“A bit of advice, Roman? Never argue with a woman. If she’s willing to argue about something in the first place, then that means she has good reason to be confident in her position.”
“Words to live by, Captain,” Roman says, his dark eyes sparkling. “I’ll definitely keep that in mind.”
“Are you ready to come aboard?” the captain asks.
“The ‘yacht,’ you mean?” I ask, innocently, and Roman laughs all over again.
Once we’re aboard and standing in the main entrance room—a large space that features couches and a dining table—we’re welcomed by a line of four uniformed crew members.
Down the line, all four people express obvious enthusiasm about Roman’s presence, while I’m greeted, by contrast, with what feels like a far more detached, albeit pleasant, professionalism. Did someone look Roman up before our arrival today and figure out they were about to spend the day with a bigshot former college football player? I suppose that’s possible, but I’m increasingly beginning to think Mr. Roman No-Last-Name from Delaware has something far more notable on his résumé than “gym owner” and “former college football player.” If true, what could it be? I have no freaking idea. For all I know, my hunch is way off the mark, and my suspicions the simple by-product of me watching too many movies where royalty pretends to be a commoner to escape the rigors of their gilded cage.
One of the uniformed crew members steps forward and says, “I’m Leo, and I’ll be your butler today. Would you care for some light snacks and cocktails on the upper deck while we head to your first snorkeling location?”
“Sounds great,” Roman says. He looks at me, his eyebrows raised, and I agree that sounds like a fabulous plan, at which point Leo takes our drink orders and confirms the appetizers we’d like to be served.
“So fancy,” I murmur to Roman. Once again, I find myself wondering how a gym owner/personal trainer can afford all these expensive, private excursions, day after day. Not to mention, all the room service Roman’s ordered for us at night after we’ve come back from our latest fabulous adventure. I sure hope Roman hasn’t been going into credit card debt to impress me, when I would have been happy with free hikes and simple picnics every day.
Roman did say he trains professional athletes, though. Surely, professionals are willing to pay exorbitant fees to get the very best trainers, given what’s at stake for them. And what professional athlete with money to burnwouldn’twant to hire a trainer who looks like a professional athlete himself?
Leo, our butler for the day, draws me from my thoughts by motioning to a younger man in uniform next to him. “This is Artemis. He’ll give you a tour of the vessel while I get everything ready for you. Relax wherever you like, and I’ll find you.”
“Sounds good, Leo,” Roman says. “Thanks.”
The younger man in uniform, Artemis, steps forward and says, “Hello, Mr. Maguire. Miss Benedetto. Welcome aboard.”
My heart stops.
Maguire.
He’s Roman Maguire.
Jackpot.
I feel like every inch of my skin has burst into flames, but still, I try to keep a neutral face.
As Roman shakes Artemis’s hand, I peek at Roman’s face to see if he’s noticed this young man announcing our last names to each other, but Roman looks as cool as a cucumber. Same as always. Either he didn’t notice the comment, he doesn’t care, or he’s far better at keeping a poker face than me.
As Roman shakes Artemis’s hand, he says, “Nice to meet you, Artemis. Please, call me Roman.”
So much for Roman not noticing.
“Yes, sir.”
“And call me Iris,” I join in. But thanks to the adrenaline ravaging me, my words hurtle out in a far higher octave than normal.
“Hello, Miss Iris. Thank you. Are you ready for a tour now?”
“I could use a quick bathroom break first,” I choke out, feeling physically dizzy with the need to enter Roman’s full name into the browser on my phone. Is Roman feeling a similar urge, now that Artemis said mylast name, too? If so, he won’t find anything I haven’t already told him. Unlike my mysterious and tight-lipped bungalow-mate, I’ve been an open book this whole week.
Artemis gives directions to the closest bathroom, and I walk calmly toward it without glancing back at Roman. I’ve always had a terrible poker face—hence, the reason my brother always beats me when we play—and I don’t want Roman suspecting what I’m about to do.
Inside the tiny bathroom, I hurriedly close the door, pull out my phone, and search the name “Roman Maguire” with bated breath, along with “UT Austin,” “football,” and “tight end.”
Instantly, a smiling photo of Roman pops up onto my screen. To my shock, he’s wearing a purple Baltimore Crusaders’ uniform and holding on to a football. The caption under the photo reads, “Roman Maguire, Quarterback.”
Roman’s a quarterback?For the Baltimore Crusaders? Currently? As in, the Roman I’ve been having sex with, and flitting around the island with, and chatting up a storm with is a currentprofessionalfootball player—not a gym owner from Delaware?
My brain feels like it’s melting and my eyes feel like they’re popping out of my head. Did Roman tell meanythingtrue about himself this week? In a flash, I feel like I’m back in that horrible moment with my fiancé’s secret phone: the moment I opened it and discovered nothing I’d believed about Brandon—and, by extension, about myself—was the truth.
