Page 61 of The Challenger

He glances over his shoulder with a beaming smile and talks loudly to overcome the rotor noise. "This is pretty dope.”

I give him a thumbs up from the back seat in hearty agreement. The luxury life takes no time at all to embrace. A driver greeted us at the Nice airport, took care of all our bags, and Morgan insisted on spoiling us with a suite at the iconic Hotel de Paris in Monaco. It sure beats being stuck in traffic on the 405 while eating an egg salad sandwich from Circle K.

Vandana and Morgan are waiting for us when we land in Fontvielle, the far-west neighborhood of Monaco. My first impression of my bestie’s Bae? Morgan is less real human and more like a hologram of computer-generated male perfection. Slick-backed hair, none of it out of place. Ten grand worth of suit cut to fit him within an inch of his life. The color of his Bentley matches the sunglasses that frame his lightly bearded face, and a warm smile shines through the blond and copper stubble.

Paired with the always dazzling Vandana, I'm not surprised when Chavez whispers under his breath, “Jesus. Real-life Ken and Barbie."

"Behave," I say, keeping my smile bright as she rushes toward us.

"Oh my God!" Vandana cries, throwing her arms around me. "It’s so good to see you."

After our bear hug, she introduces herself to Chavez and Morgan to us. June had the opportunity to meet Morgan in person when he visited LA in November and had nothing but rave reviews. What I know about him from Vandana is that he has a cock the size of a fire log and likes to stick it in all sorts of places. Something I try not to think about during his full-contact hug.

“Bonjour, Flynn.” He kisses both my cheeks, and his salted, fresh scent is what detergents always promise but never deliver on. “Very nice to meet you.”

“You too. Thanks for the helicopter ride.”

“Anytime,” he says, his attention scarcely alighting on me before extending a hand to Chavez. “Welcome to Monaco. We are honoured to have such an accomplished sportsman join us."

"Appreciate the love," Chavez says, graciously allowing Morgan to pump his arm well beyond the normal limits. "Doing my best to live up to the accomplished part."

Vandana pulls me aside to whisper, “Morgan is a total tennis fanboy. I hadnoidea.”

In those few words, she reveals the actual truth. Our being here has as much to do with Vandana and me connecting as it does with benefitting Morgan. She mentioned once, offhandedly, that he doesn't have a lot of male friends. And this is what many people miss behind the glamazon facade of Vandana. She cares. And will go to the ends of the earth for you.

“Shall we?” Morgan gestures at his car and then loads our luggage, refusing any help from Chavez. Vandana eyes our small roll-ons with concern.

“We packed light,” I explain. “Is there a dress code?”

As soon as the question leaves my mouth, I realize the stupidity of it. Life with Vandana is an endless runway, evidenced by her tweed Chanel suit, making her look like a royal-in-training, complete with a scarf tied loosely around her hair. My Veronica Beard dress feels like a rag in comparison.

“Not to worry,” Morgan says. “We arranged a car service to take you around to the shops this afternoon.”

"For what?" Chavez asks, gently herded to the front seat by Vandana so she and I can talk in the back.

"Flynn's birthday," she says, with a chiding tone. "We're going to start with a tour of Monaco, lunch at the yacht club, and then drop you two at the hotel to freshen up. The car service will pick you up at three, and dinner is at eight. The restaurant is down the block from the hotel, so you'll have plenty of time to enjoy the suite."

She grabs my hand with a wicked smile while Chavez sits shell-shocked in the front passenger seat. I never mentioned to him that a day with Vandana is like a state visit, with every minute planned and accounted for, and veering off schedule is a giant no-no.

Thankfully, he shrugs and allows it all to happen. "Okay."

And we're off to the races.

* * *

For some reason,I imagined Monaco to have a European Jersey Shore vibe—hairy-chested men sporting gold chains and linked arm in arm with trashy blonde babes. But no, it is all very civilized, and the poorly dressed people are tourists. And, oh my God, the yachts. Morgan tours us around the docks of Port Hercules after lunch, and Vandana drops names and bits of gossip as we pass each mega vessel. She’s always been a socialite, buzzing from charity breakfast to client luncheon to black tie galas—rinse, repeat—but I marvel at how at ease she is here. The queen has finally found her homeland.

With lunch and the tour stretching longer, Chavez and I barely have half an hour to prepare for our afternoon of shopping.

“Wasn’t this supposed to be a relaxing trip?” he asks, scrubbing his teeth while I reapply eyeliner.

But even he has to admit being chauffeured around in a Rolls Royce and having staff in glamourous boutiques wait on us hand and foot do not warrant complaining. Chavez chooses a suit in under fifteen minutes but is happy to dote on me in the Dior dressing room, holding beads out of the way to zip me up or adjusting the cap sleeves on dresses so beautiful that making a decision is impossible.

I twirl in front of the mirror, assessing gown number eight, a butter-soft column of black silk that feels like nothing on my skin “Which one do you like the best?”

“You look good in everything,” he says, no help at all. “But I do like that one. It looks nice with your hair.”

When we stroll arm and arm into La Môme, I know I made the right choice. We turn every head in a restaurant full of beautiful people, and the gossip train starts once we are seated with Morgan and Vandana. Lots of looks and whispers. Morgan is oblivious to it all with his new buddy beside him. He and Chavez are instant soul mates, discussing sports and yachts and planning what to do when, or if, we are back here for the April tournament. Morgan wants to introduce us to Prince Albert and Vandana brushes it off like it’s no big deal, becauseeveryoneknows the prince.

---