Page 13 of The Challenger

I order a classic margarita, no salt, and whatever Chavez wants is communicated with a simple meeting of the eyes. Mateo leaves us to settle into our comfy velvet seats, two of eight fancifully carved wooden chairs circling a tabletop of white marble. Chavez unfurls a napkin and drapes the square of linen onto my lap. He smells divine, the signature tang of Aveda product wafting from his hair.

“You make tamales?” he asks.

"I'm more of an advanced recipe follower than a legitimate chef," I admit. "But I enjoy cooking. It's relaxing."

He strokes the feathers on my wrist with a thoughtful expression. “A beautiful cook and a former tennis player. How did I get so lucky?”

It’s already toasty from the candelabra that’s lit up and glowing in the corner with more white candles than I can count. But the heat blooming between my boobs has nothing to do with that. It sounds like some equal-opportunity online investigation went down.

“How do you know I played tennis?”

“Ah, busted,” he says, and fuck me, is he beyond adorable with that embarrassed smile. “I downloaded all your books from Amazon today. I’m only forty pages into the first one but so far, super impressed with your writing.”

I feel my pulse pick up. Chavez reading my work feels stranger than when Oprah and all her accolades did. And I didn’t peg him to be a reader.

“You still play?” he asks.

“Three or four times a week. When I’m in town.”

“You wanna hit together sometime?”

How a person plays the game of tennis is a window into their soul. I would love to play with him, but there are other things I want to do more. "When are you back in town?"

He never answers the question because Mateo reappears with our drinks. Much to my dismay, a large bottle of San Pellegrino and two glasses land with my amber margarita. There goes my game plan of drunken debauchery to end the night.

“You didn’t order a drink?” I ask.

“Nope,” he says. “I don’t drink. I mean, I did the ten-year-old thing of chugging beer and pretending it was fun, but I’m not into altered states. This,” he says, pointing to himself, “is enough for me. No additions required. But don’t let that stop you from getting tipsy.”

Mateo rattles off another diatribe in Spanish with Chavez either nodding or making a sign of no with his hand.

“They’re going to whip up something special for us," Chavez explains. “Any allergies?”

“No allergies. I eat everything. And maybe what’s on your plate, too.”

I knock him with my elbow and he smiles, understanding my dig. “Nice try,” he says.

And then finally, we are alone. The door shut tight behind Mateo, the decibel level manageable, and Chavez raising a glass after pouring both of us water. He is also a believer in eye contact during the toast, but the trouble is, I cannot stop staring. For someone who’s been crawling through the relationship desert for what feels like an eternity, Chavez bathed in candlelight shimmers like the world’s sexiest mirage.

“Salud,” he says. “Gracias por venir.”

“Salud por una gran noche,”I reply.

His smile falters. “You speak Spanish?”

“Un poco.”

I clink his glass and savor the burn of reposado sliding down my throat that almost, but not quite, delivers the same hot thrill as his stunned expression.

* * *

As it turns out,hoarding food is the least of our concerns. Thank God for the giving properties of jersey, because this mama’s belly swells into second-trimester territory after being served a banquet fit for six.

“Oof,” I say, setting down my fork. “I am stuffed.”

Chavez polishes off the last tamale and licks his fingers. “Was I right about how good these are?”

Everything was good, including how easily our conversation flowed. Mind you, I’ve mastered the art of keeping people talking about themselves. Chavez tried to lob a question out here and there to get me talking, but a strategically placed hand on his thigh did wonders to distract him. Still, he didn’t back down from asking about my family, forcing me to reveal a slippery half-truth—that my parents are deceased. A conversation-killing topic if there ever was one, we circle back to tennis and his upcoming season.

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