involved.

  I’m walking to my Porsche, and just before I open the door, I pause, backpedaling in my head. Shit. I accused her of being a stalker, and here I am . . .

  Fuck it.

  I know how she looked at me tonight in the VIP room, even when we were “arguing.” I know she came three times, and she never has with a man. I know she giggles when I kiss the inside of her knee; I know how she moans when I suck that spot on her neck—

  Yeah. Oh, yeah.

  There’s something there, and whatever it is, it’s something I want again.

  Chapter 13

  ELENA

  Around eleven, I pull up at my house and dash inside from the rain.

  After pouring a small splash of Pappy from Nana’s well-stocked cupboard, I pace around, thinking about Jack. I picture him in the rain telling me who he was, and I can see there’s more to him than just a bad-boy football player, and it’s a little dangerous and a whole lot of sexy.

  A shaky breath comes from me.

  Forget him.

  Even if it was the first time for him in a year. Right?

  But why has he waited so long?

  Was it the pain of his breakup with his ex and then the book she wrote? Maybe.

  And he’s . . . shy?

  I can’t imagine it, because he knew exactly how to charm me at the penthouse.

  Then again, for a man like him, maybe he wasn’t referring to sex, per se, but to himself in general. Maybe sex is a whole new category for him, a way he lets himself go—

  And now I’m horny.

  Ugh.

  Inevitably I end up in my sewing room with its high ceilings and heavy antique chandelier. This used to be Nana’s room, where she’d make me and Giselle matching dresses. Her sewing machine still sits in the corner, an ancient black Singer made of heavy cast iron. My space is directly in front of the bay window, a drafting table where I sketch my designs, a professional serger, and two sewing machines. Mannequins and dress forms dot the room, each one covered with one of my lingerie. Silk, lace, sequins, thread, ribbons, and scraps of fabric are arranged in neat order on shelves that Topher helped me put together.

  A piece of paper, an email I printed out on Friday, sits on my drafting table, and I pick it up and read it again.

  Dear Elena,

  Thank you for your interest in our company and the sample sketches.

  We currently have an intern position available in the design department. This position is for a year with the possibility for full-time employment with benefits. I realize this isn’t quite what you had in mind, but we’d love to talk to you about applying. Please give me a call and we’ll set up a meeting. I’d love to see your designs in person.

  Marcus Brown

  CEO of Little Rose Lingerie

  Disappointment hits me as I take a sip of the whiskey, the burn smooth and gratifying. I emailed Marcus a few sketches a few weeks ago along with the link to my blog. I don’t know what I expected . . . maybe that they’d embrace me and offer me a real position.

  Things don’t work that way, Elena.

  I don’t have any experience in fashion—just an eye. My degree is in English.

  I rub the letter. This could be a big step, but spending most of my time running errands and getting lattes for the real staff isn’t what I had in mind.

  Then there’s Mama. She’d have a heart attack if I quit my job, the one she called a few influential friends in Daisy to get for me. Plus, she’d be mortified if she knew I was drawn to lingerie. The gossip would kill her.

  I toss the letter aside and plop down in the dark-green velvet Queen Anne chaise longue in the corner and glare up at the chandelier.

  I laugh out loud at the ludicrousness of me quitting my job.

  Nana would have told me to go for it. She always encouraged my ideas, pushing me to get out of Daisy and see the world. When Mama pouted because I wasn’t moving back to Daisy after graduation from NYU, Nana threw a big party for me in this very house to celebrate my first job at a publishing house. Nana loved it when I took a trip to Europe alone. She always looked at me like she got the wild spirit inside me.

  I push those memories away and set my glass down on the side table and pull out the scrawled note Jack left me in the penthouse, tracing my finger over the sloping stroke of his handwriting.

  I left him there in the rain.

  A little smile curves my lips. I walked away from the hottest man
I’ve ever seen.

  I wonder what he’ll do about it.

  Because if men like Jack want something, according to their highly competitive nature, they’ll make it their goal to get it. That came straight from Devon.

  We’ll see . . .

  My phone wakes me up, and I curse.

  Romeo, who’s been snuggling with me, digs his face further into my arm, making an unhappy sound as I reach over and grab my cell off the nightstand.

  “Wakey, wakey!”

  I groan at her chipper tone. “Mama. It’s eight in the morning.”

  “And it’s Sunday. You promised me two weeks ago you’d come to church today!”

