I exit and shut the door behind me, scanning the area. Usually there are people dashing to the restrooms or latecomers still coming in, but since it’s the preacher’s first day, it’s quiet as a . . . church. I snort and dash out the front door and head to the sleek black Porsche.

I slide inside and adjust the leather seat, my nose filling with the scent of him inside the interior, all male and him. I rub my hands over the steering wheel, caressing it, thinking about Jack driving it . . .

Forget daydreaming. Right. I have a mission.

I crank it, and the engine rumbles, powerful and ready to eat up the road. I whip it in reverse and drive over to the side entrance. He’s already waiting for me outside, his shoulders straight, his face stony.

I jump out and open his door, and he walks to the car, pauses for half a second as he takes in the low passenger seat. He lets out a string of curses, and I grimace as he manages to bend over and arrange himself. He attempts to reach for the seat belt, but I beat him to it, pulling it across him and snapping it together.

“There,” I say.

I’m rising up when he tugs on my arm, pulling me back to him.

“Things were just getting good in there, and . . . I may not ever get another kiss.” He cocks an eyebrow. “Am I right?”

Instead of answering him, I just smile and shut the door and get back in and speed away from the church.

Chapter 16

ELENA

Where are you?

Your car is still at church. Everyone can see it.

Did you leave with that football player?

Elena Michelle, you missed Sunday lunch.

Okay, okay, I’m sorry about the preacher. But I think he liked you!

FYI, I saw on the internet that Jack Hawke has a drinking problem. He is NOT marriage material.

I sigh as I read the series of texts Mama has sent me. Nothing about Jack screams drinking problem. He’s viscerally alert and focused, too competitive to allow alcohol to rule him. I’m not sure how I know this, but I do. Yes, he had the scotch on Friday, but there’s nothing wrong with a good whiskey. Plus, he didn’t even have a drink in his hand at the VIP party.

And then there’s Aunt Clara’s texts:

You should have seen Cynthia at lunch. She chewed so hard I thought her teeth might break. You’re with Mr. Hottie Footballer, aren’t you? Sneaky devil. Take some pics for me. Bare-chested? Dick pic? LOL.

I put my phone down as the young male trainer approaches. Gideon something. We’re inside Jack’s penthouse, and he’s just wrapped up a session of working on Jack’s back and shoulders. “He needs rest. I’ve worked out most of the kinks, but if he has any more pain, just give him the Aleve again. He won’t take anything harder because of drug screens.” His next words make my eyes flare. “He really does need rest. No workouts today; know what I mean?”

“I’m not with him.” Get a grip, water boy.

“Uh-huh.” He eyes my neck for some weird reason.

I open the door. “Jack and I are friends.”

He blushes all the way to the roots of his gelled hair at teacher voice. “Sorry, I just assumed. Jack, ah, women, everything I hear—”

I open the door wider. “Please don’t assume. I’m sure you have other things to do on a Sunday afternoon. Goodbye.” I smile politely in a way that says, I may appear sweet, but don’t mess with me, bucko.

He walks through it, and I shut it firmly.

We arrived here about two hours ago. After I called Quinn, who lives in an apartment close by, together we got him up to the penthouse through a side entrance and a private service elevator.

Gideon arrived in fifteen minutes, whipped out a massage table and oils. Jack changed into athletic shorts, crawled on top of the table, and the trainer went to work. My eyes kept going to that black-and-yellow tiger tattoo on his back, that snarl, the sharp teeth bared and ready to bite. I barely recall it from our night together, just catching glimpses, but mostly I didn’t pay much attention to his back. I really should have. It’s menacing looking but beautiful. I’d like to trace my fingers over it . . .

When I turn, Jack is rolling his shoulders in the den, an eased expression on his face. I try to focus my eyes off his broad chest, but it’s hard. The muscular pecs, the ripples of his tight six-pack, the slight V where his hips meet his black shorts. Even his thighs are powerful, thick and taut as he does a few stretches.

I look up at the ceiling. Lord. Have some mercy.

Also, my buzzed memory does not do him justice.

Quinn pops in from the kitchen area. “You hungry, sir? I can whip something up.”

