13. Winnie

13

WINNIE

B ack in Paris and it was showtime, baby.

This was what I was here for. This was my time to shine. This was where I was supposed to watch out for mismatched socks, mind the clock, and make sure my best friend’s boss remembered to eat. Easy stuff. So easy that I hadn’t really given the conference portion of this trip much thought. To say I was a tad unprepared for my assignment was an understatement.

Okay, the socks, time management, and food weren’t an issue. But conference rooms filled to the gills with a hoard of serious-looking Egyptologists was another story. I’d never been around so many smarty-pants people in my life. It was kind of intimidating.

And a text from Raine with a list of reminders didn’t help.

Day one is a meet and greet. Mission wardrobe is on. Check the socks and be ready with a water bottle and a packet of almonds. The professor forgets to eat at those things.

Day two is his speech on Saqqara.

Day three is the recent discovery of the Nile Delta Necropolis. Professor Poitier will speak afterward. They have friendly tension. Jammie Dodgers help. Suggest a cup of tea and sneak a few on his plate. Perfect stress reliever.

Day four is…

I turned my cell upside down and frowned. Fuck, I should have been doing my own research. I didn’t know jack shit about Saqqara and the Nile Delta. I was supposed to be a true asset, not just a pretty face handing out jam cookies.

Okay, no freaking out. I could cram a few weeks’ worth of ancient Egypt into a couple of all-nighters with Wikipedia, and in the morning, I’d blow the professor in the shower.

Yeah, I had this. No worries.

Study, sex, serve.

Day one began with a BJ and a leisurely lie-in. Then Alistair shuffled to his makeshift desk in the hotel room to work. That was my cue to hit up Google for some Egyptology for Dummies notes. I spent an hour memorizing basic facts like there are many pyramids in Egypt, one female pharaoh wore a fake beard, and mummification required a fuckton of bandages.

That was as far as I got. Sorry, but it was a smidge boring and I needed to save my enthusiasm for later. Besides, he’d agreed to let me trim his hair, so I had a mini project before the festivities.

“I probably shouldn’t be asking, but…are you nervous?”

Alistair met my gaze in the mirror propped next to the dining table in his suite. “No. Not at all. I know most everyone who’ll be there. It’s fine.”

“Oh.”

“I’m more nervous about how much hair you’re cutting,” he griped playfully.

“Don’t be. I’m a professional.”

“I know.” He smiled. “Are you nervous?”

“Me? Ha! Of course not. My job is socks. ”

“No…you’re my date.” Alistair waited till my hands went still to glance up at me. “You didn’t think I was leaving you in the hotel room, did you?”

“Well, no. I thought I was following you and staying close in case you needed something.”

“I’m not a pampered celebrity, Winnie…or a toddler.”

“I know, I know.” I raked my teeth over my lower lip. “But date? That’s—are you sure you want that?”

“Yes. I’m positive.” He wrinkled his nose and scratched his nape nervously. “To be clear, I’m not coming out at an event with three hundred work associates. It’s not that I’m not proud, but?—”

“Shh. I get it. If you want me, you can have me.”

“I want you,” he whispered. “More than you know.”

The way he looked at me just then sent the butterflies in my stomach into a frenzy. I’d waited my whole life for that look. It was possessive and hungry and vaguely dirty with the right amount of indulgent reverence.

And it made me nervous. Not good, ’cause nervous me was a loose cannon.

But don’t worry…I had this.

The meet and greet was held at a banquet room at the Ritz. Snazzy Central. I wore a clingy tuxedo shirt under a short dinner coat with big gold buttons and a purple plaid kilt, in case you’re curious. Other than the kilt, it was a safe ensemble. Alistair wore a suit. An actual well-tailored gorgeous navy suit, a white oxford shirt, and a silk tie.

Wow…just wow. The professor cleaned up nicely.

