Not My Romeo (The Game Changers #1)(20)

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 pompous 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.”

I study his face, seeing the merriment he’s barely hiding. “Uh-huh. I know that look on your face. Is this shindig one of your themed parties?”

He nods. “I confirmed with Michael yesterday. It’s Grease, baby. I’m John Travolta, and you’re Olivia Newton-John.” He claps, clearly excited.

I wail. “No, please no. I just want to wear regular clothes.”

“Elena Michelle. We are going to party in style because I took care of your wretched pet. You owe me.”

“Don’t you double-name me. You are not Mama.”

But he’s already waltzing up the polished cherry staircase in the hall. “Look at me, I’m Sandra Dee, lousy with virginity—”

“You are incorrigible!” I call to his back, but he’s still singing. “And now that song is in my head!”

He pauses at the top of the staircase. “Also, later, I demand to hear all details about Jack Hawke and his sexual prowess. You went a little light on the details.”

“Never gonna see him again, so it doesn’t even matter.”

“Evil woman.” He disappears in his room, and I swoop up Romeo, who’s darted back out of his tent, and plant a big kiss on his face. Everything from last night and the news about the engagement settle like rain clouds on my shoulders. I heave out a sigh. “Romeo, what am I going to do?”

He looks up at me and grimaces.

“I slept with a famous football player,” I tell him. “He stole my panties. Plus, Preston and Giselle are getting married, and I guess . . .” I swallow. “I need to be happy for them. What do you think?” I glance down at him.

You’ve got some serious problems, lady, his eyes say.





Chapter 9

JACK