He is nothing like me.
Aunt Clara gives me a grin. “What she’s not telling you is she invited him to Sunday lunch. She’s made a chicken casserole and homemade yeast rolls. Heard there might be okra and cheddar mashed potatoes.”
“Ohh, big guns,” I say.
“And we’re using the good china.” Mama beams.
“Monogrammed napkins?” I ask.
She nods.
“And I bet you got fresh flowers for the table,” I add.
She grins.
I curse under my breath.
Aunt Clara holds her hands up. “FYI, I got nothing to do with the preacher. It’s that weatherman I want to hear about. I heard he’s quite a player.” She giggles, and I narrow my eyes. Topher. Those two are thick as thieves.
“Topher told you?” I hiss at her. When did he have time? I bet he texted her. Ugh.
She just grins.
We open the door and walk inside. Mama immediately bypasses several members at the entrance who call out her name, giving them her practiced smile as she drags me toward a man near the front of the auditorium.
Mama nudges me in front of her like a prize goat.
“Patrick, dear, this is my daughter Elena.” She’s got her hand on his arm like a vise as he turns around.
I arch my brow at her. Oh, a first-name basis. I’m not surprised.
Okay. Well. Patrick Rhodes is a nice-looking man, scholarly almost, with thick sandy-colored hair and intelligent eyes behind black-rimmed modern-style frames. He’s not too handsome—like someone I know—and even resembles my ex from college. Mama. I sigh. She knows my type.
“Hi.” His voice is nice and deep, and he’s tall with a lean build that fills out his blue suit very well. He’s younger than I expected, maybe midthirties.
What happened to his wife? I’m sure Mama knows.
Her hand is tight on my arm, as if I might bolt for the door at any moment. She’s holding us both hostage. Maniacal woman.
“Elena is the town librarian. She does the most adorable story hour on Tuesdays and Thursdays with the preschoolers. She loves kids so much. It’s why she became a librarian.”
I groan inwardly. Lie! She’s making me out to be some ready-to-settle-down-and-have-kids woman. I want to someday when I meet the right person. I love my job because there are books, but story hour with the three- and four-year-olds is like herding angry cats. Topher does a better job than I do.
She’s still talking. “You should stop by sometime. They have a new biography section.” Mama flashes a smile at him. “You did mention you love biographies.”
“I did indeed.” His voice is a tad dry, and he raises an eyebrow at Mama.
I bite back a grin. He’s no dummy, and I bet he’s seen plenty of matchmaking mamas since his wife passed. He knows dang well he’s being maneuvered into a wedding about a year from now.
Aunt Clara whispers in my ear as Mama keeps talking to Patrick. “I’d do him. I may have to start coming more regular.”
“Yeah, what would Scotty say about that?” I whisper back. “I’m betting he walked to your house last night and left before dawn. Hussy. When are you going to make a decent man of him?”
She gives me a little pinch on my arm—subtly, so no one notices—and I cough to cover up my laugh.
I dart a look at her face, and she’s glowing. Probably thinking about Scotty putting his mail in her slot . . .
She blushes at my scrutiny. “I like it on the down low—isn’t that what you kids call it? More exciting.”
She elbows me, and I see that Mama is glaring at us, and I figure we’ve missed something.
Oh yeah. The preacher.
Mr. Rhodes meets my eyes; then his gaze drifts down and lands squarely on my shoes. Four-inch heels and delicate. I pranced around in them for several minutes trying to get the feel of them.
His gaze comes back to my face, a slow grin there. “Nice to meet you.”
I nod as he takes my hand and shakes it. “Welcome to Daisy, Mr. Rhodes. I’m glad you’re here.” And I am. The former preacher was seventy and had needed to retire years before.
“Call me Patrick, please. Cynthia talks about you constantly. She says you’re doing the play again this year, Romeo and Juliet? I’m going to check it out myself.”
Talks about me constantly to him? I wince.
