CONTINUING EDUCATION

By DixieHellcat

Based, loosely, on a Claydream that was just too good to let go…but only up to the start of the bridge scene (you’ll know it when you get to it). Beyond that is nothing but my own fertile lil’ imagination...

Chapter 1

I found a seat front and center an hour before the presentation was scheduled to start on Thursday afternoon and settled down with my knitting. The big ballroom was empty. Only registered attendees of the World Congress on Disabilities could come to the sessions, including this very special one. I gazed up at the banner hung behind the podium. The Bubel-Aiken Foundation logo never failed to make me smile: the silhouette of a young man, instantly identifiable by the spiky hair, hugging a small boy. I stretched out across two chairs, kicked off my sandals and knitted, imagining the excitement in the room when in less than an hour Clay Aiken strode to that podium to talk about the cause dear to his heart, to an audience who truly understood and cared too.

After a while voices reached me from the main doors. “We’ll close off now, and reopen ten minutes or so before start time—that’s when the sessions going on now will let out,” said a man.

“Okay—uh oh, somebody’s already here. I’ll get her to move,” said another.

“Oh, for cryin’ out loud, Jerome! One lady, and she looks too comfortable. She’s probably just restin’ her feet, and not even in here to hear me!”

Brisk footfalls—which sounded like they came from very large feet—approached. I nearly choked on my gum and strove to focus on the half-formed sock in my hands. A little gift I had fancied myself giving to the probable owner of those feet lay at the bottom of my tote—thank goodness I’d thought to bring a bag from another conference years ago, and not the one my friends called the Bag O’ Clack, festooned with Clay buttons and that hot picture of him sprawled on a bathroom floor! The best gift I could give him now, though, I thought, was to treat him like a person. I hoped I could live up to my Nashville raising—growing up in a city crawling with celebrities, you don’t care much about celebrity itself.

This was different though. This was Clay. The feet stopped beside me. “What are you doing?”

The voice was incredulous, and held a resonance in person no tape or mike could capture. I took a deep breath and looked up, and up. Good grief, he’s tall! “Knitting a sock,” I replied, pleased I had refrained from swooning. He wore a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up (mmm, forearms), a dark tie and well-fitted jeans (such nice thighs). The face put photos to shame: those lush lips, that nibbleable nose, those lickable cheekbones—no, no, down that path lay disaster and madness for sure. I moved my bare feet from the chair beside me. “Have a seat. I promise my feet are clean.”

I didn’t expect him to do it, but the bottle-green eyes were wide with amazement and fixed on the four double-pointed needles I held. “I’ve never seen anybody knit like that,” he said and sat down still staring. HE SAT DOWN NEXT TO ME. Wouldn’t this be one for the Lecherous Broads? “It looks hard. You must be from around here—they’d never let you on a plane with that.”

“It’s not that hard once you’re used to it. Although the first few rows are kinda like holding onto a spider by one leg. If you’ve read Harry Potter though, Dobby the elf taught himself to knit socks, and so did I.” He chuckled and nodded as if he understood, and I wished I dared ask if he’d read my essay comparing him and Harry. Instead, I just delighted in the idea that I’d made him laugh. Now if I could elicit an actual giggle, I’d die a happy Broad. “I flew in from Nashville, but these are okay. They’re bamboo, so they get through the same loophole in security that lets you bring on a sharpened number 2 pencil you could kill somebody with.” Finally, he did giggle, and what an endearing sound it was! “Aren’t you early? The presentation doesn’t start for another half hour.”

“They’re checkin’ security.” The grumble in his voice was clear.

“Wise idea, although I doubt many fans would pay the conference registration just to get in here and make some noise. Me, I need to get you to plant those size 13 and a halfs of yours up the backside of our local Y, so I figured I’d better come on in early and get a good seat.”

“Really?” He leaned forward, propped his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands.

“Yeah. I’m a speech-language pathologist. I work at a developmental center, and the Y’s grounds literally back up to ours. But they don’t want us to bring the folks who live on campus there, even if staff come with them. Not to use the pool, or the track or anything. I guess they’re just scared and don’t know how to act around our folks. I promised my boss I’d see if the BAF could help.”

His eyes narrowed. Lord, I loved how he listened. “Probably,” he said. “Do you have a few minutes after the presentation? I’ll get some more information from you.”

“Yes! Oh, thank you…Hey, when you were in school, did you do any work at the Western Carolina Center in Morganton?”

When I mentioned the developmental center in North Carolina his face lit up. “Yeah!”

“Did you know a guy—I can’t think of his name, but he looks like an old hippie—he builds all these cool adaptations so the people who live there can do things.”

“Yeah! He built this jig so a guy who could only use one hand could roll out dough, and another one to fill a coffee maker—“

“And the one where they can feed the fish by pressing a switch? The one he built out of an old grill rotisserie? Did you see that one? He brought a bunch of his contraptions to Tennessee last winter, and now our therapists are building tools for the folks who live on our campus to make bath salts to sell.”

“And they love it, don’t they?” he laughed. “They’re doing something. They’re being productive, and they love it!”

I agreed; the people I served did love it. What I loved was the excitement in Clay’s face, and the light in his eyes as we talked. It was plain how much he was enjoying this conversation that had nothing to do with him as a ‘star’. I introduced myself as Jerome approached. “Don’t you go anywhere now,” Clay warned me as he stood up, and punctuated his order with a pointed finger.

“Yes, sir!” I pretended to salute and made him giggle again. As he walked away, I slipped my feet out of my Birks and rested them again on the chair where he had sat; the seat cushion was still warm. Yeah, it was silly of me, silly and mind-blowing. And best of all, I had a standing appointment for a second helping. I dug out my notebook and tried not to squirm with anticipation.

The room began to fill. Thankfully only a few overt fans appeared, mostly teenagers with a parent attending. If others were there solely for fannish pursuits, they hid it well. Several young girls sat near me, and while I kept my earlier conversation with him to myself, I did caution them. “Remember, ladies, this isn’t a concert. Clay isn’t here to entertain. This is about helping people, people he cares about a lot. You’re bound to get his respect if you listen, and respect him, and them.”

They did their best, I’ll give them that. They applauded when he came to the podium, then sat with their hands clasped in their laps and their wide eyes locked on him. Occasionally one moved a little, trying not to wiggle like an excited puppy. In all fairness, of course, I had to admit I was doing more or less the same thing. The only difference was that I had had a few moments with him, and had a few more coming! At first he seemed nervous before the ballroom packed full of professionals; he cleared his throat, fumbled a few words, and (the dead giveaway) bit his lower lip a lot. After a couple of minutes he looked down and aside, away from the crowd, and our eyes met. I smiled and gave him a discreet thumbs-up. An answering grin spread across his mouth (what a mouth, I sighed mentally before dragging myself back to my notes) and he launched into the meat of the presentation: the creation of his foundation, and its purpose; what it had already done, and what it was going to do.

The hour flew by. He knew his stuff; he spoke the language, and the professional in me found that as attractive as anything else. I smiled every time he tossed off some term like ‘best practice’ or ‘supporting the vision’. His eyes burned, and his voice rose and soared as if in song. It lifted everyone in the room, and the rousing ovation when he finished felt like a response to a call to arms. He was swarmed, not just by obvious fans of his music, but by staid-looking pros who had clearly become fans of his mission. The teenagers held out bravely, but the instant he stepped away from the podium they crowded in, begging Jerome to let them past for just a word or a touch. Clay was gracious, chatting and signing his name again and again. A young boy and his father came up, and when the boy moved his hands in sign language Clay responded. I was doomed. I was going to be a puddle in my chair by the time he got back to me, if he did. It was amazing how sexy integrity and fervor were on him. I sat and watched him, thinking that if I got no more than this I would still be content. When the last enthusiastic attendees moved away though, Clay looked around and spotted me. He grinned hugely, tucked one foot under him and flopped down in the chair beside me. Ooh, that usually means he’s comfortable with someone—good sign. “How’d I do?”

“You’re asking me?” I snorted. “You were marvelous. Didn’t you see how people reacted? I saw therapists walk in here bitching about this and that and looking seriously burnt out, and you had ‘em jumping pews and shouting hallelujah.” The tips of his ears began to turn pink. “I enjoyed watching you afterwards too. It’s so cool, how you made everybody you talked to feel like they had your undivided attention, for a minute at least.” The pink claimed his cheeks and he ducked his head. “What? It’s true!”

“Okay, okay,” he muttered. “Enough about me. Tell me how we can help your folks in Tennessee.”

