He walked right up to the counter, said his name, and I checked him in. While I did, I snuck a glance at his fingers. No wedding band. That was a surprise.
“You’ll be in room 1303, Mr. Graham.”
“Oh, come on now,” he said, sliding his credit card into his wallet. “Mr. Graham was my grandfather. Call me Roland.”
I laughed. “I’m almost certain every man has used that line—Mr. So-and-So is my father slash grandfather.”
“I believe that’s because thirty-year-olds don’t want to be called mister.” He smirked and cocked his head at me.
And I remember saying something along the lines of, “Okay, then. Mr. Roland. Enjoy your stay, and good luck in the tournament.” I smiled way too hard and he laughed, clearly amused.
His smile was easygoing as he turned away with his rolling suitcase. I watched him go, and as I did I remembered something a friend in the past said to me: “If a man looks back when you meet him, he’s interested.”
And sure enough, as Roland stood in front of the elevator and waited, he peered over his shoulder at me. Our eyes connected, his a beautiful hazel pool that I could have stared into all day, and then the elevator doors parted open for him.
I worked all weekend, and just so happened to bump into him several times inside the hotel. I’d see him at breakfast, eating grapefruit and oatmeal, or he’d pass by the front desk as he spoke to some of the guests of the tournament, but not without swinging his eyes over to me as he did it.
Sometimes he’d call the front desk, which I assumed was on purpose, and request extra linens. I would pretend to be professional, and he’d thank me in his warm voice, and I’d hang up with a smile that I couldn’t push away.
Eventually, with all of our running into each other, he asked me out. He wanted to take me to dinner after he won—which he was sure he would do—and had asked me just as I was wrapping up my shift for the night. He’d caught me about to leave the hotel, my purse strapped around me and my work jacket folded over my forearm.
“You’re a smug bastard, aren’t you?” I teased in response to his bragging about winning.
He laughed in return, looking me in the eyes. “I will win.”
“How are you so sure?”
“Because I’m that good.”
“So cocky.”
“Wanna bet on it?”
“Depends on what we’re betting.”
“Dinner,” he said. “I win, and you have to come out to dinner with me after the tournament.”
“Okay.” I grinned. “And if you lose?”
He collected his bag of golf clubs. “I won’t.”
His confidence was delicious. I swallowed it down like fine wine, absorbed the encounter in my mind to replay for the rest of the night.
And sure enough, he did win. And when he did, he didn’t wait around to take pictures, didn’t stop to talk or speak or celebrate with his peers. He came straight back to the hotel, found me fixing the display table, and spun me around with his trophy in hand. And then he said, “Told you I’d win.” And he kissed me. Just like that. Right in front of every person who’d watched him play, every sports journalist (because they’d all followed him inside too), every staff member.
And that’s when I fell in love with him. He was so bold. So daring. So confident. So . . . perfect. And he was one hell of a kisser. That night, he took me to dinner and used his prize money on me.
And then the tournament was over, and he had to go home.
His home . . . all the way in Colorado.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I slapped the journal closed.
“No, Samira. No.” I shook my head and stood. No. This journal was personal. She was writing about her marriage . . . about Roland. This was clearly sacred.
But I had so many questions. Why was she asking when her marriage went wrong? How could it have gone wrong? They were happy and in love. He loved her and she loved him, right?
I looked down at the front cover of the journal, then my eyes lifted to the bookshelf. I took down the rest of the journals, and all of them had her name and were numbered on the spine.
She had these journals made specifically so she could write in them about her marriage. Why? Who did something like that?
Did she want to share these one day? Was she writing a personal memoir? Roland told me she liked to write but never told me she was writing anything like this. So what the hell was she going to do with these? And why were they in the shed? Had Roland read them? Had his mother? Had anyone?
* * *
Later that night, as I washed my face and brushed my teeth, I watched Roland shuffle about in the walk-in closet. He pulled down a pair of plaid blue pajama pants and yawned, and I finished up just as he walked out of the closet.