Whisper Privileges (27 page)

She hoped so. Truth be known, she did want
his attention. Actually, she wanted more than his attention. She
enjoyed it when he held her hand as they walked. She wanted him to
touch her, to kiss her... She wanted him to want her. She wanted
Clay to want her as much as she wanted him. Pressure pushed in her
chest.

Did he? Or was he after an out of town fling?
A hot fling, but a fling nonetheless. Would that be okay with her?
Could she leave it at sex and bid him goodbye in a week? Her lungs
balled into knots and she shook the thought away. She didn’t know
what she wanted. She only knew that she liked Clay. A lot. Why
couldn’t she just leave it at that? Did she have to have the whole
evening planned? Did she have to know what was coming before it
happened, what it meant? She turned from the mirror and cursed her
instinct to plan and organize. Leave that to business. Her personal
life didn’t have to be planned to the last detail, every facet of
her existence organized and orchestrated by her.

Escaping into the bathroom, she decided to
leave the clothes be. Something told her that if she changed, she’d
just find fault with the next outfit. She grabbed the bottle of
perfume from the glass tray and sprayed it over her exposed chest,
the mist clinging to her skin. Clay was a nice guy. He wouldn’t do
anything she didn’t want him to do. Suspending the bottle in
midair, she stared into the mirror. Which begged the question: what
did she want him to do, exactly? Kiss her some more? Touch her?
Anticipation shimmied through her nipples.
All of the
above
?

Nerves fired at the rap on her door.
Was
it seven already
? Heart thumping, she spritzed the perfume onto
her wrists then smacked the bottle down on the marble top vanity.
She strode out the door and into her bedroom. The glowing red
numbers on her bureau shouted that it was seven o’clock on the dot!
Smoothing the silk top against her waistline and down her hips, she
chastised herself for losing track of time. Some event planner—she
should have been out in the living room, relaxed and ready to go
with time to spare, not stretching time to the very last second.
With a brisk stride to the door, she decided Clay received an A for
punctuality. Her pulse skipped.
Who was she kidding
? Up to
now, the man had scored straight A’s in everything!

One quick calming breath, she swung the door
open and froze. There he stood with a banquet-sized bouquet of
brightly-colored flowers—a mix of white, purple and yellow flowers
she couldn’t identify—with a Bird of Paradise shooting up from the
center. The arrangement was decadent in both count and quality.
Stunned by the extravagance, she gaped at him. “Those are for
me?”

“Absolutely.” He extended them toward her.
“How could I not bring flowers for Ms. Flores?”

His disarming smile nearly unraveled her.
Carefully taking the flowers from him, she realized they were
heavy, but reflexively drew them to her nose. She inhaled,
immersing her senses in the delicate, velvety smooth petals. Unlike
the rich fragrance of roses, these were lightly scented, almost
odorless. “Thank you,” she replied and reluctantly withdrew the
bouquet. “They’re beautiful.”

“They’re nothing compared to you.”

She paused at the comment. She had to hand it
to him. The man never met a compliment he didn’t like. “Would you
like to come in?” she asked, a touch embarrassed he was still
standing on her doorstep. “I’ll put these in water.”

“I’d like nothing better.”

Sydney stepped aside and closed the door
behind him. “I’ll only be a minute,” she said, but with Clay
standing firmly in place, she was forced to move around him, their
proximity very close.

“You smell good,” he said, lifting his nose
in her direction as she passed.

“Thank you,” she replied automatically.

Clay moseyed further inside and took in the
surroundings. With little to no interior design talent, her décor
was simple. She gravitated toward clean lines, keeping her
furnishings sparse yet elegant, appointments neutral, save for the
slew of floral pillows across her couch. Picture frames dotted her
tabletops, sleek steel finished in blues and greens, oranges and
reds. As she rounded the corner to her kitchen, she glanced at him
through the pass-through. What did he think of her home? What was
his like? Was it larger, smaller? Modern or traditional?

“You like to keep things simple,” he
noted.

“Usually,” she called back, assuming he meant
the décor.

