Page 64 of The Challenger

“I really wish you hadn’t thanked Morgan a hundred times for saving the night,” he says.

Ah, the other reason for his mood. But he wasn’t the only one impacted tonight.

“First of all, you need to own your behavior. It could have ended far uglier.” Off my look of reproach, his lips mash together. “And yes, I did go overboard, but in my defense, it was mostly for Vandana’s benefit. She is trying to make a name for herself here, and the blow-up I told you about is still a thing she needs to overcome.” Miraculously, Chavez was the only person on the planet oblivious to their international scandal. The good news is he could sit across from Vandana without visualizing her naked body split in half by Morgan and his fire log. “The fact he handled the situation with grace goes a long way toward making sure they maintain a positive reputation in Monaco,” I add. “Effusive thanking was my way of showing support. I always support my friends.”

He digests this, can’t fault me for it, and comments, “It’s funny you two are friends. You’re so naturally beautiful, so legit, but nothing feels real with her. Those two are like a magazine picture.”

“She has a heart of gold. And I think Morgan is borderline obsessed with you.”

He cracks a half-smile. “I got that vibe too. And look, Vandana’s nice, all right. They both are. But take away all her paid-for bullshit—boobs, eyebrows, eyelashes—and what’s left?”

“She’s pretty stunning even without all the extras,” I admit, because I will always defend my best friends, and well, it is true. But his observation, while flattering to me, lands wrong for other reasons.

“How do you know she has fake boobs?”

“Guys know,” he says with a shrug. “You were braless the day we met, right?”

Was I? It seems like a lifetime ago since we crossed paths in Beverly Hills. Struggle and vulnerability have softened him, but he is still a formidable and infuriating force. I am endlessly conflicted.

“My other BFF, June, would have called you a cheeky bastard and promptly slapped you had you commented on her chest.”

He smiles, pushes up to sit, and undoes his tie, flinging it across the room. “My parents named me after Cesar Chavez. I come prepackaged with attitude.”

“Cesar the activist? I thought his MO was like Gandhi—no violence, no anger.” Hint, hint.

He rolls off his socks next, wiping away tufts of black lint clinging to his toes. He has nice toes for a tennis player—straight and unmangled. “You are a smart cookie, Miss Flynn, and it’s one of the many reasons why I like you. My point is, Cesar challenged the status quo. He had rebellion baked into his soul, and that is me in a nutshell. I live, play, and fuck the same way, with purpose and intensity.”

I raise an eyebrow. “If the expectation is for me to argue that, it’s not happening.”

“That’s exactly why I’m bringing this up,” he stresses. “You accept me for me. And I know there are things I need to change, and the only person who can do that is me. But it’s easier to change with someone championing you. So, thank you.” He crawls on his knees to take a seat beside me. He smells woodsy and dangerous, like the Big Bad Wolf, and as he strokes my thigh, I forget to be mad at him. “None of my pity party tonight changes how I feel about you, all right? When we get to Paris, I want to spend our first day in bed. Kiss and cuddle and talk aboutyourhopes and dreams. All we ever talk about is me.”

"Speaking of you, I think we should go on the yacht tomorrow. Morgan would like to hang out with you.”

“You sure?” he asks, searching my face. "Don't push beyond your comfort zone for a couple of dudes to rip around on jet skis.”

“If it gets intense, I’ll sit inside." And maybe this will be my first step on the long road to opening up. Overcome one fear and the path gets easier.

“Morgan is pretty cool,” he admits. “What do you think about him?”

“He’s very nice.”

“Nice? C’mon.” He knocks me with his elbow. “Every woman fantasizes about a guy like him.”

My cheeks redden. “What do you want me to say? He’s not hard to look at.”

“Just so we’re clear, I’m never going to wax my balls.”

“You think he waxes his balls?”

“Of course, he does,” Chavez scoffs. “Look at him.”

I crack a smile. “I’d rather look at your balls.”

He playfully grabs at my hand coming in for the grope, and we faux wrestle until he draws me close. He feels hot, even through the fabric of his suit, and when he strokes my arms with the lightest touch, the sensation leaves a trail of tiny electric shocks.

“I’m sorry for screwing up tonight,” he whispers and runs a finger across my lower lip before capturing my mouth with his. His skillful tongue parts my lips, searches for mine in the wetness, and finds it warm and willing. We fall back onto the satin bedspread and his hard chest presses down on me like a sublime burden. He frustrates me, fascinates me, and leaves me breathless and wanting in equal doses. I can’t say no to him. Not now, not ever.

He is my kryptonite.

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