Not My Romeo

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  “I’d never hurt you intentionally.”

  “I know. And now I screwed us all up.”

  I don’t want us to be screwed up. I want us to be . . .

  He flashes a brief sad smile, sighing as he looks away. “I gave you my heart tonight in front of everyone. It felt fucking amazing.”

  My stomach flutters.

  “I’m also sorry that Lawrence came to see you and pissed you off.” Regret lingers in the tones of his voice. “I did so much wrong, and it’s my own damn fault for being . . . broken since the moment we met.”

  I sigh. “He’s banned from the Daisy Public Library. Might put his face on a wanted poster.”

  “In his defense, he really does put me first.”

  I nod, circling back to something he said before. “You’re not broken, Jack. Everyone has baggage they bring to a relationship, but you have to take a leap of faith.”

  He reaches in his front pants pocket and pulls out something and places something small and cold in my hand.

  “What is this?” I hold it up in the light of the moon, taking in the metal object.

  “My leap of faith. Key to my apartment. I had it made for you after I left Sophia, after she said I couldn’t trust you. I was just waiting for the right time to give it to you, to get my nerve up . . .” His voice softens. “I meant it as a symbol that I wanted more with you, but then I’d get nervous and not bring it up. I felt so unsure. I’ve never loved anyone. I’m stupid.” He sighs.

  There’s a long silence as we stare at each other.

  “What are you thinking?” he asks.

  I lick my lips. “I think I’m having a revelation.”

  “Yeah?” I see hope on his face.

  He does love me. Oh, he told me onstage in front of everyone, but it wasn’t until this moment that I let the feeling sink in. Let myself believe it. A man like him, who doesn’t trust, was on the cusp of giving me a key, which to some may seem rather meaningless, but to him, it’s the equivalent of a declaration.

  He sighs, reaching out to trace the curve of my face. “Will you forgive me, Elena?”

  I gaze at him, at the intensity of him, at the man who’s been hurt so many times by people. And he’s never loved a girl.

  “Forgive me for pushing you away. Forgive me for not going to Sunday lunches. Forgive me for being broken.”

  Tears prick my eyes. “My nana used to say that broken people love the hardest because they appreciate the things that make their heart beat. Do I make your heart beat?”

  He nods, his lashes fluttering as he comes closer, then pauses, looking uncertain. “God, Elena. I’m afraid you’re going to push me away. I know I’m not perfect, that I need to work on this, but I can’t let go of you. I spent two wretched nights without you. I never want to be this . . . sick again. I love you, Elena. So much. I don’t even know how to describe it.”

  My breath hitches.

  He says, “I want to wake up next to you every day and see what life throws at us. Will you try?”

  Will I try? I’d walk over hot coals for him.

  The elation that’s been growing in my chest widens. My heart soars. “I love you, Jack. You’re worth everything.”

  A smile grows, a bemused and awed expression on his face. “Thank God.” He leans in and kisses me softly, his tongue sweeping against mine. “I’m not perfect,” he breathes into my neck a few minutes later. “I can’t win a Super Bowl to save my life, I get flustered around new people, I watch too many K-dramas, and your pig hates me. I don’t have much to offer.”

  I laugh, feeling giddy. “Romeo does not hate you. Dislike, maybe. And I kind of like your Porsche.”

  He presses a soft kiss to my neck. “It’s yours.”

  “I was joking!” I laugh as he stares deep into my eyes.

  He holds my face steady with his fingertips. “I’ve never had this, Elena. I’ve never been with someone I couldn’t live without. I talked about fate before, and the more I dwell on it, it just makes sense that maybe there is a reason for everything.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That sometimes, fate gives you a bad game, but in the end destiny straightens it out. And you win. You and I are going to win.” He gazes down at me, and I suck in a sharp breath, seeing a man who loves me with all he is.

  He brushes his thumb over my bottom lip. “Even if that fate is nonsense, I would have found you. Somehow. Maybe at a bookstore. Maybe when I had a flat tire in Daisy in front of your house when I came to visit Timmy—I don’t know. We were always meant to be. There are too many things that brought us together. If destiny brought us together, that means she’ll fight to keep us together.”

