Chapter 19
Iris
I let out a playful tsk and poke Roman in the ribs. “This isn’t a boat.”
We’re walking hand in hand toward the purported “boat” Roman arranged for our snorkeling/jet-skiing/lunch-and-dinner/sunset-booze-cruise date today—and it’s now abundantly clear Roman grossly understated the size of the vessel we’ll be boarding today.
By now, though—at the start of our fourth full day together—I probably should have expected this kind of downplaying spin and humble generosity from Roman. I swear, he’s made me feel like a princess in a fairy tale all week.
Who’s my temporary Prince Charming when he’s back home in his real life?
I have no idea, since I still don’t know his last name and he’s weirdly tight-lipped about his life.
Unfortunately, other than bluntly asking Roman his last name—which I’m not willing to do, since he’s never asked for mine—I think I’ve finally reached the end of the road on all my ideas to figure him out.
After hitting a dead end with my internet searching, I thought about peeking at Roman’s driver’s license to get his last name.
But whenever he’s been in the shower or at the gym or on a run, he takes his phone with him, and since he’s got one of those slim wallet things that attach magnetically to the back of his phone, he takes his license with him, too.
Add to that, whenever we get back from that day’s fun adventure, we always have amazing sex, followed by food and cocktails and more sex, and then, I always wind up falling asleep first, in a blissful haze of sexual satisfaction.
Once, after Roman had gone outside to talk to his business partner, Cameron, I got the bright idea to sneakily call the front desk and ask for the full name of the bungalow’s registered occupant.
But even though I told the hotel clerk I’d been staying here with Roman all week, he was a snippy, tight-lipped little rule follower.
“Sorry, miss,” he said evenly. “I can’t give out that information to you or anyone, not even someone staying there with him. ” I was so embarrassed.
Another time, when Roman went to the gym, I searched the bungalow high and low for something with his full name on it—any receipt, boarding pass, luggage tag, or scrap of paper that might provide a clue about Roman’s identity.
But no such luck. Even the name tag on his suitcase reads simply: Roman.
No last name. No address. No phone number.
No email. God help the man if his luggage gets lost because then he’ll undoubtedly have to buy a whole new wardrobe, wherever he might be. But to each his own, I guess.
After all my fruitless searching and conniving, I’ve come to accept it’s probably a good thing I don’t know Roman’s last name.
For the best. Nobody’s perfect, after all.
Despite appearances. I’m sure Roman’s past girlfriends would attest to that fact and fill me in on a long list of his imperfections.
So, given that I’ve got no choice in the matter, I’ve decided to be grateful to get to spend a week with a man who seems perfect here, in paradise, but who couldn’t possibly maintain the illusion back home.
God knows the last time I snooped and secretly gathered information about a man, I got far more than I bargained for and got knocked onto my ass.
At this point, if Roman isn’t truly as wonderful as he appears be, I don’t think my wounded, still-raw heart could handle finding that out.
“Of course, it’s a boat,” Roman retorts playfully, drawing me from my thoughts. “It’s a vessel designed to float on and traverse water with passengers and/or cargo. That’s the very definition of a boat.”
I laugh and point at the large watercraft in our sights. “No. That, sir, is a yacht.” I look down at my bikini top, running shorts, and flip-flops. “If you’d told me we’d be traveling in such style today, I would have dressed up.”
Roman scoffs. “For snorkeling and lying around in the sun?” He squeezes my hand. “You look perfect, Iris. Gorgeous, as always.”
My heart skips a beat. He’s always saying stuff like that, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Being around Roman makes me realize how much I love words of affirmation.
I told myself I didn’t need them when I was with Brandon, probably out of emotional self-preservation, but now I know I do, and I’ll never settle for less.
Assuming I’m ever in a new relationship again, that is. At the moment, that’s hard to fathom.
“Welcome,” a man in uniform says as we stop in front of him. “I’m your captain for today.” He introduces himself and shakes Roman’s hand vigorously while telling Roman it’s a pleasure to meet him.
His greeting seems particularly enthusiastic. So much so, it makes me think about that lady in the market on day one. Her eyes lit up at the sight of Roman in this same exact way. Does this captain guy remember Roman from his college playing days, too?
Roman gestures to me. “Captain, this is my date, Iris.”
The captain shakes my hand. “Welcome, Miss Iris. Anything you need or want today, you let us know.”
I can’t help noticing the captain’s greeting to me, while polite and professional, was far less enthusiastic than the one he gave to Roman. Are my Spidey-Senses correct and this man is geeked out to have Roman, specifically, spending the day aboard his yacht?
“I actually do have a question for you,” I say. I motion to the vessel docked behind him. “Would you call that a ‘boat’ or a ‘yacht,’ Captain?”
Even before the man answers me, Roman throws his head back and belly laughs, which, in turn, makes me bust up along with him.
“A ‘yacht,’” the captain replies. “But you can call it anything you want, miss, and nobody will correct you.”
Still chuckling with Roman, I poke his arm and shoot a scathing look at him—one that communicates, “I told you so!”—and Roman breaks up all over again.
“I’m sensing I’ve handed Iris a win in an argument,” the captain says.
“More like a friendly dispute,” Roman replies. “But yes. You just handed her the win, so thanks a lot.”
“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 burn wouldn’t want 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?”