Page 3 of The Challenger

“How old are you?” I ask.

“Old enough to know what I’m doing.”

“And you’re assuming I’m single?”

“Fortune favors the bold, right? I’m all about taking my chances.”

He curls his fists to reveal the wordsFEARandLESSinked across his right and left knuckles. Hand tattoos are not on the top-five list of what I’m looking for in a man, but gah, his mouth. It brings to mind dirty kisses in the rain that go on forever. With lots of tongue.

Perhaps I search his dreamy face too long for his liking.

Maybe he has no clue I’m processing multiple layers of rationalization.

Or maybe it’s a game for him after all.

“But hey,” he says, dropping his hands as if I’ve personally rejected them, “if you’re one of those chicks who likes to play hard to get, I’m out. I don’t have time to chase women. Leaving it up to you.”

No time to chase but lots of time to put on one hell of a show with his insouciant strut down the hall. Molded onto a butt built for serious thrusting, his canary-yellow shorts are the equivalent of an amber traffic light.

Slow down and proceed with caution.

Madison watches him go with a snorting laugh. “Unbelievable, huh? Some guys think they’re God’s gift to women. He probably figured since you’re old he could—”

“Old?” I interrupt.

“What I meant is, he’s only twenty-five.”

“How do you know?”

“He’s plastered all over the internet,” she says, emphasizinginternetin the event I need a refresher on this marvelous invention. “Supposedly he got kicked off the tour for anger management issues.”

Madison is now zero for two in keeping client information confidential, although the bubble of familiarity I feel with Chavez now makes sense.

“What’s his band called?” I ask.

“Notthatkind of tour. The tennis tour. He’s a tennis player. Chavez Delgado.” She shrugs. “I guess he’s a big deal. Or he was.”

Hearing his name and tennis sends a spasm through my right elbow. A ghostly reminder that at one point in my life, I knew who all the top tennis players were. I don’t track the detailed comings and goings of the sport anymore, but you have to be living under a rock not to have heard of Chavez. I couldn’t make the connection because the context was out of place. Who expects an infamous tennis star to slum it in a shrink’s office with Enya warbling over the speakers?

“Just so you know,” Madison adds, “he asked for my number last week, but I didn’t give it to him. It’s your call if you want to leave yours.”

I’m more than a little interested to see where a future conversation with Chavez might lead, but there is no way I’m picking up Madison’s sloppy seconds. Plus, I’ve made a vow never to date tennis players. It’s too personal—a reminder of the scars, inside and out. And I’ve got enough on my plate. Like the reason I came here in the first place, unshowered, without makeup, in a dress crumpled from lying on the floor overnight.

All that and Chavez still called me beautiful.

A dark feathering sensation begins to choke my throat. I shut my eyes and tell myself,Breathe, Flynn. Don’t forget to breathe.

“You okay?” Madison asks, genuinely concerned.

No, I’m not, although I should be. Isell books by the truckload and host events streamed live into ten different countries.I am my own freaking industry.But like I said, every woman tells lies in Los Angeles. So I tell Madison I’m fine, and no, I won’t be leaving my number because I’m already seeing someone. And I get the hell out of there before another lie leaves my lips.

ChapterTwo

I stumbleout of the elevator onto the rooftop parking lot and need a hot minute to center myself. To think about what just happened. Thirty-two years on this planet and never, not once, has any man made me orgasm without me intervening. How did Chavez spark an immoral glow between my legs with one rolling R when Dwayne from Denver couldn’t find my clit last night even if I’d supplied a flashlight and a map? And Chavez isn’t even my type. My preference is available and instantly forgettable men, not indifferent hot messes who are more famous than me.

But … fuck.

Our exchanges crackled hot like flames on bone-dry kindling, and I bet his twin pillows of lip pleasure would know what to do down south. He strikes me as the type who would push me against a wall and take me down right there and then, not caring in the least if my best blouse ripped in the process. If I wasn't wet enough, he would spit in his hand, tell me to spread 'em, and slather me up. Most definitely not a romantic, but his laugh sounded kind, even under all the bravado.

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