Page 51 of The Challenger

ChapterNineteen

FLYNN

For the nextthirty sex hours—oops, I mean thirty-six—Chavez and I live like debauched Romans on the loose. Naked on the kitchen counter, feeding each other scoops of ice cream and licking the spills from body parts. A chocolate blur of sucking and fucking. (Chavez looked adorable cleaning up the sticky mess naked, save for yellow dish gloves and wielding a sponge.) After I won our croquet wager, I scrubbed the grass stains off his knees in the shower. We sixty-nine each other under a sky thick with stars. (Number eight on my list, with bonus starlight.) In between it all, Chavez squeezes in a few media commitments, interviews and such, sprawled out in the downstairs parlor wearing a fluffy bathrobe and looking very much like the lord of the manor.

The next time we set foot back in the hotel, the dash is on to pack our bags and scramble for the airport. Chavez organized our entire trip in an hour, on his phone, and he bounces all over the Emirates airport lounge with excitement.

“I love Italy,” he says. “Have you ever been?”

“Once. To Rome and Florence. I’ve always wanted to go back.”

“Forli is near Bologna on the east coast. A smaller city and super chill. I’m sure you’re going to like it.”

Vandana, June, and I visited Italy for two weeks of cultural enlightenment only to find the fleshly sights of Italian men far more intriguing than the historical ones. We shagged our way through Rome and Florence and spent our mornings on cobblestones plazas, swapping out hangovers for espresso jitters and comparing the good, bad, and ugly of our escapades. I can safely say, amidst the man-drama, the pasta, and the copious amounts of wine, the town of Forli never once popped up on our radar.

There is not much to see when we land. Morning fog shrouds the countryside, and a bumpy landing on the small commuter flight out of Bologna is nothing like the first-class smoothness of our Emirates jumbo jet. After getting used to passing people on the left down in Australia, I bump into a few polished and polite Italians inside the terminal who smile and give me a wide berth. (Had I scuffed their designer shoes, it might have been a different story.) Unprepared for the seventy-degree swing, I shiver against Chavez as the porter loads our bags into the hired car.

"I need a hot bath and a sweater.'"

He wraps an arm around my shoulder and says, "Let's go shopping after a snooze."

The Grand Hotel Castrocaro is a ten-minute drive from Forli and is a dream-like destination nestled into the countryside, built exclusively for lovers who plan for nothing beyond room service and how many creative ways to incorporate a rooftop hot tub overlooking a medieval tower.

I stand at the railing of our room’s balcony, drinking in the landscape of rolling hills and vineyards. The sun is trying to make an appearance and God beams cut through the low-hanging mist. It almost looks fake, it’s so perfect.

“So pretty, right?” I whisper because it’s that kind of moment.

He bearhugs me from behind, nuzzling my neck with kisses. “Kind of like you.”

Our imperial suite, which, in Italian, translates roughly into enough square footage for a gymnast to execute a floor routine, comes with two bathrooms Chavez insisted we split. (There is something to be said for keeping a bit of mystery and privacy intact this early in the game.) After hot showers, we intend to rumple the crisp percale sheets into oblivion, but fall asleep in each other’s arms, exhausted from the long journey.

The late afternoon sun is waning when we wake up. Bundled in several layers to keep warm, a taxi drops us at a trendy boutique near the town plaza. A willowy salesclerk sensing rich Americans plies us with gorgeous Bruno Cucinelli sweaters and Armani jackets made from felt as soft as fur. She declares everything we try onbellissima!and chatters mindlessly as she puts a major dent on Chavez’s American Express card. Loaded down with shopping bags and caught in a sudden thin rain, we dash for the taverna our bellman suggested we try. It’s early for dinner and the elegant tables are empty, votives in the process of being lit by yet another runway-ready Italian woman who tucks our retail haul into the coat room and seats us next to a wood-burning fireplace.

Chavez thanks her for our menus and moves his chair to my side of the table.

“I like this,” he says. “Some downtime. Not rushing in to hit the ground running. Good call.”

“Your mom can’t be thrilled,” I venture, deciding to test the waters. Chavez is none the wiser that Carmen has been texting with me since we left LA, but I know all about the hysterics, and how, to Gloria, our not coming back to LA is tantamount to me kidnapping her son.

“She’s a work in progress,” he says diplomatically. “We just have to wear her down.”

Lost in his beauty and the earthy smell of mushrooms and rosemary simmered in butter, I lean against his warmth and finger the fine wool of his sweater. Two grand worth of baby alpaca looks good on him, but he could wear a garbage bag and still turn heads.

“For the next four days, I just want to forget everything.”

“Everything except the separate rooms?” he asks.

We have four days at our heavenly resort and then move to the tournament hotel, and yes, I was surprised to find out we would not be sharing a room. But when Chavez explained that he has never had someone in his space during ‘work’ and would have to adjust, I understood. The concept of space to feel safe requires no explanation. And tennis players are known for their superstitions. Andre Agassi needed his girlfriend to sit in the same place in the stands at every tournament. Other players line up water bottles with military precision in front of their benches. A career full of endless travel and time and language changes demands that anything within your control gets controlled.

“We have all year to adjust, right?” I glance up and feel my heart twist. A mischevious spark glints in his eyes.

“All year?” he asks. “Did I just hear that right?”

Maybe it was a slip. Or maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe there is something in the air tonight.

For another three hours, it does not cross my mind.

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