He isn’t beefy, though, like those brawny guys with thick necks and flushed faces. His muscles are taut and powerful, nothing too overstated, yet tight and no doubt firm—
Elena. Enough with the body. It’s to your taste. Move on.
He takes a sip of an amber liquid, long tanned fingers grasping the fragile container as his eyes rove across the room. They prowl around the restaurant, as if he’s assessing every person in sight, and I feel the sizzle of him even from twenty feet away. Prickles of awareness skate down my spine. Greg has massive raw animal magnetism coming from him in waves. I’m the alpha, his body language yells. Come and challenge me. I watch as a few ladies eye him—even some of the guys are turned and checking him out. Some are whispering. Interesting. I guess he has quite the following on the news.
His gaze drifts right over me without stopping.
Not surprised.
I duck back into the shadows.
Dang it. My hands clench. I wanted nice and nerdy, not this . . . sexy beast!
And judging by the scowl on his face, he’s grumpy. Life’s too short to be dour, Mister. And what is he annoyed about? I am here!
And he did see a picture of me. Topher said so.
Yeah, maybe he doesn’t really want to meet you.
Maybe he’s hoping you won’t show up.
I tap my foot. I should leave. Really.
I have a ton of things to do at home. Some sewing, snuggling up with Romeo—
The smells of Milano’s waft around me, spicy and tantalizing, and my stomach lets out an angry howl. I move from one foot to the next. Every place to eat between here and Daisy is going to be packed. I could always hit a drive-through on the way back home—but how pathetic is a Big Mac and fries on Valentine’s Day? Plus, I’ll have my entire nosy family to answer to tomorrow. They’ve built up this blind date so much: Oooooh, Elena has a date with a weatherman. Ask him if that’s a barometer in his pocket or if he’s just glad to see you. That nugget came from Aunt Clara. If I chicken out now, there’ll be hell to pay, because no matter the brave face I put on, everyone knows I haven’t been myself in months.
I give myself a mental pep talk.
Grow some balls, Elena.
You can’t keep living life on the sidelines.
Sometimes you have to go out and take what you want.
So what if he’s hot enough to suck the dew off a rose.
So what if he’s got a dangerous look on his face.
You are hungry. Do it for the pasta.
He is your date. Go get ’em, girl.
I gather my resolve, point my little black pumps in his direction, and start marching.
Chapter 2
JACK
“Um, you’re him, right?” A nervous laugh. “The guy?”
I glance up from my glass of scotch and take in the petite auburn-haired woman standing in front of me as I try my best to enjoy my meal—damn hard to do these days with my face all over the media. Every eye in the place is either glaring at me or pointedly turning their noses up.
She’s wearing a shirt buttoned all the way to her neck, a black pencil skirt, and low-heeled shoes. I move my eyes up to the intruder’s face, taking in the uptight hairstyle and big white glasses.
Dammit. Another reporter. My hands tighten in my lap, and I dart my eyes around for the server. A deep exhalation leaves my chest when I don’t see him. I lean back in my leather chair and glare at her. Part of me is nervous; the rest of me is pissed.
“Yeah, I’m the guy.” What the hell do you want? my face says.
Dark lashes flutter against a creamy complexion as she seems to gather herself, a determined grimace on her delicate face. She swallows, and before I can protest, she’s taking the seat across from me.
I blink.
She exhales. “Thank God. It was the blue button-down that gave it away—and the fact that you’re alone.” Her eyes roam over my chest, lingering for a moment on my shoulders. “I’m just glad I found you. Forgive me for being late. I did a photo shoot for Romeo—he has quite the following on Instagram—and then the downtown Nashville traffic is just insane.”
Forgive her for being late?
And photo shoot with Romeo? The name’s familiar. New player in the league?
“Hmm.” I hide my confusion by taking another sip of scotch, keeping my gaze on her, distrustful. Lawrence, my PR guy, mentioned a female sports blogger who was sympathetic to my most recent falling-out with fans and who might be willing to write a favorable story.
But he knows I detest reporters.
And why didn’t he let me know?
Dammit, he’s always doing shit without telling me.
I consider calling him to confirm who she is, but . . .
“So you’re the blogger?” I ask.
Her eyes widen, her face paling. “I have a blog.”
“Hmm.”
She stares at me for several moments and shakes her head. “Gah, I’m going to skin Topher alive for telling you that. Of course, he thinks I should tell everyone. Only he doesn’t understand how small towns work, especially Daisy. Once they know your deepest secrets, it’s literally all they think of when they see you on the street. And the whispers . . . goodness.”
I watch her with lowered lids, assessing. I don’t know anyone named Topher. And why would she hide her blog? Maybe it isn’t the sports blogger. I’m used to women coming up to me, mostly jersey chasers. In the past, especially in college and my early years of professional football, I ran with it, choosing the most beautiful and taking them up on their offers: keys to hotel rooms, phone numbers pressed in my hands, girls who tagged along to our VIP parties—but this girl doesn’t fit that category. No tight dress. Minimal makeup. Studious looking.
She continues. “True story: my aunt Clara sneaks her boyfriend in through her back door to keep people in town from seeing him. He parks his car behind the church and walks to her house—and she’s forty. I wish she’d just tell everyone she’s in love with the mailman.” She arches an elegant eyebrow. “Scotty is ten years younger than her and quite the catch.”
“I see.” Black Pumps talks a lot. And not about football.
She gives me a half smile. “You must know how that is, wanting to stay out of the limelight and keep your personal business quiet.”
Indeed. Even enjoying a nice glass of whiskey in public makes me paranoid. I picture everything I do as a headline. Jack Hawke drinking! Does this mean another DUI for the Nashville quarterback? That DUI happened five years ago, my second year in the NFL, yet no one forgets. I partied a lot in those early years. I thought fame and money made me invincible. Stupid.
“Yes. I like my privacy very much.” I take a bite of my pasta, chewing and swallowing, eyes on her, taking in the stiffness of her shoulders, the way she’s breathing in long, slow breaths, as if she doesn’t really want to be here.
Shit. Perhaps she isn’t sympathetic at all.
Perhaps it’s all a ruse to get a story from me.
Several seconds go by as neither of us speaks, and she squirms a little in her chair, her eyes following me. It’s rude to keep eating, but no reporter or blogger or random person is going to keep me from—
She chews on her plump red lips, as if she’s angry. Full and overly lush, they’re a deep crimson. A little sinful.