Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113330 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113330 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
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 current professional football 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 me anything true 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.
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 only a professional quarterback—he’s the top 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 led his team—the Michigan Wolverines, not the 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 bet everyone wanted 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 the only thing 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, very single. 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 in motion now.
We’re heading toward our first snorkeling location of the day.
Roman and the yacht boy are nowhere to be found.