He picked up the one picture of her parents.
Encased in a square frame, its matted border scraped to a lustrous
steel blue, he asked, “This your mom and dad?”

“It is.”

“You look a lot like your father.”

“So they say,” she replied, a mix of pride
and consternation as she grabbed a vase from a bottom cabinet.
Pulling it free, she hoped they fit. It was the only vase she
owned, a remnant leftover from flowers she received three
Valentines ago.

“But your skin is lighter.” He set the frame
down on the table. “Are both your parents Spanish?”

She shook her head and stuffed the thick wad
of stems into the vase. It was going to be snug. “Just my father.”
She glanced at Clay. “He’s Cuban, actually. My mother’s family is
originally from Nebraska.”

“Midwestern girl. Makes sense.”

After running water through the center of
them, she walked back into the living room and placed the bouquet
in a prominent spot on her dining room table. “How so?”

“They grow them big out there.”

She raised a brow. “You might want to get
back to those compliments of yours.”

He laughed. “You’re not sensitive about your
size, are you?”

“I assure you, no woman wants to be called
big.”

Clay met her tableside and slipped his hands
around her waist. “I like your size. You exude power in every
step.”

“Not a bad comeback,” she said, controlling
the tattered quality to her voice at being wrapped within his arms
so soon. The flimsy material of her top nothing against the hot
palms of his hands.

“You look great.”

“Thanks,” she said, and pushed his forearms
down and away from her body. She wasn’t ready for this—a squiggle
of anticipation zipped up her spine—yet. “Now, how about that
dinner?”

“Hungry?”

“Ready for dinner,” she corrected, proud of
the fact it rolled off her tongue without hiccup.

Deciding it was best to stay close, Sydney
chose a Latin American café in Coral Gables. Casual but good, she
wanted to give Clay a sample of the variety Miami had to offer. He
was a tourist in this town—visiting—something she felt compelled to
remember. And while the restaurant offered many of the same Spanish
dishes he’d sampled before, they specialized in
chimichurri
,
a parsley-garlic sauce served over succulent grilled flank steak
known as
Churrasco
.

Opting for the outdoors, she and Clay sat at
a small round table tucked away beneath a cluster of palms. The
patio was bordered by a short brick wall, the stones aged to an
earthy red hue, openings to the sidewalk trimmed in decorative
wrought iron. With the intricate attention to detail, she imagined
it was a craftsman’s dream. The ground was covered with more brick,
their grout lines almost black, scored by time and foot
traffic.

“I like this place already,” he said, gazing
up at the trees around them. “Nice and private.”

As though they needed privacy. Clay didn’t
know anyone here and she wasn’t worried about running into Javier.
He kept mostly to the city and beaches. “The food is
wonderful.”

“Smells good.”

“You have to try the steak. It’s the
specialty of the house.”

“Done.” He centered on her, his gaze intent,
the light from the centerpiece candle flickering in the deep blue
of his eyes. The light blond strands of his hair glimmered, his
skin appeared clear and smooth, his features even and perfect in
the soft lighting. Looking at him in the calm patio ambiance as he
stared at her, she found him all the more handsome. “So tell me
about your family. You’ve met Q. You know my history. What about
you? Do your folks still live in Miami?”

“My
folks
?” She chuckled at his
terminology.

“Sorry.” He smiled, but his gaze shot to the
table and back. “Must be a southern thing. From where I come from
we refer to parents as folks.”

“I gathered.” Actually, it sounded sweet.
Old-fashioned. As so much of what Clay did and said. Touching the
cold end of her fork, she said, “My parents both live here, but
they’re divorced. Both are remarried, but don’t speak to one
another.”

He grimaced. “Sorry to hear that. Bad
blood?”

“If you call an extramarital affair bad
blood, then yes. Very.”

“Who did the cheating?”

“My father.”

He frowned.

“More than once, actually. My mom stayed for
a long time, but finally gave up. He refused to quit so she refused
to stay married.”

“Do you stay in contact with them?”

