“I swear, Quinn, if you don’t stop calling me that, I’m going to fire you,” Jack murmurs as he scrubs his face and walks over to click on the TV. ESPN pops up, the volume low. “I’m kidding, but come on; we’re almost family.”
I cock my head, detecting a wistful tone in Jack’s voice.
Quinn straightens. “Right.”
Jack grabs a bottle of Gatorade Quinn set down on the coffee table earlier and kills it, his long tanned throat sucking it down.
I look away.
Just as my stomach rumbles.
Jack pauses. “You hungry, Elena? I guess that massage went right through lunch.”
“No, I’m fine.” I skipped breakfast this morning, though.
Another growl.
“Liar,” Jack says as he walks over to me. He’s not quite back to his usual athletic grace and prowess, a slight hitch in his broad chest as he focuses on keeping his left arm down and loose at his side.
“I can order pizza?” Quinn offers.
Pizza? After I missed Sunday chicken? Regardless of the setup with the preacher, that is my favorite meal. I imagine Mama’s got leftovers in some Tupperware right now.
Jack reaches me where I’m still idling near the front door. I should get out of here. Casserole is calling.
“What do you want? We can call anywhere and get it delivered? Milano’s?”
I look at a point over his shoulder.
“Not your favorite?”
“Just . . . can you put a shirt on?”
Quinn chuckles, and I think I see a pleased expression on his face as he watches us.
Jack grins. “Nah, I like walking around like this. It makes you flustered, and I don’t think that happens often.”
Who is he kidding? Everything about him makes me wired.
Without looking at Quinn, he says, “Call up Milano’s. Salads, pasta with bolognese, and extra bread? Unless you want something different?”
“Extra?”
“You ate a lot of bread on Friday. I want to be prepared.”
“Hmm, I did.” I twirl a piece of my hair, then stop, frowning. When did I become a hair twirler?
“It’s the least I can do after you driving me here.”
But it wasn’t a hardship at all, especially with all that hotness right next to me. He actually fell asleep—I don’t know how—and I spent most of that time darting looks at him, wondering why he’d gone to the trouble of trying to see me again.
For sex, Elena. The man wants to bone you.
I nod. “Food is good.”
“Milano’s is the best. Good call on buying that place, sir, but count me out,” Quinn says. “It’s my day off, and if you’re good, I’m heading out.”
He glances at Quinn. “Hot date?”
Quinn looks from me to Jack. “Ah, yeah.”
I squint at him. Quinn’s lying. There’s no date. I feel the untruthfulness like I do when Aunt Clara tells me Scotty isn’t slipping in her back door at night.
“Who? I didn’t know you were seeing anyone. Lucy never mentioned it,” Jack asks, interest on his face.
Quinn has a deer-in-the-headlights look on his face, much like the morning I forced him to eat my omelet while I tried to pry personal info about Jack out of him.
“Uh . . . well, I . . . yeah.” Quinn stares at the floor. “Let me call in that order to Milano’s.”
“No need. I can do it. Didn’t mean to pry about your date. Your business and all,” Jack murmurs, a look of disappointment flashing over his face before he locks it down.
I frown. It’s almost as if Jack wants Quinn to confide in him. Lucy?
“Are you two cousins?” I ask. They look nothing alike.
“No,” Quinn says when it becomes apparent Jack isn’t going to. He throws a look at Jack, as if looking for help, his face unsure. “She . . . um . . .”
“She was our foster mom,” Jack adds quietly. “I lived with her after my mom died. Quinn came to her after I was already in college.”
Foster care. I file that away, wondering what happened to put him there.
“I see. She must be a special lady.”
Jack nods.
Quinn clears his throat. “She’s amazing. Jack even moved her here from Ohio after he was drafted. He bought her a huge-ass house out in Brentwood, and when I got in trouble with the law, Jack gave me this job—”
“I’m sure Elena doesn’t want to hear all that.”
Oh, but I do! I’m fascinated, trying to work out the dynamics here.
But the truth is I don’t think Jack wants me to know too much about him.
