Page 41 of The Challenger

“Lucky, considering I’m riding the elevator with the prettiest woman this side of Texas.”

His accent strips some of the cheese from that stinker line, but he has the good senses to blush because it’s still dreadful. “Gosh,” he says. “My apologies. That is one of the worse lines ever."

“I’ve heard worse,” I admit.

And I’ve seen worse—unless Brandon meant to impersonate a Boy Scout today. I can give the bandana knotted around his neck and belted khaki shorts a pass, but if Vandana were here to witness the sandals and socks combo, she’d be throwing up a little in her mouth. The overpowering scent of his Irish Spring soap makes my eyes water, and as the elevator car hums lower, he leans against the glass panel with both hands sliding into his pockets. His casual stance contrasts with how alert he is—focused on me like a laser beam.

“Are you Flynn Dryden, the author?”

Every tiny hair on the back of my neck stands at attention. I’m acutely aware he knows the answer to his question. “Yes.”

“I thought so. My ex read all of your books. I’m more of a sci-fi guy, but you look just like your photo. Very beautiful.”

The air is stagnant and hot, and I shuffle as far away from Brandon as the tiny space allows.

“It’s the curls,” I say. “Hard to miss.”

He winks back. “Impossible to hide with that hair.”

I try to pick apart his smile, wondering if there is more to it than meets the eye. In another world, I might have dated him. He’s the clean-cut corporate type I swing to now and again when I’m out of favor with the rocker dudes that usually gravitate to me.

“I fly back to the States on Friday,” he continues. “Call me if you want to grab that coffee or have a hankering for something stronger.”

He flips open his phone case to hand me another card, and I pause, every bone in my body screaming,don’t.Just as I do, the elevator stops, the doors open, and Chavez stands in the hall. The scorch of his eyes falls on me, and I feel stupid. My face glows with it. Chavez steps inside, rips the card out of my hand, and faces Brandon. The vibration in the air turns murderous.

“You again.”

Brandon eyes him coolly. “We are staying in the same hotel.”

“And some of us are staying in the same room.”

Chavez snakes an arm around my waist, and Brandon looks at me with genuine surprise. Without a word, he asks me if this is true, and my silence is tacit confirmation, albeit another lie.

Brandon clears his throat. “Pardon me. I didn’t know y’all are together, together.”

“We are very together,” Chavez says. “And I’d appreciate it if you respect that and keep your distance, all right?”

I feel an itch of sweat at the small of my spine. By now, Brandon must know Chavez is one of those slightly dangerous types. If he pushes his luck, I can’t be held responsible.

“Public spaces are just that, Mr. Delgado,” Brandon finally says. “You don’t control them, and neither do I.”

He squares himself to face the doors—the ultimate fuck-you gesture—and time seems to go backward, dragging on indefinitely as we descend. Brandon and his mocking tone were a little over the top, but Chavez and his posturing were too. Underneath his machismo, however, lies a protective tenderness. And that is what makes my throat gather. I wasn’t sure if the desire in his eyes last night had more to do with winning than with me.

That being said, the lobby can’t come fast enough.

I’m coiled like a spring and ready to bounce when the doors open, but Chavez keeps his arm locked around me and holds us back until Brandon has exited the car. He takes off without a word or a glance back, and I feel guilty for not saying something to smooth things over. After we exit, Chavez chucks the business card into a nearby trash can.

“That naco is an absolute creeper,” he mutters. “You can’t trust a dude who irons his socks.”

“They were very white and smooth,” I admit. “But in the future, you don’t have to be such a hard-ass. Remember, I’m here because of you.”

The look on his face tells me it doesn't work that way with him. He is all biteandbark. “Promise me you will not talk to him again. Even in a public space,” he adds, mocking Brandon’s drawl.

“You don’t have to worry,” I insist. “I have zero interest in him.”

“I need you to promise me.”

I side-step out of the way as guests pour out of the second elevator and stream past us, but Chavez remains where he is, unfazed by the bumps and jostles. His belief is just as steadfast that he can force this issue, but I am not comfortable agreeing to anything that might serve as a dangerous precedent.

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