I did, but as usual, I digressed to talk about the people themselves: about Hayley, who can’t speak but sure can flirt with a handsome guy; and Mervin, who’d rather turn flips on the floor to get a laugh than anything else; and Dave, who can sometimes be violent, but who came up one day when I told him I was down and gave me a big hug. Clay had some stories of his own, and we laughed and shared like old colleagues reunited. I even discovered I was acquainted with one of his cousins in North Carolina! By the time I spied Jerome coming, I knew this would be one of the most delightful memories of my life. “Hey, boss,” he said to Clay with a slight air of tongue in cheek, “we better get goin’ and scare up some supper.”

I had totally lost track of the time, and from the surprise on Clay’s face so had he. “Where are y’all going?” I asked. Clay shrugged. “If you’re sick of room service, there’s a neat little Cajun place across the street, in the Pointe Orlando shopping center. It’s called Lulu’s Bait Shack. I know you can’t do shellfish, but they’ve got lots of other stuff and it’s really good. Gosh, I’m making myself hungry now. I may have to run over there and get a po' boy before I pack it in for the night.” I bent over to get my bag, sad to be leaving, and hoping I could say goodbye without busting the happy vibe.

When I straightened Clay was still standing there, with an odd look: thoughtful, almost indecisive, I would have said off the top of my head. “Would you like to go over there and eat?” he blurted. “With me, I mean.” Suddenly the confident speaker seemed uncertain, even shy, and I thought my heart would stop.

“Uh, gosh, sure, if you’re not ashamed to be seen with me. I’ve been here at the conference all day and I must be a mess.” My jeans and striped blouse weren’t fancy dress, but he laughed and shook his head. “I’d love to. I may talk your ear off though.”

“My ears are big enough to handle it,” he returned. “Quit glarin’, Jerome. She knows Kim’s mom and some of her friends from church in Nashville, and my cousin Holly. I think she’s safe. Besides, she said she and her mom met you in Memphis and Nashville, and you remembered her mom but not her! So I figure you owe her one.” The bodyguard grunted, but relented and led us through a maze of service corridors until we emerged out the back of the massive Orange County Convention Center into the Central Florida evening, muggy even in early October.

I shifted my bag on my shoulder, and wished I’d asked the girls at the coffee bar if I could leave it there again—it was heavy with handouts, and goodies from the trade fair—but my mental grumble became an audible gasp when a sleek black limo slid up. “Oh, my—uh—“ I stammered. “I always walk wherever I go around here. I didn’t even think about.…”

“I’d rather walk too, but I don’t get to do that much anymore.” Clay grinned, but there was an ironic twist to his mouth as he opened the back door. I slipped inside, onto the soft leather upholstery. Jerome rode up front with the driver, and Clay slid in beside me, grinning as I oohed and ahhed. “You really thought I did okay in there?” he asked. “I haven’t been out of school long, so I was sort of worried people would wonder who I thought I was, telling them things.” I insisted he had no need to worry. “At least I knew you were listening—I didn’t see you knitting.”

“Hey, I can knit and listen at the same time!” I didn’t add that I hadn’t wanted a thing to distract me from watching him at work. The limo crossed International Drive and rolled up to the curb at Pointe Orlando. “Do you think this might draw more attention than if we’d walked?”

“Maybe, or maybe not. It’s pretty much choose your own poison.” His tone was flippant, but effortfully so, and he gazed silently out the window as Jerome got out and ran up the steps to the restaurant on the second level. It was obvious fame was a two-edged sword for him, one with which he could slay demons of injustice, but one that could easily turn and wound him.

When Jerome returned, Clay got out and then offered me his hand. I felt like a star myself, stepping out of a stretch and walking in on his arm.

Chapter 2

Lulu’s worked fast—they had already arranged a private table in a quiet corner, near the kitchen and separated from the main dining area. It was very nice, but I caught Clay casting a longing look at the outdoor patio decked with strings of tiny lights, before the doors swung shut. It hurt to see, and I threw myself into being a charming, smart, slightly silly dinner companion, so at least he’d have no cause to regret inviting me out.

I started by ordering alligator bites for an appetizer—I adore gator and never pass it up when offered. Clay pretended to gross out, then considered trying it when it arrived; but, worried it might be too like the shellfish he’s allergic to, he contented himself with splitting a mountain of blackened chicken nachos with Jerome. I paused before addressing my plate. “Is it better etiquette to say grace before the first course or the entrée?” I asked. “I know people who do it both ways.”

Clay’s eyebrows lifted slightly as if in surprise, and a small smile crept across his face. “I don’t think it matters, but let’s do it now,” he replied, reached across the table and took my hands in his. His quiet prayer was moving, and it was such a temptation to watch him instead of lowering my head. Sorry Lord, I apologized, but did you HAVE to make him so doggone gorgeous?? It’s terribly distracting, you know!

For the meal I decided on crawfish etouffee, after making sure Clay had to actually eat something to have a reaction (I have a friend so allergic to latex she breaks out if she’s in the same room with an open box of medical gloves). Jerome pledged undying love to a massive rack of barbecue baby back ribs, but Clay turned up his nose. “If we’re not in North Carolina,” he sniffed, “it’s not real barbecue.”

“I know a place behind a Shell station in Nashville that would change your mind,” I retorted and we were off again, swapping travel stories and talking about the jobs we’d held. I tried to dance around the years I worked in the music business—somehow I didn’t want to drag the biz into the conversation. Clay ended up with ‘Rasta pasta’, penne noodles mixed with dirty rice, chicken and Cajun sausage. Before long, we were all happily stuffed. Clay started to say something, but all that emerged was a respectable burp. “Hm,” I assessed it. “Good resonance, nice bottom note. No sustain, though. I’d give it a 7.5.”

He almost pitched face first into his empty plate laughing. “I—I think I—“

“What?”

“Nothing,” he gasped. “Uh, I think this was a very good idea.”

“Me too! Thank you for inviting me!”

Unbelievably, he contemplated the key lime pie before he paid (over my objection) and we left. Several people spotted him and yelled, waving and snapping pictures as the limo returned for us. I wished I could hide. “Oh crap,” I sighed as we got into the car, “the question of the day tomorrow will be ‘who was that ugly woman Clay was with last night?’”

Clay gaped at me. “Shut up!”

“Well, it will! It’ll be on the net before morning. Not from me, Lord knows, but—“
“No, I mean you’re not ugly. What on earth would make you say that?” I shrugged. Looking back at pictures of me in college I guess I didn’t look bad, but I didn’t know it at the time. “Don’t ever say things like that about yourself.” Clay caught my hands in his, as he had when we had prayed together. “Promise me you won’t. Okay?”

This time, I did not lower my head. I couldn’t. His eyes were magnetic, and the luscious mouth almost trembled with intensity to match. Gosh, he’s serious, I thought, and those eyes on me could make me feel almost pretty. “Okay. I promise.”

His brisk nod said that’s settled then. Maybe I was his good deed for the day. If so, I was flattered to have been the object of such a caring heart, even if only for a few beats. The limo glided to a stop at a side entrance to the Rosen Plaza Hotel next to the convention center. As we got out, a raindrop hit the top of my head. “Ooh, do I have my umbrella?” I worried.

Clay watched me dig through my bag, with a frown. “Raoul can take you around front where the entrance is covered.”

“Thanks, but that won’t help much. The walk to my hotel’s not far though.”

“You’re not stayin’ here? And you’re walking?”

“I’m an SLP, sweetness,” I snorted, “meaning my salary’s nothing to crow about. Not only that, I work for state government. My boss conned ‘em into paying for this trip, but not for these kind of digs. Or for a rental car—which doesn’t matter to me, they’re a hassle anyhow.”

More raindrops fell. “C’mon,” Clay said and ducked back into the limo.

By then I had found my umbrella. “No, I’m good—“

“I’m takin’ you home, woman, get in this car!”

The rain started to patter down. I dove in, protesting that I was putting them out, but Clay wouldn’t hear a word of it; so I relented and directed Raoul toward the Comfort Inn. As we made our way through the usual I-Drive traffic, I apologized one more time. “I hate to take up your time. You should probably be packing.”

“No, actually, I don’t have to be anywhere else till next week. I was hoping to attend some sessions at the conference tomorrow, but that doesn’t look like a good idea. I’d disrupt everybody too much. So I’ll just lie around the hotel and catch up on my sleep, I guess.” He tried to sound casual, but wistfulness tinged his soft drawl, and unanticipated tears rose to my eyes. I stared down at my purple-painted toenails. “Hey—is something wrong?”

