Chapter 7
Roman
This woman doesn’t know who I am.
I’m sure about that.
Add that to the list of things I’m finding intensely attractive about this unexpected gift from the universe.
We’re standing shoulder to shoulder in the small kitchen. While I cut up veggies to go on top of our turkey sandwiches, Iris is methodically cutting up a pineapple for a fruit salad. To put it mildly, I’m feeling a spark with this cutie. A big one.
With Iris’s sandy hair, adorable smattering of freckles, and sweet demeanor, she’s got a girl-next-door quality I’d find attractive in any scenario, I think.
But either way, I’m definitely feeling it while I’m here in vacation mode.
So much so, I’m hoping to steer things into the bedroom, if at all possible, at some point tonight.
I probably shouldn’t get ahead myself, since she’s still unvetted.
In theory, Iris could be another stalker like that wackadoodle in Philly.
Or she could be an ambitious sports reporter who’s tracked me down for an exclusive scoop after hearing rumblings about me not re-signing with the Crusaders.
I can’t fathom either scenario, though. Iris seems like a what-you-see-is-what-you-get type of person.
A genuine sweetheart. But then again, my dick has clouded my judgment before.
Maverick’s existence is proof of that. Same with the few situationships I’ve entertained since then, all of which quickly made me realize I’m not in the right headspace for anything serious.
“Mustard and mayo?” I ask, motioning to the two open-faced sandwiches on the counter.
“Mustard only for me.” Iris makes a cartoonish face of disdain that tells me she loathes mayo as much as I do.
“I can’t stand mayo, either,” I say with a chuckle.
“Then why do you have it in the fridge?”
Maverick. That’s the honest answer to the question.
My son devoured turkey sandwiches slathered in mayo all week, in between wolfing down Hawaiian ices and playing on the beach outside the bungalow.
But since I never talk about my son with unvetted strangers or the press, I reply with, “When my family was here for the wedding, we ate lots of sandwiches while hanging out at the beach.”
“Sounds fun.” She snickers. “Other than the mayo.”
We both laugh.
Iris points to a bowl of fruit on the counter. “Would it be okay for me to cut up that mango for the fruit salad?”
“Go for it. There’s a market down the road, so I can always get more. The fruit here is amazing. It tastes like candy.”
Taste.
Candy.
The combination of those two words on my tongue makes me think about the sight that greeted me when I slid open that shower curtain again.
Iris’s thighs spread wide in front of me.
Her head slung back as a groan escaped her.
The unexpected scene would have instantly turned my dick to steel, if I hadn’t been so damned shocked.
Once Iris bolted away with her panties down, however, and it became clear she wasn’t a stalker—that, in fact, she’d been every bit as blindsided by our unexpected encounter as me—my dick instantly started hardening.
That’s why I didn’t immediately follow Iris outside, even though I’d thrown on my clothes.
I had to wait for my hard-on to subside.
God help me, if I’d gone straight outside to greet my unexpected visitor with a massive bulge in my shorts, she might have called 911 on me.
I can practically hear the frantic 911 call about me now—one that would have made the rounds on social media with my smiling Crusaders photo as the visual.
I can’t afford bad press like that at any time, of course, but especially not now, when Cameron is trying to convince the Thunderbolts I’m their two-hundred-million-dollar man.
We add the finished fruit salad to our sandwich plates, grab our refilled glasses, and head outside to the deck.
“It’s so beautiful out here,” Iris proclaims as she takes a seat next to me on the outdoor couch. “Thank you so much for letting me hang out here, Roman.”
“You bet.”
Iris takes a bite of her sandwich and compliments it before returning her gaze to the beach. “This is why I came to Hawaii.”
I smile. “It doesn’t suck.”
She takes a bite of fruit, and her big, blue eyes go wide. “It really does taste like candy.”
Taste.
Candy.
Images of Iris’s most intimate body parts flicker across my mind again, this time coupled with the fantasy of me crawling between her legs to turn that pussy of hers into a meal. At the thought, my dick begins hardening, so I cover my rising bulge with my plate.
I shift in my seat. “So, what do you do back home?”
She lights up. “I’m a preschool teacher.”