“Elena’s cool—” Quinn says before Jack cuts him off.
“Quinn, don’t you have a date?”
“Yeah, right. I’ll go.” Quinn grabs his phone and heads to the foyer, brushing past me. He leans in, keeping his voice low. “Keep him company for a while, Elena?”
His face is earnest.
“Why?” He’s Jack freaking Hawke. Why does he need me?
He throws a look back at Jack, who’s walked back to the den. “Look, he’s a stand-up guy. Misunderstood a little. Plus, I overheard how you showed Gideon the door. Ballbuster.” He pauses, his expression hardening. “You won’t . . . hurt him, right?”
Hurt him? What on earth? “Of course not.”
“I knew it.” He grins, his face lighting up. “He likes you, you know. Asked me twenty questions after you left the penthouse. Wanted to know everything you said. He saw your note in the bathroom. He laughed for a good five minutes. Said you were a firecracker.”
And then he’s out the door.
When I head back to the den, Jack’s already on the phone ordering our food, giving instructions for the driver. I roam over the den, my shoes already kicked off, taking in the modern furnishings, black leather sofas, sleek armchairs, heavy glass sculptures that adorn end tables—things I barely noticed the night I was here. No photos or thriller books on the bookshelf. Not one single cheesy mug or magnet in the kitchen, either, or I would have remembered it because I cataloged everything when I cooked. All I found were the basics of a nice kitchen: stainless steel pots and pans, expensive white china.
Nothing meaningful.
Cold and sterile.
I stand at the huge floor-to-ceiling glass windows that overlook downtown Nashville. Beautiful view. And close to the stadium—only a block away. Convenient.
From the reflection in the glass, I watch as Jack approaches me, still bare chested.
“Food will be here soon.” His voice is quiet, as if he senses my unease now that we’re alone.
“Why did we come to the penthouse instead of where you live?” I turn around to face him, and his face is unsmiling, a little frown there.
“Why would I?”
“Because you’d be more comfortable there? This isn’t a home. There are no pictures of you or trophies. And don’t you live with Devon? I’m sure he would have helped you get situated instead of calling Quinn.”
“Right.”
“You don’t trust me?” I cock my head, not angry but just curious. I understand now his need for privacy based on what I’ve read, but to think of living like this, being so defensive with every single person you meet—it must be exhausting.
He eases down on the couch and pats the seat next to him. “Come on; sit down.”
I sit, keeping about three feet between us, keeping my hands clasped in my lap. “Tell me about that scar on your shoulder.”
He frowns.
Yeah, I saw that bundle of raised skin, about the size of a nickel, when he stripped for the trainer. Somehow I’d missed it before.
“It looks like a bullet wound.” I smirk at his surprised glance. “Besides being the mayor of Daisy, my daddy was a doctor. He loved to entertain me with medical photos. I’ve seen it all. Knife wounds, gunshots, broken legs, even a shattered wrist once—that was weird.” I grimace. “He expected me to go to med school, but I didn’t.”
“You’re smart enou
gh.”
“Maybe.”
“Hmm.” He gives me a bemused look. “Maybe you should get a closer look at my scar, Dr. Riley.” He scoots over closer, his leg pressed against mine. The heat from his skin emanates like a furnace.
I touch his shoulder, tracing my finger lightly over the raised skin. “It’s not your throwing shoulder, because you’re right handed, which is good.”
“Yes.” He’s watching me carefully, eyes searching my face. “But how do you know it’s a bullet wound?”
“Well, first off, I’m southern, duh, and everyone in Daisy deer hunts or owns a firearm. I personally don’t like guns, but I’ve been around them all my life. Even had a date once in a deer stand. Worst time ever. It was early and cold and high up in a tree, and all I wanted to do was go home. I’m guessing a handgun at close range. It looks like it might have hit your brachial plexus, that bundle of nerves that controls arm function. Have you had surgery on it? While people think gunshots to the shoulder aren’t life threatening, they can damage blood vessels and cause severe pain—especially if there are fragments still floating around in your muscles; am I right?”
