My brows drew together. The name didn’t register, and yet he was looking at me anxiously, as if waiting for me to react to it. “Sorry . . . I don’t know that name.”
“Well, believe me, that’s a good thing. For you and me.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. You’ve met me before all of the public assumptions have.”
“Assumptions?”
He sighed and wiped my finger clean. “Never mind.”
“Are you good friends with Lola Maxwell?” I asked.
“More so her husband. We’ve golfed together a few times. I donated to her cause and he invited me.”
“Must be nice.”
“Eh, well, when you’ve been deemed one of the best golfers in America, it makes golfing with amateur friends a little boring.”
“Wait. What? One of the best golfers in America?”
“Ah. So you aren’t pretending you don’t know who I am just to be nice?” He smiled wide and revealed two rows of white teeth.
“No, I’m not kidding. I have no idea who you are and if that’s a blow to your ego, sorry, bud. I don’t know much about golfing. I mean, I know of Tiger Woods—what Black person doesn’t—but I don’t sit around watching his games, you know?”
“Yeah. I get that.” He opened a bandage and wrapped it around my finger. “All done.”
I wiggled my finger. It was sore but not horrible. “Thank you.”
He closed the first aid kit and replaced it and then looked at me. He was close again and I hadn’t realized before, with all the blood and anxiety swirling like a cocktail around me, but his cologne smelled really good. Expensive, but not too overpowering. Sandalwood with a hint of citrus.
“Well, I should get back,” Roland murmured. “Party’s almost over.”
“Yeah. I should too.”
It was funny. We both knew we should have been getting back to it, but this moment felt unfinished. We sort of lingered and fidgeted on our feet. He moved left and I moved right, both of us trying to exit the bathroom at the same time.
I laughed, and he chuckled and then gestured out of the bathroom. “After you.”
I smiled and made my way out. When we were outside again, fireworks were going off and the guests were cheering as they stared up at the show, drinks in hand and mesmerized smiles on their faces, their eyes sparkling. The bright colors lit up the night sky and I looked over at him as he stood on the grass, sliding one hand into his front pocket and peering up.
He looked like a god standing there, with his strong shoulders and powerful build. There was a loneliness about him, and I wanted to ask him more questions, like why his day had been rough too. I wanted to listen to him talk some more because he didn’t seem like much of a talker, so I bet hearing his voice was a privilege.
But I had priorities that night and I couldn’t spend my time standing on the grass talking to some supposedly famous golfer.
Before I could walk away, he asked, “It was Samira, right?” I turned around to him and there was a soft smile on his lips, his hazel eyes gentle yet intense. He looked at me like he wanted to know every single thing about me, and I was sure I was looking at him the same way.
“Yes, Samira,” I called out as the music from the party started up again. “And no, Roland Graham. Just because you’re a famous golfer and let me bloody your handkerchief doesn’t mean I’m going to give you my number.” I smiled hard at him and trotted off, and I as I did, I could still feel his eyes on me.
There was a spark between us and if I was right about my instincts, he’d find me again before the night was over.
CHAPTER SIX
I was right. Roland did find me again, but it didn’t happen at the party. Apparently, he’d gotten in touch with Abby, who went against the rules and sent my number to him. How do I know this? Because he told me over a drink at a bar.
The day after the party, Roland had texted me asking “Guess who?” and frankly, I had no idea who the hell it was. I gave my number to guys all the time for quick hookups, and since I wasn’t in the mood for a hookup and was constantly thinking about Roland Graham standing in front of those fireworks like a god, I spent the better half of the next day ignoring that message.
But then he called around midnight and told me it was him and I felt like a fool. If he hadn’t called, I wouldn’t have known it was him at all and would have missed the opportunity to see him again. Because that was all I really wanted—to see him again—but he was way out of my league. Women probably flirted with him all the time. I was no different . . . and yet, he’d called. He’d taken the first step.