Page 3 of Flawless

It would have been easy for me to stay at home with my little girl and spend some much-needed time with her. I’ll have her next month for two months straight, and I cannot wait. It’s been three months since I last saw her since we’ve been practicing getting to where we got to tonight; winning the FIFA World Cup.

A titter of laughter has me turning my head in the direction it came from. I swear it seems as if the entire world just stopped. It’s her.

The woman from my games. Her smile is brilliant and warm. Hazel green eyes glow in the night, rivaling the fairy lights that decorate the trees. Those pink, plump, sultry lips are more beautiful than the rose garden surrounding us, and her golden-hued skin, with its honey glow, shines underneath the moonlight.

I swear she’s the most beautiful girl that I’ve ever seen. Sharp cheekbones lift as her gaze meets mine, and a shy smile lights the night.

I could stare at her forever and never get tired of looking at her. I suspect that she’s as beautiful inside as she is outside.

She doesn’t even seem to be aware of her beauty. Somehow, my feet take on a mind of their own, and I find myself propelled in her direction with no mental awareness of what’s happening.

“Hello,” she greets me when I stop in front of her.

Extending my hand, I say, “Hello, I’m Zenon Diaz.”

“Mr. Twenty-Four starts, three assists, thirty-four shots, four goals, and two red cards, although I call bullshit on the second one. I know who you are,” she says, taking my hand and shaking it.

Pressing my hand against my chest, I say, “Damn, a girl after my own heart.”

Laughing, she replies, “I’m a huge fan, Mr. Diaz.”

“Zenon, please.”

“Zenon. I’m Danica Maxwell.”

Shaking my head, I say, “That name sounds very familiar. Not the last name but the first name.”

She smiles humbly and says, “Maybe someday you’ll figure out where you’ve heard it before.”

“Maybe. You’ve attended the last few games that we’ve had at home.”

“I love soccer, and I check out a game whenever I’m home.”

“I appreciate the support.”

“But of course.”

“Can we step away from the music? Maybe find a quiet place to talk?” I suggest.

“Sure,” she says, with a pleasant smile, accepting my extended hand as I lead her to the tulip gardens on the other side of the mansion.

Her warm, well-manicured hand fits into mine perfectly. She gives mine a little squeeze with light laughter. The touch, the squeeze, and the laughter all shoot straight to my groin.

We spend the next couple of hours talking about everything from our favorite music, books, and entertainers to the types of cars we drive, soccer, politics, and our interests. I find it easy to talk to her and wonder where she’s been all my life.

“So, how did you end up living here in Italy?” I ask.

“My career brought me here.”

“What do you do for a living?” I ask, realizing that’s one of the few topics we haven’t discussed.

Smiling, she asks, “You genuinely don’t know?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Can we leave it that way?” she asks softly, looking away from me and up at the moon.

We’re sitting on a fountain, and Danica leans back, placing her hands behind her. Her long, elegant neck is exposed, and her tiny breasts point at the sky. Through the sheer, yellow dress she’s wearing with a royal blue, fitted slip underneath, I see the outline of her beautiful curves, and I want more.

---