She really is worried about me. Underneath all her blustering about how I need to settle down, she must sense I’m at a crossroads; something inside me is stirring to break out. She’s probably terrified I may move back to New York.
“Of course. You should.” I paste on a smile.
There’s a tiny glint of interest there in his gaze.
Well, heck, if the shoes don’t deter him . . .
Nope. Nope. Nope.
I could never be a preacher’s girlfriend or wife.
I like whiskey and vibrators and sexy lingerie—
“Thank you, yes, glad to be here,” says the deep, unmistakable voice behind me, and every muscle inside me stiffens in disbelief (and relief?) as I turn to see Jack. He’s just come in the door and is chatting with the couple designated to be greeters. Mama totally dashed past them, but he hasn’t.
A dark scruff shadows his jawline, as if he didn’t have time to shave, and his hair is slightly damp, as if he’s recently showered.
“What the heck?” I say.
Mama elbows me. “Who is that?”
“J-a-c-k.”
Aunt Clara giggles. “And now she’s spelling words. Somebody get the smelling salts.”
What? No. I shake my head.
“Why, I believe that’s the Tigers quarterback,” Patrick murmurs. “Wow. You really did fill up the pews, Cynthia.”
Mama just shrugs.
Jack slowly turns and looks at me.
He gives me a smile, a flash of white teeth on his tanned face, his eyes crinkling in the corners. He rakes a hand through his dark waves, his gaze sweeping over me before coming back to my face. He gets a hesitant look on his face, seeming to waver, but then takes the steps to reach us.
“Elena.”
He says my name slowly, the tone warm with a hint of bemusement.
I feel a slow blush starting at my toes and growing all the way up to my face.
I can’t even. My ability to even is severely warped.
What . . . is . . . he . . . doing . . . here?
Several seconds pass as we stare at each other, and in my head I’m seeing him last night in the rain . . .
Clara has popped out her lace fan, and she’s swishing it around furiously.
Mama turns beady eyes on me. Waiting for an introduction. I refuse.
My mouth opens and closes more than once, and Jack sees it all.
How flustered I am.
He can probably see my nipples tightening inside my bra.
He’s wearing low-slung jeans, tight and fitted through the legs, leather loafers, and another button-down, this time a navy-and-yellow windowpane design. Those sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, the hair on his muscled forearms sun kissed.
“I’m going to get my seat,” Mama says to no one in particular, but she doesn’t move a hair.
“We should. We don’t want those Palmers getting the back row. Don’t they know that once you claim a row, it’s yours forever?” comes from Aunt Clara.
No one budges.
“I hate it when they do that,” Mama murmurs. “I’ve been here longer than they have. That is my seat. We should make a rule about that.”
Aunt Clara nods. “And your husband, God rest his soul, was the mayor of this town for fifteen years. You’re a pillar of the community. Practically royalty.”
Patrick clears his throat. “Uh, the front row is typically always clear. At least that’s how it was at my last congregation.”
“No one likes the front row. Put some whiskey up there, and they might come,” Aunt Clara says in my ear, but I’m barely noticing, looking at Jack.
He’s
still standing there, eyes on me. He hasn’t stopped looking!
“Let’s go save our row, Cynthia,” Aunt Clara finally says loudly and shoos Mama into the auditorium.
They scurry away, tossing looks back at us.
Now it’s just me, the preacher, and the football player.
Definitely the beginning of a bad joke.
Jack breaks our gaze to shake Patrick’s hand.
“Jack Hawke. Glad to meet you. Nice place.”
They share a much firmer handshake than he and I had.
“Welcome,” Patrick says with a big smile. “I’m a huge fan, actually. Used to play in high school. Wide receiver. What brings you to Daisy? You know Elena?” Patrick arches an eyebrow.
“I do. And a couple of others here in Daisy—” Jack says, then stops when the choir starts in with “Amazing Grace.”
“Oh, sorry, that’s my cue. Have to go.” Patrick nudges his head toward the auditorium. “First day and all. Great to meet you.” He gives me a smile. “You too, Elena. I’ll see you at auditions hopefully?”
