“Because I’m stupid.” I exhale. “You showed up in the VIP room, and you had that on.” I wave my hand at her hot outfit. “It surprised me. It’s a well-known fact that Devon owns that place, and women hang out there just to look for us. Plus, I had you in my head as someone else. All prim and proper . . .”

My eyes go low, taking in the way her shirt keeps slipping down her shoulder, revealing the black lace of her bra. Her height hits me around my upper chest, and I dig her small frame, all my protective instincts flaring up—especially when I saw her wrapped up with Devon on the dance floor. Sonofabitch. He was playing me. He isn’t into her. Right?

What if he is?

I roll my neck.

She’s pushed her glasses up to hold back her auburn hair, and her face is mostly devoid of makeup, skin like porcelain, her lashes dark and thick, fluttery fans as they blink up at me. I recall last night and that pencil skirt and demure Peter Pan collar.

“I like you all buttoned up,” I admit grudgingly.

“Why?”

I shrug, feeling bemused. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just you.”

“Oh.”

We stand there in the soft rain, staring at each other, and I clear my throat. “I’m sorry for lying to you. I wanted to tell you my real name half a dozen times. I didn’t, because it felt good to know you wanted me for me and not because of who I am.”

She looks away from me, watching a group of people laughing as they walk past us. They don’t seem to look at us, but I’m jonesing to get off this street and away from everyone.

“Are you into Devon?” I blurt, surprising myself.

She levels ocean eyes at me. “If I were?”

“Then I’ll back off.” Motherfucker. I will not back off.

“Back off from what? We aren’t a thing, Jack.”

“Is that so? Even after last night?” I watch her closely, trusting body language way more than words.

Her chest rises, and a slow flush colors her cheeks. She swallows and chews on those lips, and my body responds, hardening.

“You’re not into him, or you wouldn’t have flushed.” Gaining more confidence, I take a step closer to her. I reach out and touch a strand of hair, letting it trail through my fingers, recalling how I tugged hard on it the night before, increasing that pressure more and more, waiting for her to tell me to stop, but she didn’t. She groaned and came, her pussy tightening and spasming around my cock. Need washes over me. Just to have her one more time.

“We aren’t done, Elena. Come to the penthouse with me.”

Her little hands clasp together, and she opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Instead, she takes off walking again, and I blink, following after her. “What did I say?”

She’s reached a green car and hits her clicker. “You really know how to woo a lady, Jack. I guess you think all you have to do is snap your fingers, and I’m going to join you in that penthouse for some frolicking.”

Frolicking? I grin. “I’m not looking for a relationship, and you’ve just broken up with someone. Did I read you wrong?”

The rain kicks up, falling harder, drenching us both—yet neither of us seems to care.

“First of all, I don’t do one-night stands or two-night ones. You don’t know me at all.”

“Okay, then let me get to know you.” I nudge my head at a coffee shop down the road. “Let me buy you a coffee. Get to know me.”

Shit.

Shit.

I hate public places where the owners don’t know me.

But . . .

A cold wind blows, and I frown when she shivers. She wipes at the rain in her eyes.

“Here,” I say and unbutton my shirt and whip it off and hold it over her head. It doesn’t help much, but at least she’s not getting any wetter.

“You should have worn a coat,” I mutter, staring down at her. “It’s forty degrees and raining.”

She glances at my now-soaked white T-shirt, then meets my eyes again. “You a weatherman now?”

I grin. “Rain. It’s wet.”

She gives me a wan smile, and a long sigh leaves her chest—and I see a distant expression growing on her face. “Here’s a tip for the next time you have sex with a girl: don’t lie about who you are, and don’t leave before she wakes up. Bad form.”

That fucking nightmare that woke me up.

Part of me hesitates as I consider trying to explain it, but . . .

I don’t know her. My gut senses she’s genuine, but . . .

You can’t really trust anyone, a voice tells me. Whatever I share with her might eventually be passed on, even if it’s just to a friend, and then that friend decides to tell someone else. Pretty soon it will get leaked to the media, and they’ll concoct a story out of it. After all, it wasn’t just Sophia who betrayed me. Harvey’s sister profited off the story of my life after I was drafted, an article in Sports Illustrated that detailed my early years with my mom. It reeked of lies, painting Harvey as misunderstood and blinded by love.

