Page 53 of The Challenger

I stroked my thumb along the letters inked on his hand. Fearless, even while assessing his faults.

“Your candor is impressive,” I said.

“What does that word mean?”

“That you can be open and honest about things.”

After a thoughtful silence, he said, “I like that I can talk to you about stuff like this and you are okay with it.”

Then he searched my face as if to say,Yourturn to tell me something.But I said nothingand felt a lick of remorse for side-stepping the deeper, more primary lesson— that honesty, not sex, creates real intimacy. I could have opened up, but I didn’t trust the moment. If he did not embrace me for all my flaws and fears, then what?

“Anyway," he eventually said. "That’s what you are up against with Mama. A wrong I can never right.”

“Great. No pressure, then.”

We both laughed and the heaviness lifted. He finished with the button much faster than I could ever attempt, and handed off my shirt with a proud smile.

“Time for you to try this on and admire my mad sewing skills.”

Me, bottomless while parading around in my shirt, is what got me into trouble. But I will continue to court trouble daily if it means his version of discipline—the kind that leaves my core pulsing and my brain unable to compute the basics. He called my body a culinary wonderland, and he should know because fine dining is his thing. The burrata last night slid down my throat like silk, and I’ll be gaining back all my lost weight if he keeps feeding me creamy carbonara. I could squeeze in a workout this morning but, Nah. Our afternoon sightseeing trip to Bologna will burn a few calories, and I need to tackle a few things before then. My virtual assistant asked for more social media content ideas, and after seven texts between them, I better give up some details of our Aussie tryst or else Vandana and June might implode.

I pad into the bathroom to find my phone and the perfect morning fizzles hard with the shock of seeing Brandon’s name on the screen.

BD: Dear Flynn. I hope you are doing well. This is Brandon Dixler. We met in Australia.

I skim the next bubble of text with a frisson of unease.

BD: This message is coming out of the blue, but I reached out to your agent Nathaniel to see if I could send in one of your books to get autographed. He suggested I reach out to you directly and gave me your number.

A hot ball of outrage claws up my throat. What an asshole! Any knucklehead agent knows the drill about author privacy, and I have been crystal clear with Nathaniel on this matter. But this is his juvenile way of getting back at me. I ignored all his calls since I hung up on him in Bendigo, but he is about to get an earful.

Right after I finish reading the final message from Brandon.

BD: I also wanted to apologize if I created any ruffles between you and Chavez. I’m a newly divorced guy who needs more time before I’m let loose on the dating scene. Smiley face emoji. Congratulations to both of you on his recent win and good luck with the rest of the season. Best, Brandon. PS If you don’t sign the book, that’s okay. Not surprising if my first celebrity crush falls flat.

Jeez. Pitiful and self-deprecating but also endearing. We’ve all been there with crushes and letdowns, but I don’t want to feel any fluffy emotions as they relate to Brandon. Chavez had asked me out of blue during a practice session in Oz if I had run into Brandon after the elevator showdown. He’d watched me, almost suspiciously, but took my no at face value. But no amount of explaining will ever convince him I didn’t encourage this chat.

I’ll delete Brandon’s messages, but first things first.

Nathaniel, keeping his usual vampire hours, answers right away.

“Sugar,” he says, all charm and smarm. “Peace pipe time? I knew you’d come to your senses.”

“You’re fired, effective immediately. And if I find out you have given my phone number toanyoneelse, my lawyer will sue you for breach of contract. Remember the privacy clause?”

In the silence right after, my heart flutters with survival instinct. This is it. Kill or be killed.

“I needed to get your attention,” he whines as if that somehow rights the wrong. “Seeing as how you’re all distracted with your new boyfriend.”

Of course, he’s seen the photo. Everyone has. But that does not justify his behavior.

“My love life is none of your concern. If anything, you should be happy for me.”

“Happy doesn’t make you money, Flin Flon.”

“That makes sense, seeing how miserable you are. I cannot believe you would do this,” I say, hating myself because I should be strong and not show the hurt. “After everything I’ve been through.”

“We both know you can’t dump me, Flynn. I know more about you than anyone else.”

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