I swallowed hard and struggled to control my voice. “That sounds so sad,” I finally managed. “You’re giving up what you want, to give other people what they want. What we want. Being a fan, I feel like this is my fault too.”

The unexpected groan that answered startled me. “Oh, stop that!” The next thing I knew, he had scooted across the seat and wrapped his long arms around me. “Don’t get upset on my account. Please don’t. I’m so blessed. I love this. I do!”

“You love teaching too,” I replied, “and I’ve talked to people who taught with you, and I’ve seen you on video, and you are darn good at it. I’d go back to doing therapy in the schools in a heartbeat if I could get a teacher like you to work with.”

“I’m still teaching. I just have a different student body. And the Lord’s given me the whole world for a classroom. How can I complain? It’s great. It’s exciting.” I looked steadily at him. “Okay, granted, parts of it are a pain, but every job is like that. Yours is. You were talkin’ about the paperwork, and the ‘monitors’ who don’t know squat about what you do. So, don’t worry about me, and I won’t worry about you. Deal?”

“Deal,” I said and hugged him back.

“Thank you for caring, though,” he said softly before he moved away. We exchanged smiles, and I felt like this night could not possibly have been more special.

It was ending far too quickly, though, as I looked up and saw my hotel ahead. “Turn left, right there,” I told Raoul, “between the Italian restaurant and the Walgreen’s.” I reached down to stuff my umbrella back in my bag. “Hey, wait a minute. I got an idea.” I pulled out my conference schedule. “Which sessions were you wanting to go to?” As I suspected, our interests were similar enough that his list was identical to mine. “I can take notes for you then! You’re right next door, so I can bring them over during the lunch break. They’re having a plate lunch and a speaker, but rubbery green beans and a stuck-up local politician don’t do a thing for me. There’s a KFC on the other side of the convention center so I could even pick up lunch and bring it. I’d much rather—uh, do that.” How close I came to saying ‘I’d much rather get finger lickin’ good in your hotel room’…heh, heh.

Clay looked stunned. “Are you serious?”

“Sure, unless you don’t trust my note-taking, and I’ll have you know I graduated summa cum laude, so I must’ve done something right.” Then another bright idea popped. “If you’d really rather do it yourself though—“ I unearthed my cel phone, old and analog and huge and held together with black electrical tape in spots. “If this dinosaur will hold a charge long enough I can just sit up front and call you, and you can listen. A cellcert.” He started to giggle. “Oh dear, did I just infringe on your copyright?”

Now he was laughing full-out and head back, that abandoned laugh that had owned me from the first time I saw him in person. “Yeah, so what if I sue you?”

“You wouldn’t get much,” I giggled back. To pay it off I’d have to sell myself—preferably to you, of course. “Better you get it than those rat bastards at 19 though. I, uh, worked in the music business for a while, so I know just enough to tell when a company’s screwing its artists. Pardon my language.”

The glass-green eyes held a hard glint for a moment. “The language is pretty appropriate, considering the topic.” Then the coolness was gone. “Tell you what,” he began and searched his pockets, “how about—oh gosh, don’t tell me I lost it already—“

I chuckled as he found his tiny cel phone. “Aren’t you supposed to have a personal assistant to follow you around and keep up with all that stuff?”

Surprisingly, he looked a little annoyed. “I get tired of bein’ followed around,” he said, “even by a friend. And employees need time off, even when they’re friends.” Well, there’s a sensitive subject kicked to the curb! He handed me the phone. “There’s a speaker phone in my suite, so just call it. I’ll get room service to send up lunch. But, uh, could you take notes for me for the early stuff? Like before ten?”

“Of course!” The limo idled in front of my hotel while we worked out the particulars. I scrambled out and said good night to Jerome (and asked discreetly if I should tip Raoul for his trouble—he assured me he was well provided for) The back window rolled down a little, and when I turned to look I spied Clay peeking out. I waved and called “See you tomorrow!” before I bounced through the front doors.

I held fast to my composure until my room door was securely closed behind me. Then I flung myself on the bed and kicked and screamed like a kid! After that was out of my system, I lay still, and absorbed the enormity of the day. It was such a pleasure to find that the man I had admired from afar was equally admirable close up. Of course, it was equally pleasurable to contemplate that sweet smile and silly laugh, the intensity of his gaze, the wonderful unstinting firmness of his embrace. Thousands of women would kill to have the afternoon I’d just had, let alone the tomorrow ahead of me! Some of them were my own friends too. I’d have to confess to meeting him, and probably to dinner too, since there were pictures to prove it, but not until after the conference. And the rest was nobody’s business, even theirs. I couldn’t tell myself I was treating Clay like the very normal person he was, and then tell his business to the world.

I took his cel phone out of my bag and turned it on to check the battery. It was fully charged, and I watched as its number flashed on screen. Though we did have mutual acquaintances and interests, still I was a relative stranger. Had Clay thought about the trust he was placing in me by loaning me this? Maybe he needed to trust somebody. If so, he picked the right woman. I can keep a secret. I only hoped Jerome wouldn’t chew him out for it. Briefly I was tempted to dial the number he’d given me, just to check on him. Or just to say hi. If this were some romance novel, or even one of my fics, I would. I laughed at myself and started to put the phone back in my bag. Instead, I laid it on the night stand by my bed, so I could look at it as I fell asleep.

Chapter 3

The next morning I was about to explode from excitement. The limo, piloted by a grinning Raoul, that greeted me when I walked out my hotel’s front door didn’t hurt! Somehow I managed to access my professional decorum and concentration for the morning classes. I even forced my appalling handwriting into something approaching legibility. Minutes flew by, until it was almost ten. I found a relatively quiet corner of the convention center’s cavernous lobby, braced myself, and dialed. “Mnmph…h’lo?”

“Clay? Oh gosh, did I wake you up?”

“Huh?” I started to identify myself, but evidently he caught my voice the next moment. “Oh—oh no, I’m just veggin’. How are you?”

“I’m fine, and you were sleeping! Should I take more notes and call you back?”

“No!” A pop and a click sounded. “There, speaker’s on. And I was not sleeping either!”

“Yeah, right. You got something to write on?”

“Yes, I do,” he informed me with a little attitude. “And my computer too.”

“Good. Let’s go to class then.” We chatted about breakfast and I summarized the early sessions, while I found the room and grabbed a seat up front. When the speaker started I nabbed two copies of the handouts as I had earlier, then whispered, “Can you hear okay?”

“Yes,” he hissed back and made me swallow a giggle.

As I laid the phone on the table, the presenter walked over and pointed to it. “I prefer those be turned off,” he said.

“I have a friend who really wanted to come and hear you, but he couldn’t, so he’s listening in.”

“Sorry, we can’t provide free instruction to the whole nation,” he sniffed and reached for the phone.

I blocked his hand with mine. “He is a presenter,” I said coldly, “so he has as much right to be here as, well, you do. Now, why don’t you go present, and we’ll listen, and everybody’ll be happy. Believe me, you do not want to make him mad.”

The jerk backed off, and the session went smoothly. “You’re threatening people with me??” Clay sputtered afterwards.

“Hey, you’re the one who told everybody you had a temper. Redheads are supposed to, anyway.”

I was in no mood for a repeat at the last session before lunch, so I shorted out any debate by explaining to the presenter beforehand. The elderly lady was quite agreeable, and even offered to say hello to my ‘friend’. “What’s his name?” she asked.

Think fast. “Uh, Chad.”

“Hi there, Chad!” she said brightly into the phone. “Sorry you can’t be with us.” They chatted for a minute, and from her end it sounded as if Clay was holding his end up well. Then she said, “You sound familiar. Have we met? Maybe I came to your presentation?” I recognized her, too late; she had indeed. She was quiet, and her eyes slowly widened. I suspected Clay was coming clean. “Oh…I see…of course not…yes, I’ll make sure your friend gets everything you need…no problem at all. It’s a privilege. Bye now.” She handed me the phone. “You should’ve told me it was HIM!” she whispered, and as she trotted to the podium I swore there was a new spring in her step.

“Charmer,” I snickered into the phone.

“Who’s Chad?”

“Later. Hush up and take notes.”