  “Stop yelling,” I say and straighten up in the bed. “Did I really tell you that?” I scrunch up my nose, vaguely recalling her badgering when I was getting my ends trimmed last week at the Cut ’N’ Curl.

  “Young lady, do you have a hangover? Drinking isn’t good for the soul.”

  Then why did Nana leave me a cupboard of expensive whiskey?

  “Jesus drank wine, Mama, but I just got in late. What’s the big deal about church today?”

  “Don’t you worry about that, darlin’. But you did promise.”

  “Mama, I need to work around the house.” I want to sketch and clean up some. It’s been a busy weekend, and I’ve barely had time to think.

  “God does not listen to excuses.”

  He also doesn’t dance for hours, then face off with a quarterback either.

  I sigh.

  “Wear something pretty—one of your little blazers with a skirt.”

  My tone lowers. “Mama, what did you do?”

  “Nothing at all. Aunt Clara and I will meet you outside at nine, and we’ll walk in together.”

  “The Daisy Lady Gang?”

  “I don’t even know what that means. You and Clara made that name up. Wear your contacts. Wouldn’t hurt if you put on some makeup . . .”

  I smell fix-up. I should go full-on hooker to church.

  “Also, you never told me how the weatherman worked out—”

  “It didn’t.”

  There’s a small silence, and I can picture her in her stately brick house on the other side of town, just a few blocks away. Those wheels in her head are turning, wondering why I’m not offering more info. She’s probably tapping her heels, drinking her coffee, already dressed and ready for church. Heck, she’s probably cleaned her whole house already since waking up.

  “Well, I never liked him. He always says we’re gonna get snow, and we never do. You can do better.”

  “Right.”

  “Did you hear that the high school got a new basketball coach this semester? Brett Sinclair. Nice boy. You went to school with him. He married some city girl from Los Angeles—a singer—and you know how wild they are. No one is surprised. No kids either. If the preacher doesn’t work out—”

  I fumble out of bed, kicking the covers off me as I stand up. “Preacher! Mama, no. Hell no.”

  “Elena Michelle, I am still your mother. And you promised you’d come. It’s his first Sunday, and you know all I’m doing is trying to fill the pews and make him feel welcome. It’s what I do. I support the church.”

  She is involved. Runs a Wednesday-evening ladies’ Bible class. Takes food daily to the elderly or sick who can’t get out. Checks in with the women’s shelter in town.

  But that’s not all she’s doing.

  Dammit.

  “What did you say?” she asks.

  I must have cursed aloud. “Nothing. Just stubbed my toe.”

  She exhales. “Look, I know Topher already told you about Preston and Giselle. They won’t be there. They went to Mississippi to tell Preston’s family. I’m sorry, love. You’ll find someone—”

  “Jeez, I don’t need a man to be happy!”

  “Uh-huh. I’ll see you at nine. Get dressed. Bye.”

  “Mama—”

  And she hangs up on me.

  Shit.

  One hour.

  I look down at Romeo, and he kinda grins back at me. “Traitor,” I murmur and scratch his nose. He loves Mama.

  My leather pants on the floor catch my eyes, and I snort. I didn’t have to cut them off, but I came close last night after spending an hour googling Jack Hawke, then downloading that horrible book about him. I only got through the first chapter before I tossed it across the room. According to Sophia Blaine, she met him at a postgame party and immediately fell head over heels in love—only she didn’t realize he was a drunk and abusive. I’m sure those specific details are outlined in the coming chapters, but I don’t think I have the heart to read them. I hate that my place of former employment actually published her book.

  I pick the pants up and look over at Romeo. “Mama’s lucky these are absolutely shitty, or I’d put them right back on.”

  Romeo sticks his head under the covers.

  Exactly.

  I walk down the sidewalk toward the arched wooden double doors of the First Cumberland Church, a nondenominational congregation that sits right next to the library on West Street. It’s the biggest church in Daisy, boasting over 300 members—350 on Easter and Christmas. It’s an old structure, built from bricks that used to be red but were recently painted a startling white. Lots of opinions about that at the beauty shop.

  Taking a deep breath, I straighten my outfit, a white shirt with tiny pink butterfly buttons I sewed on myself. On my hips is a vintage black velvet pencil skirt, something I found in the attic. Nana’s. Lucky for me, she and I share the same curves. Still, the skirt is snug. Might need to go easy on the carbs for a while.