If she were vetted, I’d probably mention I’ve got a preschooler myself. But as things stand, I refrain and ask if she likes her job.
“I love it,” Iris replies. “I leap out of bed to go to work every day.”
“What do you love most?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “The kids. They’re so pure and wholesome at that age. Also, hilarious. Three- and four-year-olds can be hysterically funny. Usually, without realizing it.”
Everything she’s said describes Maverick to a T. “Can you give me an example of something funny a kid has said or done without meaning to be funny?”
“I just witnessed the perfect example today. This comment wasn’t made to me; I simply witnessed it at the airport.
But it’s the first thing that popped into my head.
” She giggles at some memory. “While I was waiting in line for my rental car, a little boy ran out of the bathroom shouting to his grandma that he’d seen a whale in the bathroom.
The kid’s grandfather explained there was a mural painted on the wall—one with lots of sea creatures on it—so, the grandma asked the kid, ‘What else did you see in the bathroom?’ And .
. .” Iris cracks up in anticipation of whatever she’s going to say next.
“And the little boy answered, ‘My pee-pee!’”
I bust up along with her. That’s precisely the kind of thing my son would say.
It suddenly occurs to me I’ve never introduced Maverick to anyone I’ve dated before—and certainly not to anyone I’m merely fucking.
So, this topic of conversation feels like a first for me.
It’s not the same thing as a woman I’m attracted to actually meeting my son, of course, but hearing Iris talk with such warmth about kids Maverick’s precise age feels unexpectedly exciting to me—enough to turn up the heat on my already simmering attraction.
“Do you want to know the best part?” Iris asks, her beautiful face aglow.
“There’s more?” I retort playfully.
Iris nods gleefully. “Both grandparents belly laughed at the little boy’s cute response, rather than chastising or correcting him. I love seeing a child being raised by people with an understanding of their child’s stage of development. Not to mention, by people with a fantastic sense of humor.”
“That’s not always the case, huh?”
Iris frowns. “Sadly, no. In my line of work, I see lots of parents and grandparents who tell their child to hush, or to stop being rude or sassy or ‘inappropriate,’ when the poor kid was sincerely answering a question. Kids that age are very literal and wholesome, you know? They’re not trying to be subversive, for goodness’ sake. ”
I laugh at her word choice. The idea of Maverick trying to be subversive is genuinely hilarious to me.
Iris sips her drink and continues with, “I can always tell the kids who’ve been chastised one too many times at home for doing something they can’t help doing, versus the kids who live in an environment where they’re not afraid about saying the wrong thing.
A big part of my job is to make sure all the kids in my class feel like they’re always in a safe space with me. ”
I’m impressed. If Iris worked as a teacher at Maverick’s preschool in LA, I’d definitely want him to be assigned to her classroom. “The kids you teach are lucky to have you. You’re not only kind and bighearted, you seem really knowledgeable about your job, too.”
“Thank you so much. I’ve always loved kids, so I majored in child development.”
“How long have you been teaching?”
“Four years. I started right after college.”
For some reason, I suddenly remember the current lock screen on my phone is Maverick’s smiling face.
Shit. I don’t want her seeing that. I touch the pocket of my board shorts and look around, but I don’t see or feel my phone.
Did I leave it in the kitchen? “I’m gonna get myself another drink and some more fruit. Can I get you anything?”
“I’d love both. Thank you.”
I grab Iris’s plate and cup and mine and head into the kitchen.
Thankfully, I quickly find my phone sitting on the counter, face down.
Without delay, I swap out my lock screen of Maverick for a sunset photo I snapped this week.
When that task is completed, I refill both our glasses, slide the rest of the fruit onto our plates, and head back outside to Iris on the deck.
As I return to my seat, Iris asks, “So, what do you do for a living, Roman?”
Shit. I should have been prepared for that question, but I wasn’t. Probably because I can’t remember the last time a woman I’ve been hitting on didn’t already know what I do for work.
My brain quickly searches for an appropriate response—a believable profession for my vacation-time alter ego.
In a flash, I’ve got my answer when my offseason trainer’s face suddenly pops into my head.
“I own a specialty gym,” I say smoothly.
“We train professional and soon-to-be professional athletes.”
“Wow. That’s so cool.”