The session was fascinating, and afterwards the professor even insisted I take a copy of her book on autism, which she inscribed to Clay. I thanked her, but was itching to be off. Across the parking lot I dashed, through air that felt thick as warm bath water, then through the Rosen’s lavish lobby and up the elevator, to what the hotel directory billed as an ‘executive king suite’. I knocked, and the door was opened by the cutest geek God ever created. Clay wore flip flops, baggy plaid pajama bottoms, and a worn T-shirt that barely read MINNESOTA GOLDEN GOPHERS. He was wearing his glasses, he hadn’t shaved, and his hair was a wavy unstyled mess; and one thought burst across my mind: oh my, I could so easily fall in love here. Before I could stop myself my arms were around him with a ‘Hello, sweetness”. I winced at myself and tried to move out of his space; but he was already returning the hug, and his ‘Hi, c’mon in!” sounded as genuine as the big smile on his face looked.

The suite was plush, to say the least. A wet bar with sink and small refrigerator was set just inside the door to the left, for the obvious convenience of a round table with four chairs to the right. On the far side of the wide room was a sitting area with armchairs and an overstuffed sofa, ranged around a coffee table and entertainment center. Halfway there, through a door slightly ajar, I glimpsed a huge (and unmade) bed. “Sweet,” I said.

Clay looked abashed. “The hotel wanted to put me up in the Presidential suite, but that was way too over the top.” He pointed to a little metal cart parked by the bar. “I’m sorry I didn’t think to ask what you like to eat, so I just got the kitchen to send up some steak sandwiches, if that’s okay.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to do all that for me!”

“Well, you didn’t have to do what you did for me either!”

He pulled the cart over to the table. “Working lunch?” I asked, but he shook his head.

“Lunch lunch. You’ve got time to eat and go over the notes later, right? The speaker phone’s over by the couch, and my stuff’s all spread out on the coffee table.”

We unpacked little containers of fruit salad and freshly cooked homemade potato chips. It touched me on a not altogether spiritual level when Clay reached across the table to take my hands and say grace, as naturally as if we had done it for years. I bit into a huge sandwich expecting tasty Philly cheese steak, and got steak all right—sirloin, from the flavor. “Omigod Clay, this must’ve cost!” I blurted and then felt incredibly dumb.

He just laughed. “What good is the money if you can’t spend it sometimes?”

We ate and talked, and then moved to the sitting area. A laptop sat opened on the low table, and papers covered with neat hand printing were scattered about. A heap of pillows piled on the sofa told a clear story. “You got real comfy while you took notes, didn’t ya?” I teased.

“Why not, if given the opportunity?” he shot back, and we settled among the cushions. He exclaimed over the autographed book and hunted up a copy of his CD. Checking the spelling of the professor’s name, he signed it to her. “I’ll get Jerome to find her this afternoon and give her this.”

I pulled out my notes and recordings, then realized what was missing from this scene. “Where’s Raleigh? I haven’t seen her.”

“She’s not here. Something was wrong with one of her hips, and she had to have surgery on it. I took her to a vet in North Carolina before we came down here, and my mom’s gonna keep her till I get back there next week.”

“Too bad, I was looking forward to meeting her. Poor baby! Guess I could send her a get-well basket. Dog biscuits on sticks instead of cookies, though.”

For some reason this amused Clay mightily. “Dog biscuit on a stick,” he repeated under his breath with much snickering at odd moments while I read my notes from the early sessions and he typed them out. Then we compared what each had written from the later classes, and he felt his were seriously wanting. “Wow,” he mumbled and tossed them aside. “I’ll stick with yours. No wonder you made terrific grades.”

“Yours are fine!” I protested. “Thanks for the compliment though. Once a writer, always a writer.” While he copied the rest of my notes I confided about my unpublished novels.

“So, who’s Chad?” he asked as we continued through the notes. Crap, I hoped he’d forgotten. “Your boyfriend?”

In my dreams. “No, just a character in some stories I wrote. They’re based on CSI, the TV show. I’ve heard you don’t care for gore, so you probably haven’t seen it.”

“Yes I have!” he surprised me by replying. “They do get nasty, but I like how the writers keep you guessing, and all the weird little facts they throw at you. You wrote about it? That’s cool. Why did you call me that name though?”

“Well, the character makes me think of you. He’s a private eye, but he sings at an old hotel in Vegas.”

“I’d like to read it some time.”

“Sure. I’ll give you the url.” The conversation moved on, and I scribbled the web address down the margin of one of his pages while we talked of other things. That way I’d kept my promise. He probably wouldn’t think of it again, but in case he did, I also took care to note only the direct addy to the first story in the series. He’d get his fill of gore there, and likely never recall I had referred to them in the plural. The second and third were explicit in, shall we say, other ways, and I would die of humiliation if he got hold of those. As for my actual Clayfic, it was tucked away on a whole other site, so it was safe.

“There.” Clay typed the last of the notes with a flourish. “All done with time to spare.”

“Great. Do you mind if I hang here till the next session starts? It’s only half an hour, and between classes things get a little crazy down there. It’s so nice and quiet up here.”

“Too quiet sometimes. Please stay.” I supposed it could get too quiet, especially without even his little dog for company. We continued to talk, and I pulled out my knitting. Clay reached over and felt the fabric growing from my needles as I turned the sock’s heel. “That feels really good. I wish I knew somebody who knitted. I’d like some of those.”

“So what am I, chopped liver? Stick your foot up here. Without the flip flop.” I patted my lap, and after a moment’s surprise he turned enough where he sat beside me on the sofa to put one big bare foot there. “It better be clean too, mister. I’ve heard about your legendary foot funk.” It was clean, of course, and a very nice foot too. His toes were long and well formed, with a light sprinkle of curly gingery hairs—and freckles—and the toenails did not look chewed on. He giggled as I moved my measuring tape here and there on it. “Did you have a color in mind?”

Clay’s mouth hung open. “You mean it? You’d do that for me?” He began to look excited. “Do you think maybe they could be done by Thanksgiving? I’m supposed to be in—somewhere—that day, and last year it was pretty cold. Oops. Forget I said that. Nobody’s supposed to know yet.”

I ran my finger across my mouth. “Call me Ol’ Ziploc Lips.” I found a yarn catalog in my bag, and he picked out a soft wool blend yarn in a nice shade of sage green heather before I resumed my knitting. Clay stretched one arm along the back of the sofa, rested his head on it and watched me. Quiet descended, broken only by the click of my needles, and surprised me with its comfort; it was not at all an awkward silence.

“Is that as relaxing to do as it is to watch?” he asked after a few minutes.

“Very. I wish I had time to teach you.” He laughed and rolled his eyes. “Guys knit too!” I tickled his foot, still in my lap, with the end of one needle. “Russell Crowe knits. He grew up in Australia on a sheep farm, so I bet his whole family does. It’s most relaxing if the pattern’s easy. You get into sort of a meditative state, alert and focused but very peaceful...” I rattled on a bit, and when I looked up, Clay’s eyes were closed. My hands continued their activity, while, fascinated, I studied his face.

Sure, I’d stared at photos and TV screens, but no film or video could contain the view I beheld now: the movement of his eyes beneath translucent lids, the slight flare and relax of his nostrils with his easy breathing, the freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks like gold dust swept aside by those impossibly long lashes, the lips parted just a trifle with what looked like a fleck of mayo at the corner of his mouth. I had leisure too to admire his arm: ropy muscles, soft gingery fur, the fine bones of his wrist, and the familiar WWJD bracelet, symbol of the faith we shared. It did not, however, negate the fact that I badly wanted to touch him—not necessarily romantically, even—just stroke his hair, or trace his strong jaw with my fingers. I realized that if I rested my head against the sofa back and turned my face the least bit toward him, his outstretched fingertips would just brush my cheek, or my lips, and the thought made me shiver. My needles slowed, then stopped. Clay shifted and sighed, and his eyes popped open. “Whoops, sorry. I didn’t mean to nod off on you.”

I managed a laugh at his flustered air. “I’d take it as a compliment, except I know perfectly well you can sleep darn near anywhere.”

“Not really.” He resettled himself, both his feet somehow ending up in my lap. “Only when I’m comfortable with the company…”

Well, maybe it was a compliment after all. I sat in the quiet and enjoyed the view (not out the window, either) till I looked down at my watch with a start. I had only a few minutes to get to my next session! Guiltily I bundled my stuff into my bag, and patted Clay’s hand. He grunted. I must be seriously sick—even that was adorable. “Clay? Clay, I gotta go to class.”

“Mm-hm.”

I scooted off the couch, leaving his feet where I had sat. “Do you want me to take notes for you?”

“Mm-hm.”

It was getting very hard not to giggle out loud. “Okay. What, uh, were you planning to do for supper?” Lord, did I have gall!

Still mostly asleep, he scrunched his face up. “Come back after class,” he muttered, “an’ we’ll decide.”