  He leans in and kisses me, hard and swift, and we get lost, me in the feel of him under my hands, him with his hand tangled in my hair.

  He stands, sweeping me up into his arms, shouldering his way back up the steps.

  I smile up at him. “Where are we going?”

  He pauses at the back door. “I was just going to take you to bed, but now that I think about it, we could just go get married right now. I’m sure Patrick will do it. Laura mentioned being a notary once. We can get some witnesses.”

  I nearly jump out of his arms. I wiggle down. “Are you joking?”

  He nods, a vulnerable look on his face. “Kind of. I don’t know. It does seem fast. And insane. Definitely insane. But I’ve never felt like this. Okay, it’s too fast. Right. I’m losing it . . . but what if you leave? What if you wake up tomorrow and decide I’m too much work?”

  There he is. My beautiful man who just had a jolt full of love and trust and faith shot at him like a cannonball, and he’s not quite sure . . .

  “I think you’re just caught up in the moment, Jack.” I smile. “I kind of like it.”

  I manage to open the back door, and he follows me, a focused look on his face.

  “You can wear your Juliet dress, and I can wear this.” His tone is serious, all kidding gone, and I shake my head at him, my mouth opening, but nothing comes out.

  We stare at each other.

  I find my voice. “Mama will murder us; plus you have to apply for a license.”

  “So that’s a no?” His face is extraordinarily intent, wolflike.

  “It’s a ‘Can we have some great sex first and get on this later?’ Mama will want to plan everything.”

  He grows still, amber eyes lit with a strange light. I think it’s love. He blinks. “I just asked you to marry me, and you said yes—is that right?”

  I gawk up at him. A laugh comes from me. “Y-e-s. Sometime soon.”

  He looks like a two-by-four just hit him. A little scared. But happy. A slow nod comes from him. “Deal. We’ll figure it out later. Bedroom now. I want to be inside you.” He leads us to my room.

  I feel wired, taut, and tense, needing this, needing him. “Socks off,” I murmur.

  He whips them off and tosses them behind his shoulder.

  I bite my lip as he unzips his black jeans and shoves them down. His shirt is next.

  “You gonna leave me here naked?” Hot eyes drift over me.

  He helps me take off my sweatshirt, groaning as he palms my breasts. Sighing, I push at my leggings until they’re gone, and I’m standing in front of him in white lace panties.

  “So pretty. So damn pretty.” His hand skates from my clavicle down the cleft of my breasts to the apex between my legs. There’s this look on his face. Awe. Reverence. Love.

  He slides the lace down and drops it on the floor. “I love that you are always so open with me; did you know that? I love your eyes and your hair and the way you make me laugh. I fucking can’t stop looking at you. Body made for me. And I’m going to take it real slow.”

  I’m already panting at the heavy-lidded look he wears. “Not too slow.”

  “Fast and hard?”

  “Yeah, then the slow part.”

  “I’m thinking slow first.”

  I moan as he falls to his knees and nudges my legs
apart, his lips dancing lightly over the smooth skin of my stomach. He licks the center of me, groaning.

  Writhing, I wiggle closer to him, and he laughs against me, those eyes looking up at me. “Won’t ever get tired of this. Never in a million years.”

  A lone finger glides inside me, slow and easy, his tongue on my clit, circling.

  My hands land in his hair.

  “Just like that first night, Elena. When I took one look at you and knew I had to see you again . . .” Another finger joins the first, rubbing against my wetness until I’m gasping, my hands clenching his hair.

  I topple over the edge fast and viciously, making me cry out his name as the shock waves ripple over me, my body clenching around his fingers.

  He presses a kiss to my inner thigh and hovers over me.

  “Mine,” he murmurs in my ear as he lays me down and slides inside me. He holds my hands above my head, lacing his fingers through mine. “Always.” His eyes gleam down at me with passion, with love.

  And love . . . love is all we know.

  Epilogue

  JACK

  A few years later

  It’s March, and the windows in our house are up, letting a spring breeze blow softly into the newly remodeled kitchen. It’s also clearing the smoke out.

