With shaking hands, I click the link for Roman’s Wikipedia page and quickly scan for the name of his college. Motherfucker! Roman went to Michigan, not UT Austin?Why lie about that?
I go back to the top and devour the entire write-up without breathing and discover the following:
Roman Maguire, the man I’ve been showering with and kissing like he’s the teenage boyfriend I never got to have in Orchard Blossom, the man I’ve babbled my entire life story to, basically, isn’t onlyaprofessional quarterback—he’sthetop quarterback in the NFL. An “elite” one, anyway, even according to his detractors. Also, he’s the face of several major brands. A face I probably would have seen in a bunch of TV commercials if I’d ever once sat down to watch a football game on TV.
I lean against the small bathroom sink and keep reading, breathing deeply so I won’t faint or barf. In college, Roman ledhis team—the Michigan Wolverines,notthe Longhorns of UT Austin—to back-to-back national championships, and he also won the Heisman Trophy. I don’t know much about football, but even I know all of that is a really big deal. No wonder Roman was drafted as the overall first pick. I beteveryonewanted to draft Roman Maguire after the success he’d had in college.
I scan the list of Roman’s records and accomplishments and find out, to this day, he holds a bunch of passing records and other accolades. The one thing Roman’s never done? He’s never taken home a Super Bowl ring, despite making it to the game three different times. I don’t know much about football, so maybe I’m wrong, but it seems to me a Super Bowl win is theonlything Roman hasn’t accomplished in his long and storied career.
I look up from my phone, hyperventilating. Sweating. Freaking out. Why has a superstar quarterback in the NFL been romancing a nobody preschool teacher from a small town this week, when he could have been romancing any woman he wants? A supermodel or actress. A rocket scientist, brain surgeon. Why me?
When my stomach churns with a horrible thought, I quickly return to my phone and search: “Roman Maguire, wife, girlfriend.” Thankfully, everything that comes up confirms Roman is, indeed, single. By all accounts, very,verysingle. So at least he didn’t lie about that. In fact, based on the string of gorgeous women seen on Roman’s arm, it seems like he’s quite a player. And it’s no wonder. With his options, why would Roman ever feel like he has to choose?
Trembling, I splash cold water on my face until I don’t look like I’ve got a cattle prod shoved up my ass anymore. Yes, I still look red and blotchy, but I can now believably tell Roman that’s because I’m feeling seasick, and not because I’ve discovered he’s a goddamned football superstar with the entire world at his feet.
Shoot. I’ve been gone a full ten minutes. Roman and that yacht guy probably think I’ve fallen into the toilet or had bowel-
clearing diarrhea in here.
Still quaking, I sit down and try to pee as best as I can, since returning to the bathroom in thirty minutes would probably elicit concern from Roman. And when that bit of business is done, I take a deep, steadying breath and stride through the bathroom door with my stomach in knots and a cheerful smile plastered on my blotchy, tight face.
Chapter 20
Iris
The yacht’s inmotion now.
We’re heading toward our first snorkeling location of the day.
Roman and the yacht boy are nowhere to be found.
Still breathing hard, I wander outside the main cabin and discover the pair leaning on the railing while overlooking the sparkling ocean. As I get closer, I make out Roman’s low voice. He’s chatting amiably with the crew member, and whatever he’s saying, he’s got the crew member’s undivided attention.
It occurs to me the woman in the grocery store was the same way. The cashier, too. Hanging on his every word. And now I know why. Because he’s Roman freaking Maguire, not some gym owner from Delaware.
I suddenly realize a whole bunch of people have been reacting to Roman exactly like those two women in the market and this crew guy, but I’ve idiotically chalked it up to Roman being jaw-droppingly gorgeous or memorable, for some reason, as a college player. No wonder Roman wanted to get out of that market quickly on day one! It wasn’t because he was protectingmefrom unwanted attention, like I thought. No, Roman didn’t want those women unwittingly blowinghiscover, the same way this crew member just did!
“Hey, you,” Roman says as I come to a stop next to him. “Everything okay?”
“It’s great. I was just feeling a little bit seasick, but I’m okay now.”
Roman furrows his brow. “This fast? We just left the dock.”
“It came on quick.”
“Would you like some Dramamine, miss?” the crew member asks politely.
“No, I think I’m okay now. Let’s do the tour.”
Roman takes my sweaty palm, and we follow the crew guy, Artemis, through the vessel as he provides us with factoids about everything. Throughout the tour, Roman seems remarkably chatty and relaxed, and not the least bit suspicious of me, so I feel confident I’ve somehow managed to maintain a poker face for the first time in my life.
The tour ends, and Roman and I settle onto lounge chairs on the top deck to await the arrival of our cocktails and appetizers.
“I’ll tell Leo where to find you,” Artemis says as he departs. “Enjoy.”
“Isn’t this amazing?” I say brightly when the crew member is gone. “I’ve never been—”
“You googled me in the bathroom.”
