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.

Behind big white glasses, her eyes hold mine for several moments. A vivid aquamarine color, outlined in black and heavily lashed, they spear me with sudden ferocity. “You know, I think it’s rude you started dinner without me—even after I texted you and said I’d be late.”

“Didn’t see your text, and I was starving. Sorry.” I shrug nonchalantly, not sounding sorry at all.

The server scurries over to our table, straightening his black suit.

“Sir.” He darts his eyes at . . . whoever she is . . . and then comes back to me. “I’m so sorry she got past. You know it’s the busiest night of the year. Please forgive me. Would you like me to call security?”

Black Pumps goes from all nerves to annoyance. She glares at the waiter with laser focus, her face indignant. “I’m sitting right here. And I’m supposed to be here. It was arranged. This is a date.”

My eyes flare. Surely she means work date?

She straightens her spine and sends a longing look at my pasta. “And I’d like whatever he’s having with extra bread.” She waves her hand at my bowl of half-finished bolognese. “And a glass of red. No. Make that a gin and tonic with a double shot of Hendrick’s with a cucumber. In fact, if you could just keep those drinks coming, that would be fantastic. Thank you.” Her voice has just a tiny bit of that southern accent that makes everything she says sweet yet layered with a tenacity that almost makes my lips twitch. She reminds me of a little poodle my mom had once, ready to pounce at any moment if there’s an injustice.

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.”