I had him begging for it. Begging me to—

A tingle zips down my spine.

Screw that tingle.

I inhale a deep breath, my fists curling at my sides. “Weatherman, where are my panties?”

Chapter 11

ELENA

Jack does a slow blink just as Devon appears next to me, and although I’m not looking at him, I feel his eyes darting from me to Jack.

Jack shakes off the girls and moves toward us, his focus squarely on me, a scowl burrowing into his forehead as he leans down, keeping his voice low. “What are you doing here? Why haven’t you called me?”

Oh. Okay, maybe the cell number was real. I was too mad to try and also worried some weirdo might pick up, and then I’d have to ask, Are you Jack Hawke, famous football player I had sex with who kept my panties? I would have gotten around to calling the number eventually because my curiosity would have driven me nuts, but today I just needed . . . a day to process.

I feign composure, tilting my chin up. I ignore his last question. “I happen to love this club. I party here all the time.”

He studies me. “No, you don’t. Did you know I’d be here tonight?”

I scoff, frowning. What is wrong with him? “No.”

“Are you a reporter?” he snaps.

I gape. Jesus. He may be the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, but please.

“I’m a librarian,” I hiss. “I shelve books for a living, for God’s sake. I don’t have time to stalk you. I just want my undies! I spent hours sketching that design. It took weeks. Do you have any clue how hard it is to make those so that when you touch them, the image changes? They’re priceless panties!”

I’m close to a come-apart in public, and I don’t do those—I don’t. Mama taught me to hold it all in. Smile. Say please and thank you. Don’t cause drama. Don’t be the object of gossip. If you’re angry, say “Bless your heart,” and move on.

But bless your heart just won’t cut it here.

“Stop saying panties,” he hisses back, tossing a look around the room. He takes my arm and tugs me over to the side. His hands are gentle but a brand on my skin, a current that runs from him to me.

He lets me go, his gaze lingering where he touched me, as if he was just as aware of that electricity as I was. “How did you get in the VIP room?”

Devon, who’s been following us, approaches. There’s an odd look on his face. Maybe it’s surprise. “Dude. She’s with me.”

Jack rears his head back, as if he’s been slapped, and I guess he didn’t notice Devon following us. He puts laser-sharp eyes on him. “Is that right? And where did you meet her? Because seeing her again, here, is weird. I think she’s scouting hot spots to pick up NFL players. Everyone knows you own this club and I own Milano’s—”

I push my finger into his broad chest. “How dare you? I didn’t even know who you were. Trust me; if I’d known you weren’t the weatherman I was supposed to meet, we never would have . . .” I inhale. I can’t even finish that sentence.

Devon looks at me, then back at Jack. “Wait. You and her?”

Jack lets out a deep breath and gives Devon a sharp nod.

Devon’s mouth opens. “She’s the one you told me about?”

Anger stirs hotter, my face flaming. “You’ve talked about me to your teammates?” I cross my arms. “You two are the worst. Just full-of-yourselves athletes going around and picking up women willy-nilly—”

“You picked me up,” Jack mutters, easing in closer until we’re almost chest to chest. “You sat down with me, and now that I think about it, how do I know if that whole ‘Oh, you have a blue shirt on, so you must be my date’ was legit? You didn’t even sign your real name on the NDA.”

What? His words give me pause, and I frown, trying to process. He did say how private he was, and I get that, but to be this paranoid . . .

Devon rubs his chin as he takes us in. “I just met her at the bar, and I picked her up—”

I snap my fingers at Devon. “You did not pick me up. I only came to find Jack.”

“Ouch,” Devon replies with a smirk.

“And you just happened to be here tonight?” Jack asks.

“Yes,” I say.

“I see.”

Some of that tightness leaves his face, and we stare at each other, both of us breathing harder than is necessary. He’s just so . . . full of himself!

“I am not.”

I must have said it aloud.

I shake my head. “I don’t watch TV. I don’t know football. Even if I did, I’d avoid you both like the plague. I like my dates to be sweet. Also not liars.”

Jack winces. “Elena . . .” But he doesn’t finish it, and Devon takes over.