“You look amazing,” I gushed. “So handsome and?—”

“Dr. Creighton, it’s a pleasure to see you. Do you remember my wife, Penelope?” An old gentleman with a huge white mustache stepped up, grasping the professor’s hand as he pulled a slight woman with glasses forward. They were Americans from Spokane who’d specifically made the journey to hear Alistair speak.

Another couple joined them. And another. We were surrounded on both sides by eager-looking, well-dressed folks vying for Alistair’s attention. Someone quoted a passage from his last novel; someone else wanted his thoughts regarding the latest dig in a city I couldn’t pronounce to save my life.

“Dr. Creighton, I can’t tell you how happy we are to be here. We booked our flights months ago. I feel like a teenager at a rock concert,” Penelope twittered.

“I assure you, I will not be shaking my hips onstage,” Alistair deadpanned.

His audience howled as if they’d just heard the funniest joke ever. I chuckled along with them, plucking a champagne flute from a passing waiter’s tray.

“Honey, you should,” I piped in. They all turned to me expectantly. “Oh, hello. I’m Winnie Rodriguez.”

A British woman with short curly hair gave me an appraising once-over. “Lovely to meet you. Are you with the Louvre?”

“Louvre? Me? Work there?” I snort-laughed. “I think they’d put me on the ‘only hire if desperate’ list. And let me tell you, they’d have to pay me big bucks. I’d rather watch paint dry. But…it’s a nice place to visit,” I added in a rush, noting the six-way blank stare.

“Winnie is from Los Angeles,” Alistair said in an unmistakably affectionate tone. “That would be a rather long commute.”

They snickered politely but seemed more curious than ever now.

“I’m the professor’s assistant while Raine is on vacation,” I explained .

“Ah!” Apparently, that made sense. They nodded and resumed interrogating the professor.

They weren’t rude, but they were single-minded in their love of ancient history and had correctly guessed that I wasn’t going to quench their thirst or broaden their horizon on their favorite subject. I totally understood. If I’d had a hard-on for hieroglyphs, I wouldn’t bother with me either.

But this wasn’t my rodeo. I had nothing to prove to anyone here. My only job now was to look pretty and keep the champagne and canapés coming. Done.

I stuck to the professor’s side with a smile pasted on my mug while I witnessed a remarkable transformation. Alistair didn’t suddenly loosen his tie and demand the deejay play his favorite Gaga tune, then challenge his work bros to a drinking game, but the shell around his carefully guarded facade had cracked. He was open, friendly, and talkative.

It was nice to see him so comfortable in his skin. He knew these people, knew his role here, and he shone. I had no idea what the fuck he was talking about half the time, but he did it with such passion and excitement that I found myself wracking my brain for those darn Wikipedia trivia tidbits to add to the conversation.

But I was a good boy. I didn’t do anything embarrassing. I didn’t even ask if anyone knew how to walk like an Egyptian. Seriously. The force was strong with me all night…until Gerard made his entrance with a stunning blond man on his arm.

Colin.

I was curious about this guy. I’d read about his work in antiquities and his marriage to a prominent archeologist, but nothing online revealed his personality…if you know what I mean. No one said Colin was the best dude ever, and no one said he was a dick. It was all unsatisfyingly neutral .

First impression: he looked like an angel with golden hair, aristocratic features, and a sophisticated air.

Second impression: Colin and Gerard made a formidable team. They were supermodel gorgeous and ridiculously smart. That didn’t seem fair.

Third impression: I didn’t like him.

Yeah, yeah, not surprising. No doubt that was me being a judgy asshole, but I never claimed to be perfect, as the white-hot flare of jealousy racing through my veins indicated. It was totally irrational. Colin didn’t have anything I wanted. His romance with my professor was over eons ago, so what did I care?

Well, here’s the thing—it didn’t take a rocket scientist to guess we were nothing alike and had zero in common. Fine by me. I took pride in my “uniqueness.” Usually, anyway.

At that very moment, not so much.

“Oh, we must say hello to Dr. Poitier and Dr. Farrington,” a woman in a shimmery pink sequined gown chirped.