I wasn’t about to argue if it won me a little more time with him. “Okay.” Now if I had really had gall, I’d do what the heroine of my vampire stories did—kiss him and run. That stubbly cheek was incredibly inviting, but I didn’t dare. This was real life, and I doubted he would welcome such forward behavior. “See you this evening, then.”

Chapter 4

The lack of kissing aside, I floated through the rest of the afternoon and raced back to the suite the instant the last presenter paused for breath. This time the door was opened by a man much more put together, but looking not nearly as happy when he saw me. “I am so sorry!” he cried, and I crashed back to earth. Oh crap, he didn’t mean to tell me to come back, he’s got something else to do, or he’s just tired of being bothered. “I didn’t mean to—“

“It’s okay, I understand. Here, I didn’t make many notes, so I’ll just leave you the handouts and be on my way—“

He didn’t even seem to hear me. “—fall asleep on you that way. And then, I gave you orders and sent you off like—like you were on my payroll or something—“ Clay pulled me inside and wrapped my totally dumbfounded self up in a huge hug.

It was quite a shock to feel his body against mine, his breathing unsteady, and recognize he was genuinely distressed over something he perceived he had done to wrong me. “Hey, sweetness, calm down! It’s okay. Didn’t we make a deal last night not to get upset over each other?”

“That’s not the same.” He still looked troubled. “I don’t like it when stuff like this happens. It makes me worry I’m startin’ to act like some celebrity.”

The contempt in his tone made me snort with laughter. “Not bloody likely. If I hadn’t wanted to do it for you I wouldn’t have offered.” His marvelous eyes were not hiding behind glasses now, and I looked up into them, willing him to hear me and believe me. “What are friends for, anyhow? If I’m not being too presumptuous using that word. I did this morning, at the conference, but I didn’t ask you.”

He started to laugh, and squeezed me again. “No, you are not. It’s funny, it takes me a while usually to get to that point with people, but—I don’t know. With you it happened right away. ‘Like at first sight’, maybe.”

That made me laugh too. How could I ask for more than to call myself this wonderful guy’s friend? While I sorted his copies of the afternoon handouts from my bag, he hastily moved pages printed out from his laptop. Once I passed along the few notes from the margins the academics were done. “So what about supper?” I asked. “You do remember saying that, right?” Clay looked embarrassed again. I looked him over, in gray linen dress pants and an untucked teal-blue dress shirt. “You look nice enough to walk into the fanciest place in Orlando. I feel like something the, um, cat dragged in by comparison.”

“Will you quit talkin’ like that?” he groaned. “I do not let my friends run themselves down that way.” Now it was my turn to blush. At least I’d dressed decent today, in a white baby-doll T and my favorite cerulean-blue Matisse pants. “You know this area better than I do. What’s a cool place to eat?”

“Well, there’s this neat little place right up the street called Café Tu Tu Tango. The dishes all come in appetizer sizes, so you order three or four instead of one big entrée. And they have artists who come in and do their thing right there in the restaurant.”

“Really? So you can watch them work?” Clay brightened, but then his face fell. “They’d have to put us in some corner to keep a mob scene from happening. We wouldn’t get to see anything.”

He looked so disappointed I hated myself for bringing it up. It was a small thing, yes, but it wounded me to see how he was cut off from those small things he had no doubt always taken for granted as the rest of us do. “Let’s call and ask,” I suggested, at a loss for anything else.

I found the number, and reluctantly Clay dialed. “Hello? Uh, I was wondering about your table arrangements—my friend and I wanted to come and eat, and watch the artists, but we, um, might be kinda disruptive, because—what? Okay—“ He grumbled. “I’m on hold. Jerome’s a lot better at this than I am…yes? Hello? I—oh. Okay. Never mind.” He looked over at me. “The whole place is closed for some party. Sorry to have bothered you,” he said back to the phone. “Yeah, I hear ‘em coming in—huh? Disney? Do you know who?…yes, I know, but I’ve worked with them, I just wondered if anyone I knew was there…Mr. Dumas, you said? Could you put him on the phone please? Tell him it’s Clay Aiken.” The most interesting change came over him; where he had leaned against the table by the window, where the phone sat, with a dejected air, now he straightened to his full height and stuck his free hand in his pocket. He cocked his head and shot me a look that said I’ve got this. It also made my innards quiver a bit, with its wickedly masculine confidence. “Mr. Dumas, this is Clay Aiken, how ya doin’?…I’m good…the BAF presentation went great, thanks. Listen, I don’t want to impose, but since you all have that whole place tied up, would you have room for two more? We won’t be in your way, we just wanted to come eat and watch the artists—they are gonna be there, right?…Yeah, I didn’t want to, y’know, create a scene...That’d be great. We’ll see you in a little while, then.” He hung up and the grin spread all over his face. “We’re in! The power of the name. Ooh, that was almost sacrilegious, wasn’t it?”

“Not the way you said it. I imagine God snickering.” I laughed and hugged him, and then yelled when his arms closed around me and he picked me up and spun me in a half circle before putting me down. “Watch yourself, I’m no lightweight!”

“Yes you are,” he scoffed, tightened his grasp and lifted me straight up off the floor. I have never felt dainty in my life, but suddenly I did. Those wiry arms were much stronger than they appeared! I put my arms around his neck and met his extraordinary eyes. After making eye contact with him at a concert, a fellow Broad had declared, ‘I’d say I could see those eyes even when I close mine, but that wouldn’t be true—I can see them with mine open!’ Now I understood what she meant and more. They were as mesmerizing as the vampire’s I wrote about. I was almost nose to nose with him as he held me, so close I could feel his breath on my face, so close…so close…I was sure I stopped breathing myself, feeling as if I stood poised on the brink of something; and as I gazed into those eyes sparkling with mischief, I would have sworn I saw a response there, the moving of some awareness to meet mine. Then he said, “Let’s go!” grabbed his jacket with one hand and my hand with the other, and towed me out into the hallway. Don’t be silly, I thought. He’s just a warm and caring person. If he finds you special it’s because you treat him like a friend, not some icon, and you don’t act like a drooling fangirly. Above all, then, I could not let that slip. Clay had called me his friend, to my face, and to others, without hesitation. I was happy enough to have that gift, and needed to live up to it.

I returned his cel phone (he forgot he hadn’t gotten it back and nearly had a fit looking for it before I surrendered it with much ribbing) and he called the limo on our way downstairs. He also called Jerome, although not until we were actually in the limo, and convinced him that at a private party which would likely be watched by Disney security, his services wouldn’t be needed. By the end of the conversation Clay was all but rubbing his hands together with glee. “This is gonna be fun,” he said.

The restaurant looked like a funky cottage you might see in an artists’ colony somewhere on the Spanish Riviera. Inside, the Disney folk greeted Clay with delight, and carefully veiled surprise at his dinner companion. It wasn’t an ‘omigod he’s with a female’ kind of surprise, thankfully, more of an ‘omigod he’s with a very plain female with an ample butt’. So, just for spite, I went into personality overdrive. I broke out vocabulary I hadn’t used in years. I laughed and chattered and dropped a few names from my stint on Music Row. Then for fun I exhibited my knowledge of Disney history—not the movies, but the corporate stuff few people outside Orlando know. (I’ve always been fond of Disney, but open-eyed.) I even tossed in a throwaway jab or two about how they don’t like to let people off their property once they get them there (which, among other things, is why it’s so darn hard to get there sometimes—if it’s easy to get there it’s equally easy to leave). It all was calculated to serve notice I was nobody’s fool, and no charity case on Clay’s arm out of his big-hearted pity…at least I hoped I wasn’t.

Clay, being Clay, saw it a bit differently. “This is very cool,” he said under his breath as we were shown to a brightly painted table near the center of the restaurant. “Everybody’s wondering where I found this charming, snarky, brilliant mystery woman. I definitely need to take you to more parties. You totally take the heat off me.”

Oh, please! I thought, but only said, “If I’d known I’d be called on to show off my intellect, I’d’ve worn my Mensa earrings to scare anyone in the know.”

“You scared ‘em enough. Mensa? Really? Oh my gosh. I really don’t stand a chance with you, do I?” I laughed with him, but barely had time to wonder A chance of what? before the menus arrived. “Weird food,” Clay concluded after a quick scan.

“Not weird food. Unusual food. And some common food. But I don’t come here for the common food.” With that I attacked the menu, beginning with a salad with smoked salmon and feta cheese, tossed with champagne vinaigrette. The skewered mushrooms sautéed in sherry sounded promising, but I refrained. What if I got a shot at a good-night kiss, and I had stuff he’s allergic to on my breath? That wasn’t likely of course, and it wasn’t what I told him. “I have to be in the mood for mushrooms. Besides, I don’t want you feeling like I’m rubbing your face in what I can eat and you can’t. My mom can’t eat chocolate, so I hardly ever eat it in front of her.”