  “A little brown on top,” Cynthia murmurs, staring down at the chicken casserole I pulled out of the oven. She pokes at it with a fork, her face expressionless, but I feel the disdain radiating from her. She just can’t help it. It makes my lips twitch.

  “Did you cook it on three-fifty for forty-five minutes like Cynthia said?” Clara asks me, sliding in next to us as she sniffs.

  “I’ll be honest, those Ritz Crackers are burnt,” Giselle says, throwing in her two cents.

  “Just scrape off the top. All the good stuff is underneath anyway,” Topher says, working on putting ice in the glasses for the tea.

  Cynthia pats me on the back. “I’m sure it’s good, dear. It is her favorite, but she can eat my macaroni and cheese.”

  “All that pressure of hosting Sunday lunch. It got to him.” Clara smirks. “He was too busy singing Katy Perry and forgot about the main entrée. Amateur. He might be a Super Bowl champion, but when it comes to cooking for his wife . . .”

  “Katy Perry’s ‘Firework’ is stellar,” I murmur. “Did I tell you Scotty is coming? Yep. Any minute he’ll be knocking at the door.”

  Her face flames. “You hussy!”

  “Hmm, he jumped at the invitation when he brought the mail on Friday. I personally invited him.” My eyes gleam.

  “You just wait. The next time you come in for a haircut, I’m gonna cut it all off.” She glowers at me.

  Cynthia lasers her attention on her sister. “Just marry the man. Look at Jack; he made Elena official years ago. You’re gonna get old soon, and then what will you do? Be a forty-something virgin?”

  “I’m going to set the table!” She marches off, and we all laugh.

  “She’s really going to fix her lipstick.” Giselle chuckles.

  We gaze down at the terrible, awful chicken casserole. “I really wanted to do it right.”

  Cynthia gives me a hug. “Oh, honey, she’ll eat anything—especially if you make it. Plus, between keeping up with you and that job with the lingerie company, she’s too tired to care.”

  “What the heck is all the smoke?” Devon says, waving his hands as he walks in the kitchen with Quinn and Aiden.

  “Do I need to get the fire extinguisher?” Quinn adds.

  “Nah. Jack just ruined Elena’s favorite meal,” Giselle says.

  “Slipping, old man. Did you hesitate? Need me to run out and grab some KFC?” Aiden gives me a grin.

  “I got distracted,” I exclaim. This is a big day . . .

  “By his dancing and singing,” Giselle says as she pops a piece of fried okra in her mouth. “Did you always want to be a pop star, Jack? Stick with football, ’kay?”

  “He tried; bless his heart,” Cynthia says. “Good thing I brought a backup.” She nudges Giselle. “Go get the one I brought in the car. It’s in a container in the back seat.”

  I’m not surprised at all that she brought another chicken casserole, but I act indignant. “You didn’t think I could do it, even after you went over the recipe with me three times last week?”

  Romeo runs in the room, his little nose sniffing the air. His gaze follows me as I head to the new custom stainless steel fridge and pull out a small cucumber and lean down to let him snatch it and dash off.

  “There you go, bribing that pig. He still loves me most of all.” Cynthia smirks.

  “He naps on me every day,” I counter. Not exactly true, but he has come around since I officially moved in two years ago.

  She laughs. “Go check on Elena. Let me handle the rest.”

  She wants to take over, and I want to see my wife, my hands already jonesing to hold her.

  I walk in the dining room, my breath hitching when my eyes find her. Wearing jeans and a soft-blue sweater, she’s standing in the dining room, the sunlight catching her long auburn hair as she sets the table.

  There’s something about her that calls to every part of me.

  She’s mine.

  We were married in August, as soon as my shoulder surgery allowed me to wear a suit. Six months from the first time we met, we stood side by side in her hometown church and said our vows, with Patrick officiating. She wore a long white dress Cynthia and her nana had both worn, an heirloom that Elena had altered with painstaking care, adding pearls and lace. I clearly recall her walking down the aisle to me, her hips swaying, that gorgeous hair down, with pink and purple flowers in her hands.

  She took my breath then.

