Not My Romeo (The Game Changers #1)(4)

The waiter blinks at her, then glances back at me, a pleading expression on his face. “Sir, again, my deepest apologies—”

I wave him off, making an impulsive decision, brushing away the reminder that those ideas tend to get me in trouble. “No worries. Let’s feed the lady, yes?”

He bows deeply and darts away, and I turn my eyes back to the girl.

I study her features carefully, cataloging them more, instead of the cursory glance a few minutes ago. She’s not beautiful in a magazine way, but there’s something captivating about her. Could be the stuffy, conservative clothes that hint at soft curves underneath. Maybe it’s the lips. Most definitely the lips. And whether it’s unintentional or not, she’s using them to her advantage, one minute pursing them, the next chewing on the bottom one.

As one of the best quarterbacks in the league, one of my special skill sets is reading facial expressions and tics that telegraph a play on the field. And I can’t help but notice that she looks at me as if I’m no one special, no glint of excitement in her eyes, no fluttering lashes, no awe at the weight the name Jack Hawke carries. Fascinating.

“Is that . . . are those tiny flying pigs on your shirt?” I ask as I narrow my gaze, taking in the white shirt buttoned up to a black velvet Peter Pan collar.

“Yes. The fabric is from a designer in New York. I ordered it a month ago and went crazy. I even made Romeo a pillow.”

“Is that the new wide receiver for the Saints? Drafted last year?”

She cocks her head. “Hardly. He’s my little potbellied pig. A teacup. He’s a rescue and the sweetest. Okay, maybe not the sweetest, but I couldn’t resist taking him in when someone dumped him off at the Cut ’N’ Curl across from my house. He was near death’s door. Just last month, someone left a box of kittens on my front porch with a note addressed to me; can you believe it? It’s like they know I’ll take care of them. I found homes for all of them except for one of the males. You interested? He’s black and gray, adorable, and litter trained; I swear.”

I huff out a laugh. This girl is—

If Romeo is a miniature pig and not a football player—what the hell is going on?

“I’ll pass on the cat.”

“Every man needs a cat. Might make you softer.”

“Do I need to be softer?”

“Wouldn’t hurt. Might take more than one cat to do the trick, though. You seem . . .” She waves her hands around. “Tense.”

She has no idea.

“I see.”

“Are you a dog person, then?” she asks.

“I don’t have time for pets.”

She grimaces. “Well, if you change your mind, I recommend the cat. Nothing against dogs, but they will love just about anyone. Cats are pickier, and the men who have them can appreciate moodiness and definitely handle personality issues—which might be key in a relationship. Also cats are hilarious. Do you have any idea how many cat videos there are on the internet? Over a billion! Isn’t that crazy?”

Is she crazy? Who the hell is she?

Yet I’m hanging on her every word, slowly warming up, feeling . . . interested.

“You mentioned fabric. You made your shirt yourself?”

She pushes her glasses up. “Stores don’t market to my tastes or to my figure. In fact, the majority of clothing in stores is designed by people who have no idea what a woman like me wants. But then if you know about my blog . . .” Her face flames red. “Then you know my specialty is lingerie.”

Lingerie? The plot thickens.

I tap my fingers on the table, some of that earlier interest waning. Is she looking for an endorsement from me? I briefly dated a girl who wanted me to promote her makeup. People, whether they initially intend to or not, somehow always circle around to using me in some way.

I can see it now.

NFL superstar Jack Hawke likes blah-blah lingerie for his girlfriends.

The waiter sets down her drink, and she gulps it down completely, then plops it down on the table as a long sigh comes from her. “God. I’ve needed this since the moment I walked in and tried to find you.”

Surprisingly, sympathy rises up and eclipses any misgivings. “Bad day?”

She huffs out a laugh. “Bad year. I moved back to Daisy two years ago from New York, and it’s been one insane day after another. My family, my job, my small town.”

I set my fork down. “It’s been a shitty week for me as well.”

She nods. “Let’s try this again, shall we? Tell me about you. What’s it like being a weatherman on TV?”

I’m in the process of taking a sip of my drink when the question comes, and it gets caught in my throat, and I sputter, then cough, grabbing my white napkin to cover my mouth.

“Are you okay?” Her eyes are huge, luminous, the color of the sea.

“Fine,” I say in a strangled voice.

She thinks I’m a . . . weatherman.

What. The. Hell.

I shake my head, processing what she said . . . about sending the text . . . her comment about my blue shirt . . . her indignation with the ma?tre d’ . . . and it all clicks into place.

A date. Obviously a blind date.

But girls have tried all kinds of tricks to get in my bed. Once, on the road, I walked into my hotel room and found a naked girl in my closet. Took hotel security to remove her as she screamed “I love you, Jack!” the entire time.