“I swear, Quinn, if you don’t stop calling me that, I’m going to fire you,” Jack murmurs as he scrubs his face and walks over to click on the TV. ESPN pops up, the volume low. “I’m kidding, but come on; we’re almost family.”

I cock my head, detecting a wistful tone in Jack’s voice.

Quinn straightens. “Right.”

Jack grabs a bottle of Gatorade Quinn set down on the coffee table earlier and kills it, his long tanned throat sucking it down.

I look away.

Just as my stomach rumbles.

Jack pauses. “You hungry, Elena? I guess that massage went right through lunch.”

“No, I’m fine.” I skipped breakfast this morning, though.

Another growl.

“Liar,” Jack says as he walks over to me. He’s not quite back to his usual athletic grace and prowess, a slight hitch in his broad chest as he focuses on keeping his left arm down and loose at his side.

“I can order pizza?” Quinn offers.

Pizza? After I missed Sunday chicken? Regardless of the setup with the preacher, that is my favorite meal. I imagine Mama’s got leftovers in some Tupperware right now.

Jack reaches me where I’m still idling near the front door. I should get out of here. Casserole is calling.

“What do you want? We can call anywhere and get it delivered? Milano’s?”

I look at a point over his shoulder.

“Not your favorite?”

“Just . . . can you put a shirt on?”

Quinn chuckles, and I think I see a pleased expression on his face as he watches us.

Jack grins. “Nah, I like walking around like this. It makes you flustered, and I don’t think that happens often.”

Who is he kidding? Everything about him makes me wired.

Without looking at Quinn, he says, “Call up Milano’s. Salads, pasta with bolognese, and extra bread? Unless you want something different?”

“Extra?”

“You ate a lot of bread on Friday. I want to be prepared.”

“Hmm, I did.” I twirl a piece of my hair, then stop, frowning. When did I become a hair twirler?

“It’s the least I can do after you driving me here.”

But it wasn’t a hardship at all, especially with all that hotness right next to me. He actually fell asleep—I don’t know how—and I spent most of that time darting looks at him, wondering why he’d gone to the trouble of trying to see me again.

For sex, Elena. The man wants to bone you.

I nod. “Food is good.”

“Milano’s is the best. Good call on buying that place, sir, but count me out,” Quinn says. “It’s my day off, and if you’re good, I’m heading out.”

He glances at Quinn. “Hot date?”

Quinn looks from me to Jack. “Ah, yeah.”

I squint at him. Quinn’s lying. There’s no date. I feel the untruthfulness like I do when Aunt Clara tells me Scotty isn’t slipping in her back door at night.

“Who? I didn’t know you were seeing anyone. Lucy never mentioned it,” Jack asks, interest on his face.

Quinn has a deer-in-the-headlights look on his face, much like the morning I forced him to eat my omelet while I tried to pry personal info about Jack out of him.

“Uh . . . well, I . . . yeah.” Quinn stares at the floor. “Let me call in that order to Milano’s.”

“No need. I can do it. Didn’t mean to pry about your date. Your business and all,” Jack murmurs, a look of disappointment flashing over his face before he locks it down.

I frown. It’s almost as if Jack wants Quinn to confide in him. Lucy?

“Are you two cousins?” I ask. They look nothing alike.

“No,” Quinn says when it becomes apparent Jack isn’t going to. He throws a look at Jack, as if looking for help, his face unsure. “She . . . um . . .”

“She was our foster mom,” Jack adds quietly. “I lived with her after my mom died. Quinn came to her after I was already in college.”

Foster care. I file that away, wondering what happened to put him there.

“I see. She must be a special lady.”

Jack nods.

Quinn clears his throat. “She’s amazing. Jack even moved her here from Ohio after he was drafted. He bought her a huge-ass house out in Brentwood, and when I got in trouble with the law, Jack gave me this job—”

“I’m sure Elena doesn’t want to hear all that.”

Oh, but I do! I’m fascinated, trying to work out the dynamics here.

But the truth is I don’t think Jack wants me to know too much about him.

“Elena’s cool—” Quinn says before Jack cuts him off.

“Quinn, don’t you have a date?”

“Yeah, right. I’ll go.” Quinn grabs his phone and heads to the foyer, brushing past me. He leans in, keeping his voice low. “Keep him company for a while, Elena?”

His face is earnest.