“Sure.”
And then he walks away, his rather nice frame disappearing through the doors that lead to where the choir sings. There’ll be a chair up front for him to sit in while the song leader leads the choir.
I frown, turning back to Jack, finding my voice. “What on earth are you doing here?”
He winces, and what I think is a guilty expression crosses his face. “I swear, I didn’t know you’d be here, but this day just got a whole lot more interesting.”
I replay his words in my head. “So you just happened to come to Daisy today—for church?”
“Not exactly.”
“Ms. Riley!” The voice comes from the door as Timmy Caine bounds into the foyer. I smile, glad of the distraction, when he rushes me and wraps his good arm around me, the other one in a cast. The white plaster has names written in bright colors. I see Jack’s and a drawing of a Tiger that looks a whole lot like Jack’s tattoo on his back . . .
With thick wraparound glasses, a tiny frame, and clothes that I think have been worn by someone before him, Timmy is small for his age and one of my favorite students who pop in the library. He’s had a rough time, his dad passing away last year in a drunk-driving accident. He was coming home from the Piggly Wiggly when a car ran a red light and plowed into his driver’s side. He died at the scene. Mama was terribly upset, taking food and visiting with Laura for several days. This little town is gossipy, but when one of our own needs us, people stick together.
Jack ruffles Timmy’s hair. “Hey, little man. I beat you here. Told you I would. My car is fast.”
“Thank you for meeting us for breakfast! And for the new bike,” Timmy says. “Those banana pancakes at the diner were so good. Mama says we’ll have to do it again.”
He took the Caine family to breakfast?
Jack smiles. “Next time, we’ll try the waffles. Sound good?”
“Yeah!” Timmy dashes away and peeks into the sanctuary. “The place is packed. We’ll have to sit on the front row. Mama, remember that time Mrs. Claymont was singing in the choir, and her teeth came flying out?”
I laugh, recalling that story from Mama, then suck in a breath, connecting the dots from the googling I did on Jack Hawke last night. I watched snippets of his press conference online, getting the highlights, but the kid he ran over was never named since he was a minor. I eye the cast on Timmy’s arm and look back at Jack.
Jack has been watching me, and when I look up at him, he reddens. “Elena, I know what you’re thinking. I didn’t mean to hurt him.”
“You don’t know what I’m thinking,” I say softly as Timmy darts around the foyer, grabbing crayons and a program for the service. He keeps looking over at Jack and grinning.
Laura has reached us and stands next to Jack. “You did not have to come to church with us. Breakfast was plenty.” She gazes up at him and smiles, and dang, I forgot how pretty she is with her bobbed golden-brown hair and peaches-and-cream complexion. She’s a few years older than me but was one of those popular pretty girls in high school.
My hackles rise until I stomp them right back down.
I have no right to be jealous of Laura.
Timmy tugs at her hand. “Come on. I don’t want to miss when they introduce the preacher. I heard he’s tall. I want to be tall.” He grins at Jack. “Are you staying?”
Jack looks at me, his face unsure. “Ah, I’m not sure.” He glances down at his jeans. “I’m not really dressed for church.”
Then why did he walk in here?
Timmy glances from me to Jack. “Do you know each other?”
“Yes,” Jack says.
“No,” I say at the same time.
Timmy frowns. “Adults are weird.”
“We are,” Jack agrees, then turns his attention to Laura, who has her hand on his shoulder.
She gives Jack a hug, and I . . . I . . . frown.
She smiles at us and opens the door to the sanctuary. “Seriously, Jack. Don’t feel like you have to stay. We’ll see you later.”
Later?
They wave goodbye and disappear through the door, and Jack turns back to me. There’s a long silence in the foyer as we eye each other.
Why did he walk in the church?
Is he interested in Laura? She’s not one of his jersey chasers, but she’s absolutely pretty. And they’ve obviously spent some time together.
