“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.

“You’ve seen me doing the weather?”

She grimaces. “Actually, no. The news is worrisome; plus I rarely watch TV.”

I rub my neck. “And you agreed to this date without seeing my face? That’s rather . . . bold.”

She gives me her first real smile. “It’s my version of living dangerously.”

“You a football fan?”

“Men pushing each other around in tight pants, fighting over a ball? Please. Very caveman. I prefer books and podcasts. You?”

I take in the blank look on her face. Well, damn.

About ten seconds go by as we stare at each other.

I feel a brush of excitement rising inside me, gently at first, then all at once, flooding my senses. No. Freaking. Clue. She doesn’t know me! I want to hug her. Maybe take that cat. Kidding.

I laugh for the first time in a week. It’s as if I’m in a parallel universe where I get a do-over. Shit. It’s a clean slate, sparkling white.

But . . .

Jack. You can’t not reveal who you are . . .

If she thinks I’m her date, I should come clean right now and tell her the truth. Save her the embarrassment of dragging this out further.

But . . .

What do I have to go home to but an empty apartment and my face on ESPN?

Plus, she’s hot in an understated way, everything all buttoned up and just waiting to be unleashed— My gaze brushes over that tight-fitting shirt, taking in those full curves straining against her blouse.

And I’m a tit man.

Tell her. I open my mouth, and she speaks.

“What’s your favorite part of doing the weather? Is it the snowstorm, when you know the city is hanging on every single word, when they run out and buy bread and milk?” She takes a huge bite of pasta the waiter has set down, using a fork and a spoon to twist the pasta, giving me a couple of seconds to think of a reply.

“Hmm, I like clouds. And rain. It’s . . . wet.”

She gives me a swift look and pats her mouth delicately with her napkin, capturing my attention with the ultrafine bones of her wrists, the elegant way she moves. Once, a long time ago, when I was just a poor kid from Ohio, I might have wanted to draw those hands, the delicateness of them. She looks as if she might break in my arms— “Wow, you like clouds?”

“Yeah, those puffy cumulus ones.” I have no clue. “They’re . . . white.”

“I see.” Her brow wrinkles. “It’s me, isn’t it? I’m talking too much, and I was late and rude to the waiter, and you are so not into this—”

“Elena? What are you doing here?” The words come from a stocky, well-dressed, brown-haired man who’s stopped at our table. He moves his gaze to me, and I see instant recognition in his face, the way his mouth gapes. Yep, there it is. He knows me.

I glance at Elena—thank you, Jesus, for the name—and she’s gone white, her hands twisting the pearls around her neck. I frown, my gaze darting from her to him, wondering what the connection is.

“I’m on a date, Preston. Isn’t it obvious?”

He sputters, his eyes widening as he looks from her to me. “Tonight? I assumed you’d be . . . home.”

Elena stiffens. “I’m not pining away.”

Preston smooths down his tie, lips tightening. “Of course. It’s just if I had known you’d be here, I never would have come here with Giselle.” He nudges his head toward the middle of the restaurant without taking his eyes off Elena. “We just arrived, and we’re sitting over there. I was on my way to the bar to grab another drink and happened to see you—”

Her eyes flash like lightning, and I think I see pain in those depths. “Well, forget you saw me. Go back to Giselle.”

He pushes his hands inside his slacks. “I never meant to hurt—”

“But you did.” She points to her pasta. “Also, I’m trying to eat here, and you know how much I enjoy my food. Remember?”

He opens his mouth to speak.

“Piss off,” I say, rougher than I intended.

He isn’t budging, his eyes squarely on my . . . date. They sweep over her, from head to toe, his face settling into disapproval. “I can’t believe you’d be interested in him,” he says under his breath.

My body tenses up, shoulders tightening.

He takes a step closer to her. “Everyone wants you to move on, but this guy is not—”

I stand, my six-four frame towering over his, and you can tell he’s forgotten how tall I am, bigger than I seem on TV. My fists curl, everything from this week building up and threatening to erupt. Usually I’m in tight control of my temper, knowing that every little thing I do is scrutinized, but I’ll be damned before I let him talk to her as if she’s a child.

“Go back to your table now, or I’ll have you removed,” I murmur softly. “This is my restaurant.”

He holds his hands up, as if to ward me off. “See. Trouble, Elena.”

She shrugs. “Maybe trouble is just what I need, Preston. A little adventure.”

He darts a glare at me, then scurries off across the restaurant before taking a seat with a blonde lady.

I settle back in my chair and meet her shiny gaze.

Nah, please don’t cry. Females weeping always make me think of my mother. I saw her cry more than she ever smiled. And it makes me want to fix things . . .

“Are you okay?”

She nods, seeming to gather herself as she clears her throat and stares down at the table. “Thank you for running him off. I had no idea he’d be here.”