Page 38 of The Challenger

“We’re all warriors trying to make it happen,” he says, as our bill arrives. “But let’s get out of here before he asks for help improving his serve.”

We join the strolling summer crowds and treat ourselves to artisanal scoops of fat-filled goodness. Dusk is two hours away, but the light is incredible, the city drenched in the gold of magic hour. We munch the last of our cones sitting on a bench in a small plaza, and Chavez slips his arm around my shoulder like it’s the most natural thing.

He plays absently with my curls and then asks, “Everything all right in your world, Miss Flynn?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Should I not kiss you in public?”

Oh, shit.

“Kissing me wasn’t the problem.”

“So there was a problem.”

He glances at me, and I feel a wave of nausea, no desire to be picked apart. “No,” I insist. “I mean, sorry, the wrong choice of words.”

Jeez. The princess of lies conducting herself in high style, yet again. And as if it isn’t obvious with all my limbs cranked tight like a pretzel. After a sticky silence, he caresses my bare kneecap with slow, lazy circles.

“I realize this all went down pretty quickly,” he says. “You’ve mentioned a few times how you like to feel safe, and then you jump on a plane to fly halfway around the world with a stranger. That’s very unsafe.” The pools of his eyes are hypnotically blue as they intently search mine. “I just wanted to say, no matter what happens, I want you to feel safe with me. Around me. Let me know what you need to make that happen, all right?”

He reaches for my hand, interlaces our fingers together and, oh my God, how do I not cry right now? How do I not collapse into his arms and tell him that is hands down the sweetest thing a guy has ever said to me?

“Look at me Flynn,” he murmurs, a fingertip on my far cheek steering me to his wish. His hair, normally black as boot polish, gleams like it’s been washed with diamond dust.

“What?”

“You’ve got something on your lips.”

Perfect. Here I am believing my world can somehow be right again and all he sees is the spinach clinging to my lip. I cuff my mouth and ask, “How long has it been there?”

“Not long enough.”

His lips land open on mine, both our mouths cool from dessert but eager and hot to get on with it. I can’t believe I fell for his trick, but I forgive him. The sweet chocolate on his tongue mingles with the salted caramel on mine, and I soar into the stratosphere, gravity leaving my body. He probes and teases and my brain screams,yes, yes, yes. Yes to him being handsy and me dissolving into nothing. Yes to the exotic world of his spicy cologne where we’re in Marrakesh on a pile of satin pillows and not on a hard bench in an outpost plaza going to town on each other.

You never know enough about yourself until you lose control, and we’re flat-out going in that direction when he suddenly breaks our kiss, leaving me blinded by the setting sun blazing nuclear gold.

“What … Why are you always stopping?” I ask.

I’m on system overload, practically shooting sparks, panting as if I sprinted around the block. Our drastic level of PDA has drawn a lovelorn look from a mother pushing noisy triplets in a stroller who looks ready to ditch them for a three-way with us if we say the word.

Chavez, also breathing hard, rearranges his mussed hair. “I have a proposition for you.”

“A proposition?”

His eyes are open wide, shining with delight, but that doesn’t sound encouraging.

“Your books got me thinking about goals and rewards. How important they are to achievement.”

Crap. I’m pretty sure I know what’s coming. “So…”

“So, after I win my first tournament, my reward will be you and me sleeping together.”

My stomach sinks. I knew it. “I haven’t agreed to anything beyond this tournament,” I remind him.

“I know,” he says, working the smile. “That’s your motivation to make sure I win.”

“But what if you don’t win?”

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