“Is everyone here a doctor? It’s sort of like Grey’s Anatomy for ancient civilizations,” I quipped, mostly to myself. Alistair was speaking to a heavyset gentleman with a bushy mustache that curled at the corners.

Penelope heard me, though. She chuckled good-naturedly. “That’s clever.”

I bowed. “Thank you.”

“However, doctorate degrees outnumber medical degrees by the dozens here.”

“I figured. Are you a doctor?” I asked conversationally.

“Yes. And so is my husband.”

“ Hmm . And what about him?” I pointed at a random person.

“Yes. Dr. Shaw is a historian from Yale.”

“And her?”

“Yes,” Penelope confirmed. “Dr. Katzan is an archeologist and antiquities expert. ”

I inclined my head toward Colin. “Him?”

Was it my imagination or did Penelope actually blush? “Oh, Dr. Farrington is a linguist and Demotic expert, second only to Dr. Creighton, his former mentor. They worked together for years until Dr. Farrington met Dr. Poitier. That was a shocker. No one knew Dr. Farrington was…”

“Gay?” I supplied.

“Yes. Not that it matters, of course, but he always had a girl on his arm at these soirees. One day, out of the blue, he left a prestigious post at the British Museum and moved to France. For love. Sweet, isn’t it? I’m sure poor Professor Creighton was gutted to lose him. They’re very close friends. Or they were,” she singsonged in a tone that implied there might be drama between the two men. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to say hello to them.”

She hurried off before I could ask any probing questions.

I plucked another canapé from a passing tray and let my eyes wander over the room, homing in on Gerard and Colin, deep in conversation with Penelope. Alistair was nearby, chatting with a sophisticated gentleman in a tuxedo. I watched the three men while sipping champagne, looking for clues to their past, like a paparazzi dropout arriving at the scene of a crime a few years too late.

Pathetic. And very un-me.

Later, at the hotel that night, I changed my clothes in my room, and opened one of the emergency packages of Jammie Dodgers Raine had packed. I nibbled on the corners, lifted the top cookie, and licked jam from the center as I pondered the state of affairs.

Dr. Creighton was a big fucking deal.

I’d known he was brilliant and sought-after, but it was something else to see him in action, surrounded by fellow scholars who hung on his every word. To me he was Alistair, the professor, the geeky hunk who told stories about people who’d lived thousands of years ago and knew the history of practically every major city around the globe. He was the guy who lost his phone on the regular and had no concept of popular culture.

And he was from a world I would never in a million years be part of.

Damn it, I wished I’d taken French in high school. I wished I’d liked school more and had more than a passing interest in history.

I wished I had more time with Alistair…away from his adoring fans and anything that might remind him that I really didn’t belong here.

I choked down another Jammie Dodger and told myself to snap out of it. I had to keep my head in the game and my heart out of the equation.

The conference officially began the next day.

Alistair dressed, as per usual, in khakis and a matching sweater. He also wore one black sock, one navy sock, forgot to shave, and couldn’t find his phone.

“Here’s your phone,” I said, slipping it into his back pocket. “Shave first. And just a suggestion…lose the brown sweater, wear your new blue one instead, and let’s go with navy socks.”

“Right. Good thinking.” Alistair smiled hesitantly. “You don’t have to stick around for this part. You’ll be bored to tears. Go explore, have fun.”

“Are you kidding? Who’s gonna make sure you remember that King Tut was the most famous pharaoh in ancient times?”

“That’s historically inaccurate. King Tut had a rather insignificant reign, and his death brought an end to his bloodline. His successors did their best to tarnish Tutankhamun’s name. Little did they know that King Tut’s burial site would make him a household name centuries later and—” Alistair dragged his razor along his jaw as his gaze flitted to me. “You knew that didn’t you?”

“I’m smarter than I look,” I bluffed.

Yep, I was a new man this morning. I’d had my internal pity party for one last night and officially moved on. This conference was not about moi . I was here to support Alistair, and damn it, I was going to do my job.