  To know that she loved me.

  That I was her one. And she was my one.

  I whispered my vows, and it wasn’t because I was unsure—no, there was not a hesitant bone in my body when it came to her and how she made me feel. I was blown away by her, the depth of my love, the wave of emotions that tugged at me every time she walked in a room.

  After all this time I still sometimes gaze at her and just . . . stare.

  How is this even my life?

  How did I ever find her, this crazy love that destiny brought me?

  The Tigers won the Super Bowl this past season, my shoulder repaired, me at the top of my game. But even that particular victory doesn’t compare to her next to me in our bed, my arm curled around her waist when we sleep.

  She resigned from her job as the librarian and took the intern job with Little Rose Lingerie, quickly working her way up the ladder to a paid position in their research and development division. She still makes her own things just for me.

  My image repaired itself in an organic and real way, especially after the Tennessean wrote a kick-ass article about the play and how I professed my undying love for a certain small-town librarian. I still don’t give interviews. And no one seems to care.

  “Dada!” comes from little Eleanor Michelle Hawke, barely eleven months old, as she sits on Lucy’s lap, laughing up at me, her little hands reaching out for me. I swing her up. She’s got a headful of dark hair, big aquamarine-colored eyes, and two little teeth.

  Elena laughs, her gaze on me, then Eleanor, the same love and amazement in her eyes too. I have everything. A real home filled with laughter. Trust. Love. Family. Things I never dreamed of having.

  I give Lucy a swift kiss on the cheek. Her husband, Roger, sits next to her. They come to all the Sunday lunches they can in between traveling.

  Elena appears next to me and wipes at the remnants of Cheerios on Eleanor’s face. “Sweet girl. She loves her daddy.”

  “And he loves her and her mama.”

  She gives me a soft kiss as Eleanor coos on my hip.

  “Can’t keep their hands off each other. Always with the kissing. It’s a wonder y’all ever get a thing done,” Cynthia murmurs as she walks in with a casserole that is obviously not mine.

  “It’
s sickening,” Devon agrees, following her in the room.

  “When can I babysit?” Topher asks. He’s living a few streets over in a rental house. Elena and I have made her house our main home, although we spend time at my apartment in Nashville, too, mostly during football season—but it’s this house that keeps us centered. This small town that I’ve grown to love as much as Elena does.

  Quinn jumps in, standing shoulder to shoulder with Topher. “I’ll help you, man. Pretty sure she hasn’t seen Grease yet.”

  Hmm, those two . . .

  “When can I teach her how to throw a football?” Aiden huffs. “’Cause her daddy ain’t got what it takes.”

  “Watch it, Alabama. You’re still the backup,” I growl, then grin down at Eleanor, who’s giggling as she tugs on my hair.

  Scotty walks in. Guess he knocked, and we missed it. He holds up a string of several white balloons. “Will this work, Elena?”

  She glows at him. “Perfect!”

  “What’s going on?” Cynthia says, her head cocked.

  Elena smiles sheepishly as I wrap my arms around her.

  “We have a surprise for you,” I murmur.

  “Well, don’t drag it out,” Clara calls. “What are the balloons for?”

  I lace my hands with Elena’s and stare into her eyes. “We’re pregnant,” I say, but I can’t stop looking at her. Always her.

  “Oh my God, again?” comes from Giselle, who’d frozen as she tried to steal another fried okra someone put on the table.

  “We planned it,” Elena says quietly, eyes on me. “All the babies. All the things we want.”

  “Hmm,” I murmur and manage to kiss her again.

  “The balloon is one of those gender-reveal things. Jack put me in charge so no one in the family would know until today,” Scotty says.

  “You never said a word!” comes from Clara, who is glowering at him.

  Cynthia’s eyes shine. “Well, I hope you aren’t going to torture us by waiting until after lunch! Pop that thing.”

  I laugh, taking the balloon from Scotty. We thought about telling them as soon as Elena and I knew she was pregnant, but she wanted to do it like this, sharing the gender and the pregnancy all at once at Sunday lunch. We don’t even know, having given the sealed envelope from the doctor to Scotty a week ago.