  Serves Mama right that I left the blazer behind. She better watch out. I’m feeling rebellious.

  “She’s lucky I even came,” I mutter to no one.

  Mama is getting out of her Lincoln and calls my name, waving me over. Tall and thin, she’s stately with her coiffed blonde hair, elegant blue suit-dress, and midheel black pumps. Classy. She and Giselle are replicas—beautiful, cool, and reserved.

  Her sharp blue eyes run over my outfit, lips tightening at my shoes. She sighs. “Pink shoes? Really? That’s not like you.”

  But they are; she just doesn’t see it.

  Good thing Topher and I are both a size eight. He was snoring loudly when I tiptoed in his closet and picked out the brightest, sluttiest pair I could find.

  “Cynthia, leave the poor girl alone.”

  I smile when Aunt Clara bounds up next to me, wearing a bohemian-style dress with purple flowers and lace. I grin. She looks a little mussed, her little feathered matching hat not quite on straight. She and Mama are ten years apart in age and are as opposite as night and day. Most days, Aunt Clara feels like my older sister.

  “I love your shoes. You should wear them every day. I bet Mr. Rhodes is going to flip,” Aunt Clara says, crooking her arm through mine. “He’s going to be up there preaching, get a peek at those, and lose his place in the scripture. Saint Peter, save me from this woman!” She does a Hail Mary.

  Mama slaps her on the arm. “Stop that. We aren’t even Catholic.”

  “Mr. Rhodes is the preacher, I assume,” I say as we walk.

  “Yes!” Aunt Clara says. “You’ve missed all the good gossip at the Cut ’N’ Curl this week. Goodness, did you hear about that Tigers football player and little Timmy Caine—”

  “Never mind that,” Mama says as she slides in on the other side of me and pats my hand. “Let’s make a game plan for the preacher.”

  Aunt Clara does a fist pump in the air. “The Daisy Lady Gang strikes again. We own this town. Nobody compares to our casseroles—or your mama’s matchmaking.”

  “The plan is . . . there is no plan,” I say curtly.

  Mama continues, as if I didn’t speak. “His wife died three years ago, bless her heart, and you know he’s lonely.”

  I picture an old man with gray hair and a Bible.

  Lord.

  Help me.

  I let out a sigh. “You both need
to be committed to the nuthouse. If I’d known this was your plan, I never would have promised.”

  Mama shrugs. “I just think you need to start dating; that way it will be easier when Preston and Giselle, you know . . .” She sends me a careful look.

  “When they get married,” I say flatly.

  Aunt Clara makes a gagging motion.

  Mama scowls at her. “Stop it, Clara. This is serious. Elena is the oldest, and she should be the one getting married. She’s going to be an old maid—”

  I send a beseeching look up at the sky. Lord, I’m serious. I know I haven’t been the best girl, especially this weekend, but please help me deal with my pushy mother.

  “Stop wavering, and come on, Elena,” Mama says, tugging on my arm.

  I glare at her. She’s done worse. My senior year in high school, when my boyfriend suddenly dumped me a week before the prom, she called a girlfriend in Nashville and convinced her to send her college son down to take me. He did. He showed up in a limo with a rented tux to match my dress, plus a beautiful corsage. We went to prom and barely spoke to each other. My friends were so infatuated with him they spent most of the time talking to him and not me.

  Mama is a well-oiled machine with secret ways. Scary.

  “Mama. This is the twenty-first century. I don’t ever have to get married. I can live with Topher until the day I die,” I say, lowering my voice as several parishioners walk past us, murmuring “Good morning” as they take us in.

  Mama eyeballs them, too, her spine straightening. “Let’s not discuss Topher.”

  I know she has an issue with him, although it’s not that he’s gay—which is surprising. But he is a man, and he does live with me, and that causes talk in town. When she first questioned me about Topher living with me, I got ruffled and put my foot down hard. Nana left me that house, and it is mine. I may let her push me around some, but when it comes to the people I love . . . nope.

  The steeple bell rings, and I drag my feet, debating running back to my car.

  Mama knows. “Look, you’re already here; just shake his hand at the door, and that’s all I ask. You do work at the library—right next door. You’re going to meet him eventually. Plus, you never know when you’ll need a preacher. They can be handy. He’s quite forward thinking, too, painting the church white and asking for new hymnals. He’s like you. Modern.”