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)
“Football is one aspect of me, and my son is another. There’s a lot more to me than either of those things.”
I glare at him with skepticism. “All I’m saying is, if you were truly being your authentic self, other than about football, like you said on the yacht, then the fucking gym owner would have had a four-year-old son who lives in LA.”
Roman looks pissed. But I don’t care. I said what I said.
“The truth is optional, as far as you’re concerned. Is that it? You tell it, sure, but only when it serves you.”
He rolls his eyes.
“When I found out about your real identity, I remembered how you’d pretended to be protecting me and my identity in that grocery store, when in fact, you were only protecting yourself all along. But I shrugged it off. Well, now I know: This is just how you operate.”
“Jesus, Iris.”
That’s all he manages in reply. Before he says more, a man and his son approach the table, and we both sharply lean back and look away, our cheeks and eyes blazing.
“Sorry to bother you, Roman,” the man says. “I normally wouldn’t bother you when you’re on a date, but it’s my son’s fifteenth birthday, and he was too shy to ask for a photo. I told him I’d ask for one as a birthday present.”
Roman’s face is beet-red, but he manages the same smile he flashed the woman in the grocery store. The same one he flashed that crew member on the yacht, too. The false, fake, lying one he’s a little too adept at flashing, if you ask me.
“Of course. Happy birthday.” Roman takes the photo, signs the cocktail napkin offered to him, and talks to the kid about his love of football. And through it all, I feel like I’m going to scream.
The fact that Roman is a father isn’t what’s pissing me off. Who cares, since I’ll never see him again after tomorrow? It’s that the mutual connection I’d thought our souls had formed this week doesn’t feel remotely possible anymore. I mean, yes, I knew it was all a fantasy on some level. But still, I feel duped. Not to the same degree as when I found Brandon’s burner phone, obviously, but fresh on the heels of that fiasco, I’m still raw enough to feel like those same wounds are taking another hit.
Roman speaks, jerking me from my spiraling thoughts. “Sorry to cut this short,” he says, “but like you said, I’m on a date, so . . .” He motions to me, prompting both father and son to peel their eyes off their idol and look at me for the first time during this encounter.
“Oh my God,” the kid blurts, his eyes bulging. “You’re the runaway bride from the video!”
Fuck.
I inhale sharply, too stunned to reply.
Why, oh why, did I put on makeup and do my hair to come out to this restaurant? How did I not realize that simple act would break my streak of anonymity?
“She’s been getting that all week,” Roman says smoothly, without missing a beat. Proving, once again, he’s a bit too good at lying for my taste. “I haven’t seen the video,” he continues, “but people keep saying the resemblance is uncanny. Happy birthday again.” He pats the kid’s back and then practically shoves him toward his father to make him go away, but the kid stands firm and ogles me.
“You look exactly like her,” the kid says, eyeing me suspiciously. “I’ve watched the video a bunch of times.”
“It’s not her,” Roman barks. This time, his tone isn’t nearly as friendly.
The father grabs his kid’s arm and pulls. “Sorry, Roman. We’ll leave you alone. Go Crusaders.”
As they walk away, I cover my face with my hands. “I think I might throw up.”
“Iris, come on.” There’s unmistakable irritation in Roman’s tone. “One person recognized you this entire week? That’s pretty good odds, when you think about how many people we’ve interacted with or passed on the street. Plus, the kid wasn’t even sure it was you.” He takes a long sip of his water and places his forearm on the table. “About my son. I never talk about him with people I don’t know, okay? So I was never gonna mention him to you, not in the beginning. For days, that simply wasn’t an option. But I’m mentioning him to you now. And not only that, I’m sitting here telling you about my new fucking team, which is highly confidential. Don’t you think that’s ‘telling,’ too—or do I not get any credit for that?”
He’s not coming across as furious. Only severely annoyed and testy. But it’s enough to make me realize, once again, he’s definitely not the perfect Prince Charming I’ve been making him out to be in my mind. “‘Credit’?” I mutter. “What does that mean?”