“Gimme a break,” he groaned. “It doesn’t bug me—except the chocolate, a little, and that’s not even—“ He stopped and shook his head as if to say never mind.

I took the leap. “That’s not even a true allergy, is it?” I finished for him. “It’s the same reason you don’t drink stuff with caffeine. It’s reflux.” He looked startled, and a little guilty. “I spotted that the instant I read the Rolling Stone article. Swallowing disorders are part of my field, Clay. Those symptoms you described aren’t any allergy I’ve ever heard of. All I want to know is, are you getting treated?”

He nodded. “Please don’t say anything. I…just feel like my medical history ought to stay my business, as much as it can.”

“I agree.”

Several diners looked our way when we held hands to say grace in our by now customary fashion. Rumors will fly, I mused and let it go. While Clay slurped happily through his black bean soup, I ordered a Cuban grilled steak skewer, and a potato quesadilla spiked with roasted poblano peppers. Clay decided on marinated baby lamb chops grilled with apples and rosemary, and a ‘sloppy jose’ with chipotle cheese sauce. Whew, at least if he kissed me we’d both have monster breath. Hah! “I want food I can recognize,” he grumbled. “C’mon, let’s go check out the art.”

A woman cutting stained glass pieces was pleasant but focused on her work. Another was painting a picture of a green dog, and seemed oblivious to the gaggle of Disney employees debating whether he would fit in their next feature. Near a side window, a cheery older man sat with tiny brushes in hand, painting beautiful pictures on wooden eggs. We watched in breathless wonder as he outlined two tiny hands, looking just like God and Adam reaching for each other in Michelangelo’s epic mural of the Creation. Several finished pieces, lacquered and shiny, sat along the edge of his work space: a keyboard with a red rose lying alongside, a sunny beach scene, a golden castle floating among clouds. I was tempted, but the price tag was a little steep. I looked away to banish the temptation and spied another welcome sight. “Our food’s here!”

“You go on. I’ll be there in a minute,” Clay said, deep in conversation with the artist. I returned to the table, happy to give him a few minutes without functionaries hovering or media stalking him, to just be. This time after dinner, we both entertained thoughts of dessert, and acted on them. The guava cheesecake satisfied me quite nicely. Watching Clay demolish a two-story concoction of fresh-baked oatmeal cookie wafers layered with vanilla toffee ice cream, with such vigor that caramel sauce decorated his nose, was most entertaining, except for my secret desire to clean that marvelous nose off in a more fun way than with a napkin.

Clay phoned for the limo, and again insisted on paying. We said our goodbyes to the Disney crowd, who were enjoying several jugs of sangria. “Good timing,” I said. “They were starting to get loud. My grandfather drank, and being around people drinking too much still makes me uncomfortable.”

“Me too,” Clay replied quietly.

By the time we walked out into the mild evening Raoul was steering the big black car to the curb. “Let me get my bag and I’ll walk home,” I said, but Clay shook his head. “It’s a perfect night to be out, and I can work off some of that cheesecake.” Still he looked uncertain. “I walk everywhere I go around here! Heck, I walk to Universal Studios from my hotel—oops, I shouldn’t have said those bad words where your mouse-ear-wearin’ buds could hear them.” A snicker was not acquiescence. What I thought but did not say was I’ve loved being spoiled by you, but it has to end sometime. Better it be right here and done quickly. You’ve got things to do tomorrow, no doubt, and so do I. When I go home I’ll take this with me always. Don’t make it harder for me to say goodbye. “I’m fine, Clay. It’s not that far.”

“Really?” he said, and turned and bent to reach in the open car door. This presented me with a fleeting but priceless access to that cute, cute booty, and it took all I had in me not to at least smack it one time for the Broads. The opportunity was gone in an instant, as he backed out with my bag in one hand, and the most incredibly hot hat in the other. It was a cream-colored straw Panama, with a wide black ribbon band, and Clay stuck it on his head and shoved the limo door shut with one big foot. “Prove it,” he said to me and then yelled, “Thanks, Raoul! I’ll call if I need you.”

Chapter 5

My mouth dropped open as the driver departed, his grin wider than ever. “Clay—I—ah—Jerome is gonna kill me if I let something happen to you!”

“I’ll protect you from him.” His grin was bigger than Raoul’s, and his eyes danced with wickedness before he hid them behind his sunglasses.

“And who’s gonna protect you from him?” I sputtered.

“Judgin’ from the way you bit that jerk’s head off at the conference this morning on my behalf, I’m guessin’ that’d be you.” He started walking. “This way, right?”

“Uh—no,” I giggled and turned the opposite direction. His long legs caught up in a second, of course. I put my arm around his waist and we meandered up International Drive.

It was a perfect evening to walk. Tones of coral and salmon and purple washed the Florida sky, and a light breeze was just enough to stir the air. As the sun set, I-Drive lit up and took on a busy beauty of its own: neon and cheesy, maybe, but congenial just the same. We passed tourist attractions from the Titanic to Ripley's Believe It Or Not, and restaurants of every ethnicity. We window-shopped at tourist traps, evaded time-share shills dangling questionable theme park tickets as bait, and dodged packs of children squealing in a dozen languages. Every now and then Clay took a deep breath and let it out with a little sigh of contentment. No one looked twice at him, and he loved it. Well, girls looked twice, but only to stare daggers at me for being in the company of this tall fine-looking man! I wish, I thought, but for those moments I glared right back and enjoyed this sweet fantasy.

It seemed only seconds before we arrived at the crosswalk to my hotel. We held hands to cross the clogged street, and walked up into the Comfort Inn’s parking lot. “I hope Raoul remembers how to get here to pick you up,” I said. If not I’ll just keep you, I guess. Wonder how ‘look ma, he followed me home’ would play when it’s this lovely lanky tiger of a man we’re talkin’ about. Clay pulled out his phone with an oddly hesitant air. “Unless you want to come upstairs and hang awhile,” I said abruptly. “Just for a change in scenery. And to remind you how the peasants live.”

Dear Lord, did I say that? I must have, because his eyes widened, and then he stuck the phone back in his jacket pocket. “That sounds great.” We slipped through the lobby without incident, although I had a moment of concern when I spied a crew of Brazilians watching soccer on the lobby TV—he did have fans down that way. I led Clay around them and into the elevator up to my room. “This is nice,” he declared as he looked around. “Cozy. Not like that football field of mine. Hey, you got a microwave! I’m payin’ $300 a night and I don’t have a microwave! What’s up with that?”

“Force you to get everything through room service?” I suggested, and stowed my tote in a corner. The Bag O’ Clack wasn’t here to embarrass me, but the notebook with my latest fic was—thank heavens even I can barely read my ‘writer writing’. Clay could never decipher it. I got myself a Diet Coke from the tiny fridge and ran to the machine for a Sprite for him. He hung his hat and jacket on the chair by the bed, and we sat and talked on. I had worried he’d be uncomfortable, or think I’d asked him upstairs to hit on him, but that didn’t seem to be the case.

The only thing I hated about the wonderful evening was being uncomfortably clothed—uncomfortably so for my own home or its travel equivalent. Normally it’s a race between my shoes and my bra to see which one goes first. I tried not to fidget, but it must’ve showed. “So are you always this—upright—at home?” Clay asked finally.

“No, but I am if I have company.”

“Company!” he snorted. “You saw how I look around ‘company’. What would you do if I weren’t ‘company’? ‘Cause I sure don’t feel like it!”

“I’d turn into something that’d really scare you.”

“Hah!” He struck a mock-heroic post and sneered. “I have braved the badness of Simon Cowell. Ain’t nothin’ gonna scare me!”

“Oh, a challenge? Fine, watch this.” I ducked into the bathroom, regretting as I did that I hadn’t made an excuse to visit his—those debates about his fragrance choices could have been settled in one fell swoop! I popped out my contacts, washed off my makeup and brushed my teeth, then peeled my clothes off and jumped into my old plaid pajama pants and the Zildjan drums T-shirt I stole off Papa Roach’s tour bus (a friend’s husband drove for them last summer). I glanced in the mirror before I went back out, aware this was the dead cold end of any chance at a good-night kiss. No guy was gonna want to kiss what was looking back at me now! Darn, I should’ve gone ahead and ordered the mushrooms. Carpe diem.