The foyer is empty, and he’s just watching me, hands in his pockets, and I can’t seem to find my words.
He gives me a grin, looking much more relaxed than last night. “You should have seen your face when you saw me. Priceless. I should have taken a pic. I mean, your mouth was open. Flies could have gotten in.” He pauses. “Are you mad I’m here?”
I give myself a mental shake. Am I? I don’t know. “It’s church. Everyone is welcome.”
He smirks, a rather boyish expression on his face. “It feels as if we can’t stop running into each other. Is that fate?”
“It’s something.”
“Hmm. I have your panties, Elena.” He pulls a piece of the fabric out from his front pocket, just a few inches, but the sequins are right there.
My mouth gapes as I dart my eyes around the foyer. Still empty.
“Because you knew I’d be here?” How is that possible?
“No, I didn’t know you’d be here, but I hoped to see you today.”
Oh.
His finger rubs at the fabric, never taking his gaze off me. “Do you want them?”
I lick my lips, my finger twitching with the urge to snatch them away from him.
“Come get them.”
I shiver at the authority in his tone, at the tug I feel when he talks, that husky, dark voice . . .
I curl my hands into little fists.
How dare he bring those panties to church? With Mama right here.
I’m really going to kill the football player this time.
Chapter 14
JACK
“Where are you going?” I call after her as she pivots and sashays down a hallway and to the left, straight for a room with a closed door. I tag along, feeling unsure and nervous as a kid about to ask a girl out on a date for the first time.
Without answering, she opens the door and indicates for me to follow. I try to get a read on her face as I stalk past her. Her little hands are clenched, and there’s a vulnerable bent to her shoulders that I don’t like, and I hope I’m not the reason for it. I don’t want to be. I want to be . . . shit, I don’t know, except that I haven’t been able to get her out of my head. Does she have any idea how much trust it even took for me to have a conversation with her last night outside the club?
The room is slightly darkened, the only light coming in from a small window that overlooks the manicured back lawn of the church.
There’s a huge window that overlooks the sanctuary, and I check it out. I find the women she came in with on the back row—one blonde, the other wit
h auburn hair like Elena’s.
The window is one way, judging by the glass, much like the VIP room. A speaker is in the top corner of the room, and I hear the soft drone of the choir as they sing.
“They can’t see us?” I ask. “Church has its own VIP room. Cool.” I sound like an idiot.
“Yes. It’s for nursing mothers.” She’s turned to face me, her chest rising.
Oh. Okay. I never went to church growing up, and I haven’t stepped in one since one of the players got married a few years ago. I didn’t grow up with religion, not from my mom and not in foster care with Lucy.
“Ah. Nice.”
We stare at each other.
Why can’t I think of anything else to say?
Because you’ve never had to work for it, asshole.
She leans against the door, as if needing a quick escape. “Want to explain why you’re here?” Her tone trembles around the edges, and it only ramps me up, knowing I can affect her.
“I happened to have breakfast with Timmy and Laura this morning. We planned it yesterday after the press conference. They also invited me to church, and I followed them here, not really sure if I’d come in or not. What are the odds you’d be at the same church?”
“There are only two in town, so fifty-fifty.”
“I saw your car in the parking lot. I don’t know what I expected. If I hadn’t seen you in the foyer, I might have sat down and tried to catch you after it was over.”
“I see.” She chews on those lips.
“You drove away from me last night, Elena. After I told you some stuff I don’t tell anyone.” I ease in closer to her, hot awareness zipping down my spine. And I know exactly what that prickle means. I want her. Bad.
She clasps her hands in front of her. “Jack, look, you seem like a nice guy—”
“I’m not.”
She frowns. “You are.”
I start. No one ever says that. “Then you need to read some of those articles about me.”
“I did. Forget that. Those opinions don’t matter. I saw how you looked at Timmy and see how the press is portraying it. I don’t believe everything I read, Jack. Also, Quinn thinks you hung the moon. Plus, you apologized very well last night.”
Not My Romeo Page 11