“Hmm.”
“And I bet you were younger when it happened, based on how it’s faded.”
“Elena . . .” He frowns.
He’s retreating. Not telling me everything.
I drop my hand from his warm skin, swallowing. I shouldn’t be touching him, even to check out his injury . . . but . . .
“I get it. You’re private.”
He lets out a deep exhale. “It’s not that pretty of a story.”
“Scars usually aren’t.”
“I don’t like to talk about it.”
“Because you think I’m going to run to the National Enquirer and tell them?”
He just shakes his head and grabs the remote, clicking on a show with Asian characters, and settles back deep into the couch, propping his feet up on the glass coffee table. “Okay, fine, it was a bullet. I got shot when I was a kid.”
“Oh.”
A flush darkens his face, and I see the vulnerability that cloaks him, even as he tries to shutter his face.
And normally, I’d let it go, but I can’t. I want to know more about Jack, more than just the legendary quarterback.
“Were you in some kind of gang? Did you defend some girl’s honor in high school?”
He stares blankly at the TV. “Why is it so important?”
“Because it tells me who you are.”
His sharp gaze turns to me. “You first. Who’s Topher?”
“Devon didn’t tell you?”
He shakes his head.
“He’s my gay roommate.”
“The one who fixed you up with Greg Zimmerman, famous weatherman. He’s tall and dark haired, by the way. I’m much better looking.”
I arch a brow.
“I looked Greg up. I just wanted to know who my competition was. Are you going to go out with him? A redo?”
“Are you jealous?”
“I figure that’s your type.”
I stare down at my clasped hands.
There are several moments of silence between us, and I feel him watching me intently, dissecting me, making a decision as a long sigh comes from him. “Elena . . . the man my mom lived with shot me.”
My heart drops as my gaze clings to his. “Jack, that’s terrible.”
He nods, his eyes seeming to drift back to a memory. “He was a piece of shit. He hit her. Slapped me around. Even came close to drowning me once in the lake behind our house. Claimed he was teaching me to swim, but the asshole held me underwater. It’s why I still can’t even swim.”
Horror washes over me. “Jack—”
“No, let me finish. She loved me, but she loved him more, you know? Even though he drank and had a vile temper. She couldn’t quit him. One day I came home from school, and she had a busted nose, and I snapped. He had me against the wall, and I thought it was over. My mom pulled a gun on him . . . he took it away from her.”
Dread fills me.
He takes an uneven breath. “He killed her, then shot me.”
My hand takes his, threading our fingers together.
He looks down in surprise, then back at me. “You didn’t know any of this?”
I shake my head, my heart heavy. “No.”
He sighs. “It’s in Sophia’s book, although she embellished quite a bit.”
“I did download it, but I haven’t gotten far. It’s crap.”
His thumb caresses the upper part of my hand. “I—I got the gun away from him and killed him. I was fourteen. The police had been to our house enough to know that it was self-defense, but that’s how I got my scar. And according to Sophia, that’s why I’m a drunk and an abuser—just like him. I used to party hard . . .” His voice trails off. “I was just full of fire then and had all this money. I don’t even know who that kid was. Like Aiden, maybe. Rash and invincible and arrogant as hell.”
I smile. “You’re still arrogant.”
He laughs, and the tension from his story eases from the air.
“Thank you for telling me.”
He gives me a long look. “Hmm, you’re easy to talk to.”
I glance at the TV, nerves flying. “Didn’t know you liked K-dramas.”
“Yeah, I’ve been waiting for this stupid guy to kiss this chick for about ten episodes, and if something doesn’t happen soon, I’m writing an email to the producers.”
“It’s subtitled, and it’s a romance? Wow.”
He takes in my open mouth. “I won’t judge you for eating a pound of bread when we met, and you don’t judge me for my K-dramas.”
“Not judging. Who is who, and what is going on?”