“I do. Mostly by phone. We don’t do holidays
or anything.” The sadness that entered Clay’s eyes made her feel
the pang of loss all the more. Fingering the hard edge of the fork,
she added, “It’s better that way. The last time they were together
they fought horribly.” And she had no interest in being around
them, or their mutual hatred.

“That’s too bad. I’m sure your mom harbors a
lot of bitterness.”

“Can’t say as I blame her, can you? I would
hate it if my spouse cheated on me.” Then it dawned upon her that’s
exactly what happened to Clay. “I’m sorry,” she offered quickly.
She didn’t mean to be insensitive by bringing up bad memories for
him.

“Don’t be.” He held up a hand. “You didn’t do
anything wrong.” He looked away and for a moment, seemed lost in a
faraway place. Was he thinking of her? Was it painful for him? When
he returned his focus to her, she noted a sharp change in his
expression. “I can understand how your mom feels. It’s no fun when
you learn your wife—or husband—cheated on you. It’s a bitch. It
really messes you up for a while, but you get over it.” He reached
for his glass of water and sipped, condensation dripping onto the
tablecloth below.

She wanted to console him in some way, to let
him know she understood, but she didn’t. Not really. She only
understood what it was like from the outside looking in, the
resentments that built through the years, the anger against one
parent for hurting the other and the constant longing for things to
be different.

“A part of me is still bitter, I guess. But
only a small part.”

“Wish I could say the same for my mom. It
eats her up.”

“Even though she’s found someone new?”

Sydney nodded. “The mere mention of my father
sends her into a furious rage.” Truth was, it felt as though the
anger was even directed at her, as though she had something to do
with her mother’s misery. Reaching for her glass she thought, she
may resemble the man, but that’s where their similarities ended.
She and her father were nothing alike. And she planned to keep it
that way.

“Are you an only child?”

“I am.”

Clay rolled his lips together. “Hm.”

Grasping the base of her glass, the exterior
cold and wet, the reaction made her feel as though her life were
lacking in some way. “Better only one kid had to go through it,
right?”

“That’s one way to look at it, I
suppose.”

And really, wasn’t Q in her same position? He
was an only child. His parents were divorced. Did they speak? Was
Clay’s relationship filled with animosity?

“Divorce is an ugly thing.”

“That it is,” she agreed, and wished their
bottle of wine had arrived. She could use a drink right about now.
Talk of her parents never bode well and reinforced her decision to
cut ties, change course, revise her future and steer wide and clear
of their mistakes. She was in no hurry for marriage or children, if
ever. Sydney glanced to the side just as the hostess was leading a
middle-aged couple to their table. Several yards away, she watched
as they took their seats and listened to the hostess reel off the
house spiel. A waiter swooped in and filled their glasses with
water and for the entire time, the man was touching his date. First
his hand, then his arm went around her, now he was pulling her
close. Checking their hands, Sydney saw the two were married.

Whatever. Romance over candlelight was easy.
It was the long term devotion part that stumped people.

“Q was very impressed when I told him about
our bike ride.”

The out of the blue statement snapped her
attention back to Clay. “Really?”

He nodded, his smile reflecting it was true.
“Thought it was very cool.”

“I still feel bad about taking you away from
him,” she replied.

Clay covered her hand with his and her
insides jumped. “Don’t. He had a ball with my folks. They went to
the Seaquarium, drove by the marina, the beach. He didn’t even know
I was gone.”

Sydney wondered if that was a good thing or
not.

# # #

Clay drove her home and as a proper gentleman
would and escorted her up her front walkway. It felt strange to be
on an actual date with him where he picked her up and dropped her
off. So much of their time had been “running into each other” or
“meeting up” that this felt all the more serious. It was him and
her...

...and the threshold of expectation.
Inserting the key, she glanced at him as she unlocked the door.
Should she ask him in? Part of her wanted their evening to continue
yet another part of her was concerned where it may lead. She turned
to face him fully. But as they were growing closer, she knew it was
only a matter of time. Sydney peered into his eyes, trying to avoid
his mouth as she wondered what he would do once inside.