“I’m sweet,” Devon says with a pout.

But I’m barely listening.

I study the planes of Jack’s face, trying to understand him. He’s not . . . he’s not the same man from last night. That person was into me, his kisses deep, like red wine, dark and rich and intoxicating—

Forget that.

“I just came back here to get my underwear.”

Jack scrubs his face, his tone softening. “Elena, please, this isn’t the place. People listen to every conversation I have. Can we just talk somewhere more private?”

Like his penthouse? Ha.

I shake my head. I get that he’s famous. He was on a billboard in New York, but . . .

“Was nothing real with you?” I ask.

Devon looks away from us, fidgeting, and I guess I’m saying too much, and it draws me up. Ugh. This isn’t me. I don’t walk into VIP rooms and approach superstar athletes. I lick my wounds and move on.

My anger deflates, and a long exhalation leaves me. Fine, fine.

I’ve had my say. I should go. I eye the exit.

“Elena, wait . . .” He shoves a hand through his hair, the golden highlights glinting. “Look, it’s just . . . this is such a coincidence, and a VIP party is the last place I’d thought you’d appear.” He pauses. “This isn’t how I wanted to see you again.”

Yeah, because he had three girls with him.

“Hey. I don’t think we’ve met,” comes a male voice who’s joined our little circle. “Aiden Woods, quarterback. Saw you walk in. Love the pants.”

Damn these pants. I take my eyes off Jack to see the guy who has slid up next to us. He’s young, a classic boy-next-door type, his chin square, dimples in his cheeks. He takes my hand and shakes it.

“Alabama, chill. She’s with Jack and me,” Devon says in exasperation.

Aiden—or Alabama—gives me a wide smile. “You open for a foursome too?”

“She doesn’t do that,” Jack growls. “She’s not a jersey chaser.”

I don’t even know what a jersey chaser is.

“Huh. I haven’t seen you around. You got a name?” Alabama asks me, ignoring them. He hits me with light-blue eyes and an award-winning smile.

Jack bumps his shoulder with his. “No, she doesn’t have a name for you. She’s with me. She’s a lady.”

Well.

Well.

First I picked him up, and now I’m a lady? Does he have emotional whiplash?

Jack’s got his focus on Alabama, who seems cool as a cucumber, even after the shoulder bump. I sense backstory.

“I like ladies,” Alabama murmurs, giving me a cocky grin. “I take it you’re friends with Jack. How did you two meet?”

I lick my lips, choosing my words carefully. I may be angry with Jack, but I don’t want to cause any problems for him. “We just met,” I tell him.

“Really?” he replies. “Because he’s barely taken his eyes off you since you walked up. Did you call him ‘weatherman’? Is that a cute nickname you two have?”

Alabama is pushy—but charming with that southern accent.

“No,” I reply. Short. Succinct.

Jack’s nose flares as he watches us. He leans down and whispers something in Devon’s ear, too low for me to hear. Devon watches my face, listening to Jack and nodding.

“I bet they’re plotting to get you away from me,” Alabama murmurs as he leans his head down to me. “Jack’s a bit territorial. You sure you guys aren’t dating?”

“Nope.” We just had sex.

“Which means you’re available?”

Good Lord. I stare at him. “Do all football players just assume every woman in the place wants them?”

He lifts his hands. “Yeah.”

Jack and Devon finish their conversation, and Devon sends me a big smile. “Um, you ready to get out of here?”

Jack’s eyes cling to mine, searching before looking away. “I’m sure she is,” he says tightly.

He’s getting rid of me.

“So ready,” I mutter.

Alabama gives me a disappointed look, but I don’t think it’s so much about him finding me attractive but more along the lines of who I am to Jack. “Hey, it was nice to meet you. Maybe I’ll see you again.”

I nod.

Devon hooks my hand through his bent arm, and we leave the VIP room. He is oddly quiet, his brow pulled down as we go back to the bar.

I plop down on the barstool and send a glance up at the huge glass window where the VIP room is.

Is he watching us right now?

Or is he already squished between three models?

Who cares?