Page 6 of The Challenger

“June didn’t want me to say anything, but we snuck in to watch you speak at UCLA. You really know how to work a crowd.”

“What? You should’ve told me. I had comps for that.”

“Please,” she says as if she’d ever be caught dead accepting a freebie. “Welovedbeing undercover spies. Everyone around us was gushing.” She pats my hand with the dazzling smile no man can seem to resist. “We’re so proud of you.”

I know Vandana means well but embedded in her praise is a hint of amazement that I’ve managed to pull off a career so convincingly. And she might think I missed the judgment in her raised brow when she clocked my haphazard bun and rumpled dress and said I looked great, but I felt it. Around her, I inevitably feel like the tomboy younger sister with scuffed knees, too weird to be asked to prom.

“Oh, lookey who’s here!” Conrad, who’s been waiting tables here since the originalTop Gunpremiered, swans over to greet us. Ruggedly handsome as a man and downright beautiful as a drag queen, you never know who he will be on any given shift. Today he is six feet of male diva, with ash-blonde hair in a forties pin-up swirl. “How are my favorite ladies today? Rumor has it you’re back on the high seas, Ms. Hillman. The chef can whip you up a mango salad, but I’ll be fully dressed while serving it.”

Conrad’s impish smile is hard to resist, but Vandana nonetheless waves a warning finger at him. She’s slowly coming to terms with her recent scandal, but every blushing, squirming moment is a reminder she too, is human.

“Cappuccinos to start?” he asks sweetly.

“Make it three,” I say. “June will be here. Eventually.”

“Ah yes. The Brits always bring up the rear. Maybe that’s why I like them so much. Ciao, ciao.” He whirls on one heel and sashays off to a new group of devoted clientele who enjoy his abuse as much as we do.

Vandana sips her water, eyeing me over the rim. I wonder if she’s made a deal with the devil because her French manicures never chip.

“You sounded weary when we spoke the other night,” she says. “Are you still thinking of taking a break now that the tour is over?”

The tilt of her head and dreamy gaze can be deceiving like maybe she’s thinking about her next Instagram post, but you don’t become a PR superstar merely by being a stunning bon vivant. It’s a people business, and she reads people better than anyone I know. She’d caught me at a low point after the first text from the stalker landed and clearly filed our conversation under “to be reviewed at a later date.”

Before I can reply, angry squawks erupt from the hostess desk and we turn to watch June muscle her way past the small mob of influencers pacing like caged tigers in the waiting area.

“I’m not jumping the queue!” June fumes. “My friends are over there. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

All the men, in their pastel button-downs, dragged here by their girlfriends, sneak a look at the blonde and buxom Brit bombshell who’s just lit up the room. In an oversized blazer, strappy heels, and nothing else, June struts over like the female James Bond that she is. She dumps her handbag on the table and whips off her sunglasses to reveal eyes a shade of ice blue I’ve only seen in Argentinian glaciers.

“The bloody traffic,” she grumbles. “You’d think it might let up just a smidge midday.” She kisses both of us on the cheek and sits in her usual place, between Vandana and me. “How are my dolls? Both looking fabulous as always. Have we ordered yet?”

Conrad hustles past our table with two plates of steaming omelets and can’t resist a dig. “No, but we’re open until eight so take your time.”

June catches Vandana and me smiling and says, “Piss off, the lot of you. I’m here, aren’t I? With time to spare. And is it just me or is he getting cheekier every time?”

“I think at that age he’s considered ‘seasoned’,” I say.

“More like salty,” she mutters. “Anyway…” She reaches for my hand and then Vandana’s. Never one to be overly emotional, she looks a little lost trying to overcome several at once. “I’m beyond gutted today,” she confesses. “This is truly abysmal. I feel like we just got you back, Flynn, and now Vandana’s leaving.”

Our brunches are legendary and never missed unless duty or an emergency call. We swapped the usual Saturday for Thursday to accommodate Vandana’s departure, but knowing one of the few steady things in my life will soon vanish is discombobulating.

“You two have to come and visit,” Vandana says. “The yacht Morgan found me has—”

“Six bedrooms,” June and I say at the same time.

Vandana rearranges herself in the chair with the tiniest pout. “Fine, so I may have mentioned that.”

June, always the one to stroke Vandana’s fragile ego, assures her we’ll be there in no time. I nod in agreement, though I have no desire to visit Monaco. It’s the size of a stamp, expensive, and from what Vandana relayed, a perpetual parade of arrogant billionaires. Not my scene. But we indulge Vandana because that’s what we do, and she’s still talking about her epic yacht when our coffees arrive. I’m about to doctor mine with cream and sugar when my phone rings. I scan the screen in the dark of my purse, surprised to see Dr. Bradford’s number. Maybe he can fit me in today after all.

I swivel in my chair and answer quietly. “Hi, this is Flynn.”

“Miss Dryden? It’s Madison from Dr. Bradford’s office.”

“Hi,” I say, carefully. It sounds like she has me on speaker. “What’s up?”

In the background, Chavez shouts, “Since you didn’t leave me your number, I had to track you down.”

“He insisted I call you,” Madison whispers.

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