He points at the TV. “It’s called Once I Saw You. That guy is Lee, and he’s a badass who loves to fight and argue with everyone. He’s totally misunderstood. She’s Dan-i. They met when he spilled a soda down her dress; then she slapped him in the face, and now he can’t stop chasing her around campus.”
“It’s a college romance?” I can’t keep the incredulity out of my voice.
“It’s good! The feelings are intense. I’m invested.”
“So he’s in love with her, and she’s not into him?” I watch as Lee and Dan-i argue about her going on a date with someone else. “Is he used to getting what he wants all the time?”
Jack’s eyes are locked on the TV. “He’s, like, all in with her, but I can’t tell how she feels. I mean, he saved her from a blizzard once, but she kind of had a crush on one of his friends at the time. He’s doing his best to show her he’s a good guy, but he’s got emotional issues, and it comes out wonky when he talks to her. He’s never been in love and doesn’t know how to talk to her.”
“Complicated . . .” I bite back a grin.
“I know you’re over there laughing at me, but I can’t look at you, because I have to read the subtitles.”
“You are so weird.”
“You have no idea.” He laughs. “But the dynamic of their relationship sucks you right in.”
“Oh my God. You’re a closet romantic!”
“Am not.” He’s grinning at me now, a gleam in his eye. “I’m a big tough football player.”
“So? You’re watching a budding romance between two college kids like it’s crack!”
“It is crack! They haven’t even kissed yet, and it’s killing me! What’s wrong with them? Why doesn’t he just grab her and lay one on her?”
“Because then there wouldn’t be a show!”
“True that.” He throws back his head and laughs, then straightens, his gaze on my lips. “Elena. Speaking of kisses . . .” His hand tugs on me until I’m closer to his face, his skin like fire when I place my palm on his chest. To stop him or—
“Jack. We shouldn’t get frisky.”
“Frisky, you say?” He laughs. “And I disagree,” he murmurs. “FYI, you have a hickey on your neck from church.”
My eyes flare, and I pr
ess my skin where he kissed me. “Jack Hawke, you jerk. That’s why Gideon kept looking at me. Now I’ll have to cover it up.” I sigh, no heat in my voice. I enjoyed it just as much as he did.
“Maybe you need another one on the other side. A matching set.” His hand slides around my nape, massaging the skin there, drifting down to my shirt. He toys with the buttons. “I want to undo these real slow.”
“Too bad you’re injured,” I murmur.
“Hmm.” He tilts my head up to his. My heart jumps at the desire in his irises, the dilated pupils. “I’m dying to kiss you again. You gonna let me?”
I love that he asks me first. Waiting for me to accept. Underneath that tough exterior is a man who doesn’t hurt women.
“Elena?”
From the moment I saw him in church, no matter my declarations that he’s dangerous to my heart, my gut knew I wanted to be in his arms again.
“Kiss me.”
He does, almost hesitantly, as if giving me a chance to move. But I can’t. I sigh in his mouth, nipping at his lips with my teeth.
He increases the pressure, his lips slanting over mine harder, insistent. Time stands still as we kiss. His chest is silky under my fingers, soft from the oils. Moving up, I touch his face, scraping my nails against that scruff on his jaw, and he opens his mouth wider, devouring me, arching closer. He smells delicious, all male and primal. His tongue battles with mine, sucking, then letting it go, exploring me, flicking against mine. They go on for a while, these deep kisses, rocking me, making my skin flame as I brush against his chest.
I feel weightless and heavy at the same time, my legs scissoring, wanting . . .
His chest rises as he pulls back and presses his forehead against mine. “I can’t move much . . . my shoulder . . . will you . . .”
I’ve gone and lost my mind, because he doesn’t have to tell me what he wants. I move and straddle him as he pushes my skirt to my upper thighs, caressing my bare thighs.
“What is this?” He’s looking at my soft beige thong, the brown fringe at the top.
I press a kiss to his neck. “Barbarian Princess set made with chamois, a soft leather imported from Spain.”
“You made them?”
I nod, feeling shy as I plant my face deeper in his neck, my hands toying with the hair there, twining my fingers through it.
Not My Romeo Page 13