With a mental shrug, I walked out. Clay was sprawled across the bed, TV remote in hand. “You look nice in glasses,” he said. “Did you get those pants at Wal-Mart? I think I have a pair just like them. Is that what’s supposed to terrify me, finding out you wear guys’ pajama bottoms?” Totally unimpressed with the horror that was me, he returned his attention to the TV. I could have proposed on the spot. “Hey, I haven’t seen this movie.”

“Running Scared? And you call yourself a movie fan? That’s a classic. It killed me they never made a sequel before Gregory Hines died—he and Billy Crystal had the greatest chemistry. I saw it, like, four times with a half dozen different blind friends because they all swore nobody could describe the action and keep up with the funny dialogue too as well as I could.” When I read the crawl across the bottom of the screen I shrieked. “Omigod, it’s coming on in, what, eight minutes? Oh Clay, you’ve got to see it, you’ll love it. Stay and let’s watch it! Can you? Pleeeease?”

What he had opened his mouth to say I didn’t know, but what came out was “Yeah. Yeah, sure!” I threw a bag of popcorn in the microwave and dashed down the hall for an extra Sprite. When I got back Clay had lost his socks and sneakers and unbuttoned his shirt partway, revealing the deep scoop of a ribbed undershirt…and a nice quantity of cinnamon chest hair. I couldn’t find a discreet way to pinch myself, so I took a deep breath and tried not to stare. Instead, I grabbed the popcorn and flopped onto the bed beside him, where I introduced him to one of the best buddy films ever made.

“Try to focus on the screen and nothing else during this part,” I said just before the big chase scene on the Chicago El. “It’s harder with a TV than in a theater, but if you can, you feel like you’re right on the train.”

He tried, and gulped. “I’m gettin’ motion sickness. I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“Oh, you better not, not on my bed!” I threw a handful of popcorn at him. He snatched up a pillow to shield himself and then swung it at me. I screeched, and we fell over in a laughing heap. “I’m sorry!” I gasped, trying to right myself and avoid thinking about the fact that I was lying on him. “I’m not being a very good hostess, am I? I just get silly when it’s late. I haven’t done this since college, with my friends.”

“Don’t apologize.” Clay sat up too, and then to my shock hugged me tightly. “Thank you,” he murmured. “This has been the best evening. I haven’t felt this—normal, or this…just thank you.”

“I had a gift I wanted to give you yesterday,” I admitted, “but when you came over to me I thought the best thing I could give you was to treat you like anybody else. Which wasn’t hard, as it turned out…or, it was in a way, because you’re not like everybody else.”

He ducked his head as if blushing again. “You gave me that, and so much more,” he said. When he looked up, his eyes sparkled like a small boy’s. “You brought me a present? So can I still have it?” I laughed out loud and went to my bag. “Did you knit me something?” He almost gasped with excitement.

“No, sorry, that comes later.” I found the little orange-furred bear in the bottom of the tote and laid it in Clay’s hands. “Read his name tag.”

Clay opened the heart-shaped tag dangling from the bear’s ear. “His name is Clay? For real?”

“Yeah, that’s why I thought of you when I saw it. This part I did make though.” I touched the bear’s wrist, and then his. He turned the little animal to look at its tiny bracelet, a match to his. “People have said—stuff—at times, about this, and…I got scared sometimes you’d listen to them, and maybe take it off or something, and that would’ve just been wrong. So I wanted you to have somebody to remind you. That sounds so dumb, doesn’t it, and I know you give things like this away to hospitals and—“

“Not this one.” His eyes were wide with emotion. “You are amazing,” he said softly and embraced me again. “I, uh, got you something too.” To my sputters he pulled a small box from his jacket. Inside was the painted egg with the golden castle on it. “It reminded me of the castle at Disney World, so I thought it might remind you of me, and this time.”

“As if I’d forget?” A fantasy castle to commemorate a fantasy experience. I squealed and hugged him and set the egg on the night stand, where I had laid his phone the night before. I spent the rest of the movie wrapped in his sinewy arms, snuggled up to that enticingly fuzzy chest. After the closing credits I channel-surfed briefly, but got no response to any of my offerings. I looked around to find him sound asleep, the teddy bear lying beside him. No way I could get up without waking him! I managed to reach behind me and feel around in his jacket till I found his phone. Good thing I remembered which speed-dial button was Jerome. “I don’t know what to do!” I wailed quietly. “I don’t want him to get in trouble, but he needs rest, and he’s sleeping so well I hate to wake him.” I did not mention he was wound around me like yarn around a needle.

Jerome sighed. “Yeah, he needs the down time. It’s cool. Just send him home when he wakes up.”

Tired myself, I laid the phone aside along with my glasses. Well, I was stuck, but in the best possible situation! Jerome didn’t even ask if anything other than sleeping was going on—he’s seen me, so he knew better than to think Clay would get that desperate. I left the lamp by the bed on, nestled into his arms and nodded off, till I was awakened by a small jerk and startled green eyes almost close enough for me to see clearly. “If you’re trying to send a nonverbal message, get verbal,” I yawned. “Or give me a sec to get my glasses. My sight’s so bad nothing but hard contacts will fix it, which I can’t sleep in. I’m legally blind without some kind of correction. So you’re a complete blur.”

Clay blinked, and then looked over at the digital clock. I could read its big red numbers, and it was well past midnight. “Oh no,” he lamented.

“Don’t worry, I called Jerome and told him I didn’t have the heart to bother you. He said to send you home when you woke up.”

Now the glint from under his lashes said something altogether different. “That hotel is not my home,” he said, “and I’m not awake.”

“Um…if you mean by that what I think you do, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.” He smiled sleepily in reply. I found my glasses, slid out to go to the bathroom and returned to find his shirt tossed over the end of the bed (not joined by pants, thank the Lord!) and him under the covers. “Cool. I should’ve suggested you get comfy. I promise I won’t grope you or anything. Now, let’s see, there’s an extra blanket in the closet, I think, I’ll crash over here in the recliner.”

From the pillow he glared at me. “What’s suddenly wrong with this?” he demanded and patted the mattress beside him.

“Uh, well, I didn’t want to disturb you—it’s not as big as yours— “Shut up, Broadly thoughts! “The bed, I mean—“ There is a world of difference between lechery in the abstract, and the object of your lechery lying in your bed scowling adorably at you, in his undershirt—a tank, may I add, which provided a spectacular view of his broad shoulders, the definition of his chest, and more spice-colored body hair.

“You look scared,” he said. If I were honest, I certainly was. This wasn’t a game among girlfriends anymore. This was a real man, for whom I was finding I had real feelings, feelings I knew he could never accept. “I’m not gonna grope you or anything.” The echo of my own words back at me kind of broke the spell. I hustled for the bed before he (or I) could reconsider, slid under the covers and fluffed the pillows. “Do you sleep with the lights on?” he asked.

“Not if I can avoid it.”

“Good. Me neither.” He reached across me and shut the lamp off. Enough light filtered through the curtains for me to make out his shape settling down. Timidly I lay down, and then jumped when I felt his hand touch my hip. “Hey, are you sure this is okay? If not I’ll go. I’m not gonna be that selfish.”

“Selfish?” I managed.

“Yeah…It seems like everybody around me is either trying to please me or trying to tell me what to do. You don’t do either one. I feel so at ease with you; but I’ve sort of invited myself here, haven’t I? If you’re not comfortable, I’ll leave.”

“No,” I said. “It’s okay. Better than okay. I—I’m just not good at finding someone else’s limits, and I didn’t want to overstep them.”

“That’s usually my line.”

I stretched out and let him guide me to rest against him. His body felt so firm and compact and strong, and he smelled warm and clean. “Good night, Clayton,” I sighed.

“Clayton?”

“Oh, sorry. I know you’re picky about who calls you that.”

“Yes, I am,” the soft drawl replied from the darkness. “And you can call me Clayton anytime you want to.”

The touch on the top of my head felt for all the world like a kiss, and I thought I’d died and gone to heaven as I drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 6

The decidedly unheavenly bray of the phone woke me. I grabbed for it—if Clay forgot where he was and answered, we were both sunk. “Senorita? Es Raoul! Are you to school today? I am here for your ride!”

“Raoul!” I gulped. Sun drifted in around the edges of the drapes. A glance at the clock said it was after eight—too late to catch any early convention sessions. “Uh, no! Not today,” I decided. “The presentations today aren’t as interesting. I might go later, but I think not.”

“Lo siento, senorita! Sorry! I woke you up, I betcha. Senor Clay, he did not tell me that.”

