Page 16 of The Challenger
“Pretty much.”
“Why did you ask Madison to call me?”
“Why do you think?”
“What changed from you being the guy who doesn’t chase women?”
She asks patiently, like she can rephrase the question ten more times if I’m still not getting it. But some things you keep close to your chest. You don’t go around spilling your guts on everything.
“Maybe I had an epiphany,” I say. “Stuff like that happens in therapy.”
Smythe did ask me about Flynn; what the deal was between us. I told him the truth like I’m supposed to do. That we’d literally just met and the fire in her turned me on, and she had a pure and radiant face that could make angels weep. Smythe might dress like a redneck but stupid, he ain’t. He grilled me on why I left her in the dust as if I didn't give a shit. At first, I thought it was a trick question because he should know about the walk-away: deny a woman and she becomes a starving puppy scratching at your back door. It’s in the dude playbook because it works.
Except it didn’t work with Flynn.
And since Smythe and I spent most of the sesh talking about different approaches, when I found out Flynn took off without leaving me her number, it was time to put words into action.
I ended up two Benjamins poorer, but with the riches of this gorgeous woman sitting in my car.
I’d say I got the better end of the deal. One I need to salvage.
“What about you?” I ask, flipping the script. She’s had me talking all night. “Why are you in there?”
She shifts in her seat. “This and that. Life. Work.”
“You haven’t murdered anyone?”
“Not lately. But don’t tempt me.”
The frosty authority is still there but a first hint of a smile creeps onto her lips. My groveling is miles away from over, but a ray of light does wonders for confidence.
“You don’t make a very convincing criminal with these,” I say, and lean forward to brush my thumb across the freckle constellation dusted high on her cheekbone. She read me the riot act earlier for touching her without asking but mellowed out over dinner, so I feel it’s the right move. And she doesn’t pull away or say no. Her skin is like glass, smooth and flawless. The idling twelve cylinders create this deep, sonic rumble that feels like an invisible force pulling us together. Her eyes find mine, and I breathe in the lavender lotion buttering up her skin. I am so ready to step in and taste her sweetness, but it's time to think long game and end this night on a high note.
“Think about how I can make it up to you while I drive you home, all right?”
A man never knows if he is truly forgiven, and she’s giving me nothing other than a flutter of her lush lashes, so I ease back into traffic and keep my mouth shut. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch her glancing at the Lotería card again. Something in her expression from earlier made me think it held meaning for her, but I doubt she grew up playing Mexican bingo like my family did. My Abuela,Valeria—bless her soul—loved the game and also loved me. She was the one who stepped in with kind words when I called it off with Sofia. Our mothers went off the deep end, and I was in a dark place, nothing clicking. Valeria gave me that card as a reminder not to give up—on love, tennis, any of it. It’s kind of what the El Corazon card means. That whatever you’re longing for will eventually show up.
I miss Abuelaso badly and had to choke down my heart when Flynn first asked about the card. Nothing worse than bawling when you’re trying to be a baller.
And speaking of that, I’m trying to keep my thoughts from sliding into the gutter. I need to focus on the road and not those milky inner thighs screaming at me to look. I doubt she’ll invite me in, and even if that miracle happens, it’s not the right strategy. But I’m praying for some action. The urge to kiss her is like the need to breathe.
When I pull into her driveway, I jump out before she has time to shut us down. She doesn’t kill my offer to walk her to the door, but the mood gets killed somewhat when all her security lights pop on like watchful eyes. The air seems colder doused in their brightness, and her warm body pressed against mine would be the perfect solution.
Fingers crossed.
Framed in the tangle of scarlet bougainvillea arcing over her doorway, she looks at me and smiles. I smile back. Fuuuck. She’s so pretty. Tall and graceful, and everything soft where it should be. And so smart. Smart enough to kick me off her doorstep.
“I had a nice time tonight,” she says. “For most of it.”
“Me too. A real nice time. I’m sorry about how it ended.”
After a beat, she tilts her head. “Should I give you another chance?”
“It would save me from having to pray every night.”
Both her brows shoot up in surprise. “You pray?”
“On my knees.”