“You’re right. I should have stayed. I should have pulled you in my arms and woken you up.” I grimace. “I’m not good with stuff like that.”

She studies me for several seconds.

“Elena, I don’t know how to do this.”

“This?”

I hesitate before answering. “Look, can we just start all over?”

Without waiting for a reply, I stick my hand out and take hers. “Hello. I’m Jack Eugene Hawke, quarterback. I collect cheesy coffee mugs and magnets from every city I’ve been to. I can do a push-up with you on my back—yeah, I thought about it today. I read a lot, mostly thrillers. I grew up in a small town in Ohio. My mom is dead. Don’t know where my dad is. I love to sketch but am too embarrassed to show anyone. I won a national championship my senior year, the Heisman when I was a junior. I’m actually . . . shy. Dwight Schrute from The Office makes me laugh until I cry. And recently, I’ve discovered I have an insatiable penchant for hot librarians.”

She looks down at the concrete, then back up at me, and for some crazy reason, I feel winded as her blue-green gaze holds mine, my breath held, waiting for her reply. I’ve never said a few of those things to a girl. Never wanted to.

“That wasn’t bad. Thank you.”

I’m still holding her hand, and my thumb brushes against her wrist. “Why do I hear a but there, Elena?”

A long sigh comes from her as she eases her hand out of mine.

Nerves fly all over me. “Elena . . .”

She’s taking a step back from me, and shit, I don’t want her to. It feels like she’s just going to disappear at any minute . . .

“I need to get going. Nice to meet you, Jack. Take care.”

She pivots and ducks her head out of the protection of my shirt and moves to her car.

“Elena!”

She turns and looks at me. “Yeah?”

I lick my lips, my shirt clenched in my hands, rain falling harder now, the drops hitting me on the face. “You’re the first girl I’ve been with in a year.”

I don’t know how long we stand there; maybe it’s only a few moments, but I’m cataloging everything she does, committing it to memory. The way her eyes flare, the rise and fall of her chest. Disbelief crosses her delicate face, her gaze searching mine.

Then she turns back around, opens her car door, and gets in.

I close my eyes, and a long sigh comes from me. You suck so bad, Jack.

She backs up and drives away, and I watch her taillights get smaller and smaller.

I look up at the dark sky, processing, planning.

I whip my cell out of my pocket and press Lawrence’s number.

“Yo!” he answers. “Where did you go? I can’t find you in here. Quinn can’t either. This place is packed. Devon said you took off. We should talk—”

“Did you find out her last name?”

He pauses, and I can hear the music from the club bleeding in through the phone. “This girl is not your type, Jack.”

“Who is she?” My hand grips the phone.

“You should be focusing on your career right now. Let’s have a meeting with your agent this week. Maybe we can get that Adidas endorsement back—”

“It’s dead. Aiden told me tonight he’s already got a meeting with them. Let it go.”

He lets out a string of curses. “Sonofabitch. That young buck is riding your coattails so hard—”

“Don’t care about the money, Lawrence. Tell me about the girl.”

He sighs. “Elena Michelle Riley from Daisy, age twenty-six, librarian. Father dead, mother alive. One sibling. Never been married or arrested or dated a professional athlete. Moved here from New York and moved in her grandmother’s house.” He pauses. “I’m never doing this shit for you again. I’m supposed to be fixing your image, not checking out your hookups.”

I detect hesitation in his voice.

“Yeah? What else?” I want to know fucking everything about her.

“She lives with a man.”

Jealousy spikes.

“His name?”

“Topher Wainscott. Your girl is taken. Let it go.”

Topher . . . hmm.

“Address?”

He blows out a long breath. “Seriously, Jack? You can’t show up at her house. She never signed that NDA.”

“I’m not an idiot, Lawrence. Give it to me.”

He rattles off an address, and I imprint it to my memory.

“Thanks. Later.” I hang up on him while he’s still lecturing me about not getting involved.

I’m walking to my Porsche, and just before I open the door, I pause, backpedaling in my head. Shit. I accused her of being a stalker, and here I am . . .