“He didn’t know. It’s not your fault, Raoul. Thank you for being so kind! I hope I see you again sometime.”

I hung up with a sigh of relief, and then felt stirring beside me. “I hope you’re not a morning person.” Clay mumbled. His eyes were mostly closed, his lips and cheeks faintly flushed from sleep, and he had the most amazing case of bed head imaginable; and all I could think was I could wake up to that tomorrow, and the next day, and every day for the next fifty or sixty years, or more.

“Nope,” I said. “In fact I hardly talk the first half hour or so after I wake up, unless obliged to.”

“Mmmm, my kind of woman.” If hearing that wasn’t enough to kill me I didn’t know what was! With a drowsy little smile, he drew me to him. “Good morning.”

“Good morning yourself.” We lay in quiet for a good while. “I bet you don’t get to wake up like this very often.”

“No way. It’s more sudden and frantic most of the time, and hardly ever after an actual night’s rest. And the prettiest girl I wake up to is usually Raleigh.”

“Oh, thank you for comparing me to your dog, even if she is cute!”

He gasped dramatically and smacked himself on the forehead—I’d always heard he was prone to histrionics to get a laugh. “I didn’t mean that!” I pretended to pout, and he squeezed me till I started laughing. “Should I get on my knees and apologize?”

“No, you can apologize just fine right where you are.” This was not, of course, to say that the image of Clay on his knees before me wasn’t the most pleasing notion I had ever entertained!

“Good. I really didn’t wanna get up just yet. You said you weren’t going to the conference this morning?” I nodded. “So, what do you do for breakfast around here?”

As if to echo his query, his stomach growled. I got bold and laid my hand on his tummy in time to feel it rumble again, which sent us both into giggles. “They set it up downstairs in the lobby. It’s pretty decent. If you want to snooze a little more I’ll get ready and bring some up. That way I’ll be through in the bathroom and you can shower and stuff while I’m gone.” Reluctantly, I slid out of the warmth of the bed and his embrace. Clay yawned and stretched his arms over his head. If his genie pal from Aladdin had appeared to grant me one wish at that instant, it would have been for the right to jump back on that bed and goose his ribs and roll around like kids…and end up somewhere kids don’t normally go on a Saturday morning in Orlando. I fled to the bathroom, cleaned up and threw on some shorts and a T-shirt. I had never spoiled a friendship with futile lust before, and this one above all was not going to be the first.

I ran downstairs and returned with sausage biscuits, little boxes of cereals, Danish, fruit and juice, to find Clay asleep again. So I did get to poke him in the ribs, after all; which was especially fun while saying “Clay, breakfast is ready”! (Talk about a fantasy…) We sat on the bed and cleaned the meal out, with milk from my fridge, except for a couple of disappointing slices of melon. “Anything else you want?” I asked over my juice.

He got up and padded to the window, and peered out the chink in the curtains. “You know what I really want?” he said, seriously enough that my hair sat up. “I thought of it last night before I fell asleep. Remember how you talked about walking to Universal Studios from here?”

“More or less. Most of the way is on the trolley. It’s only a few blocks walk from the stop.”

“Yeah. That. I want to do that. I want to walk out this door like any tourist and spend a day on roller coasters, eatin’ junk and buyin’ dumb souvenirs. Every time I’m here it’s some Disney thing, and they’re great, but what you said last night at dinner was more right than you probably knew. Once you’re in, they don’t want to let you out. They made it very clear they don’t want me seen patronizing their competitor.” I crossed the room and opened the drapes—we were five floors up, where nobody could see us. Clay’s pants definitely looked slept in, but the same sunshine that showed up the wrinkles set his skin and hair aglow. “I get so tired sometimes of being told to do this now, and that later, and the other thing not at all. Even when I understand why and accept it—even when I know how blessed I am, how much I can do from here, and how I shouldn’t gripe…” Silently I slipped my arms around him. “I’m sorry, you don’t want to listen to me whine.”

“If you can’t whine to a friend, who can you whine to?” I said gently.

He laughed a little under his breath and pointed out the glass. “Look, that’s it right there, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s just across the interstate. Wish we’d looked last night—they have searchlights out front, like an old-time Hollywood premiere, and you can see them for miles.” Shut up, girl, you’re not helping at all. I hugged him tight and wished my room were on the other side of the hotel, so instead of a view of the inaccessible so torturously close, he could see only the backsides of the Walgreen’s and the Bargain World next door to it… “Hold on, I got an idea.” I pulled away and grabbed my purse. “You clean up—but don’t shave! I’m running across the parking lot to do a little shopping. I’ll be back in a few.”

“Huh?” Clay looked totally lost. “What are you doing?”

“I’m gettin’ you to Universal!” I yelled and shot out the door like a shuttle off the pad at Canaveral. If I remembered correctly what I had seen on sale at Bargain World, my favorite Orlando tourist trap, on Wednesday afternoon (had it really only been Wednesday afternoon?) I could pull this off.

I did remember, and was back with my bags so quickly Clay was still in the shower. Not only was he in my shower, he was singing in my shower: ‘The Way’, and it was so beautiful I leaned against the closed bathroom door in silence to listen. I didn’t knock until the last note. “I got you something to put on! If you’re where you can maintain your privacy I’ll come put it on the toilet seat. If not stick your arm out the door.”

His giggle echoed off the tile. “I’m good, c’mon in.”

The shower curtain was completely drawn, and opaque. I couldn’t even discern a shape. Oh, to will that curtain to fall, and answer every question a Broad ever asked herself…Who was I kidding? I’d never wish such humiliation on him. I dropped the clothes and slid out calling, “I’ve got the accessories out here.”

“Accessories?” he said apprehensively. I grinned and sat down on the bed to wait. In moments he emerged, in baggy big-legged jeans and a black Orange County Choppers muscle shirt that made his shoulders look even wider. “Lord, I look like a punk.”

“Exactly. Hiding in plain sight. C’mere and let’s add the finishing touches.” I tied a do rag on his head, covering his hair completely, and stuck a couple of magnetic fake-pierced earrings on his ear. (I lobbied for one on his nose, but lost.) A pair of cheap mirrored shades and a wide leather wristband completed the outfit. “This way you don’t even have to take your bracelet off, just hide it.” Clay stared at his slightly scruffy reflection in the mirror over the dresser. “Now, would even your sweet mama recognize you if she didn’t know what to look for?”

“No way. Raleigh would, but she’d go by smell. This cost you way too much though! You should’ve told me what you were thinking and I could’ve given you some money.”

“Uh-uh. Twenty bucks for the whole getup. My friends say when somebody asks me what sign I was born under, I should say ‘sale’.”

“Cheap,” he chuckled quietly. “Cheap is good.” An anticipatory smile spread over his face. Then he glanced at my reflection standing beside him in my old khaki shorts and a T-shirt with Mozart on it. “You don’t match me very well, unless the punker’s datin’ a preppie. Where’s your costume?” My confusion was clear in the mirror. “Oh Lord, don’t tell me you thought I wanted to go alone!”

“Well…uh…I hadn’t thought…”

“Well, think about it, and get dressed! We’re wastin’ daylight here!”

My mouth hung open so far I was sure I felt carpet scrape my chin, but the resolve in Clay’s voice would not be denied. I ran to the closet, stood for a few seconds in thought, then pulled some stuff out and dashed into the bathroom. In a minute I popped back out in a paisley broomstick skirt and an acid-green tank I’d knitted to match it. From my carry-on I dug out a chunky terra cotta choker, and a brightly colored kerchief to tie over my hair. Clay watched and nodded in approval as I pulled on my ankle boots and scrunched my socks down over them.

“Punk and funk,” he said. “I like it.” While I finished dressing, he proved his slyness by calling the Rosen Plaza switchboard and leaving a brief message for Jerome: basically ‘gone out—see you later—don’t worry’. “This way I don’t have to listen to him try to talk me out of it,” he grinned as he turned his cel ringer off.

I clipped a little tube of sunscreen onto my purse straps, and then had one more flash of inspiration. I picked up Clay’s discarded shirt and started to tie the sleeves around my middle, but stopped when I saw myself in the mirror. “Darn. This would work if I were a skinny girl.”

“No, it wouldn’t,” Clay surprised me by saying. “It’d hang on a skinny girl like a flag on a still day. A woman needs some shape to pull that look off.”

Once again, I had to pick my jaw up off the floor before I tripped over it. He didn’t touch me, but his reflection looked at mine like he meant something by that, like I meant something to him. “We’re wasting daylight,” I finally said. “Let’s go.”

...Go to Part Two...

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