He chuckled lightly. “You’re brilliant.”

“So are you, and you’re going to be awesome.”

And he was.

I’d been a DragCon regular every year for almost a decade, but that was the extent of my foray into conferences. Thousands of queers and allies celebrating drag culture and self-expression with a chance to see your favorite queens was too juicy a ticket to pass up—club music, rainbow-infused everything, and discussion panels highlighting topics like fashion, makeup, wigs, and queer activism. Loved it.

This…was nothing like that.

The atmosphere in the conference room was serious with a capital S. The speakers’ names, the topics they were covering, and the times were listed on a teleprompter and on an embossed program in the lobby.

The air of excitement was palpable.

But geez, it was…b-o-ring. I wasn’t sure how anyone could make the topic of museum funding exciting, but the new dig in Egypt sounded promising. Unfortunately, the speakers lacked pizzazz. No snappy one-liners and no jokes to lighten the mood.

I sat through three speeches, fell asleep in my chair before lunch and pressed repeat in the afternoon.

Until Alistair took the stage at the end of the day.

In a twist, my man was the Mick Jagger of Egyptology. The room went bonkers. They stood for the professor as he made his way to the podium, applauding with gusto.

I overheard whispers of the time he’d given the Prince of Wales a tour of some important king’s tomb at the British Museum and the award the duke of fuck-knows-where had presented him at Oxford. Alistair was the best of the best. He was the guy every archeologist wanted on speed dial. He was well-connected, brilliant, ebullient, and had an uncanny ability to retain thousands of years’ worth of obscure history in his brain.

No, those were not my adjectives. And as you probably guessed, I had no idea what the fuck ebullient meant till I googled it. Enthusiastic…in case you were curious.

The whole room went dead quiet—pun intended—while Alistair decoded a section of text from a sarcophagus in French and English. It was a hymn or a prayer and instructions on how to navigate the afterlife with funerary amulets for someone with a five-syllable name. It was interesting, but my attention wavered to Gerard, who gave a friendly wave from his seat two rows in front of me.

His husband wasn’t with him. I didn’t know if that was weird or not, but I went with weird anyway.

Where was Colin? Was he avoiding Alistair on purpose? Was there bad blood or just more to the story than I knew? Was he angry that Alistair hadn’t translated the sexy rock his husband had asked him to a few weeks ago? Why hadn’t he done it himself? He was a linguist. Shouldn’t he know how to decipher hieroglyphics too?

Okay, I’d officially gone bananas. Creating some wacky espionage-like scenario with a grand setup Matrix-style was over-the-top…even for me.

I supposed I could have asked Alistair about Colin, but I hadn’t wanted to waste what little time I had left by potentially bringing up bad memories.

So I played the part of valet and cheerleader during the day and sex god at night, setting the ambience, dimming the lights and keeping the curtain open just enough to see the Eiffel Tower from the bed.

I wore my lace thong and brought my A game, sucking him to the point of madness and offering myself like a gift. I wanted Alistair to remember me fondly…and not as a jealous weirdo who’d done the unthinkable by falling for a man who was out of his league.

Yes…I’d fallen for Alistair. Hook, line, and sinker. Head over heels, bewitched, infatuated to the point of madness.

As a result, I was off-kilter that whole week.

I found myself staring at him with a mixture of pride, awe, and intense affection—over breakfast, at his lecture, in bed. I was transfixed by the sound of his voice in a crowded conference room, the rise and fall of his chest as he entered me. I wanted to be wherever he was. London, Paris, a random town on the Nile River…hopefully with high-Internet access.

The accompanying niggle of self-doubt was a new one for me. Did he want me? I wasn’t like Colin. I wasn’t the kind of boyfriend he could hide. He’d have to want me just the way I was. And let’s not forget that I lived on the other side of the freaking globe.

Ugh! Yeah, I faked it well enough, but I was kind of a mess.