A single yellow rose.
That's what awaited him, on his desk. One perfect yellow rose, laying there like a testament to the sunshine as it sleeted freezing grey water. The first time one of the flowers appeared on his desk, one of his students had come into the classroom early.
"Professor, what a pretty flower! Where ever did you get it?"
He said he didn't know. She had gushed about it for the next three minutes, as girls were wont to do, and then said, "Did you know that it's a tradition in the south to give your lover a blooming yellow rose? Maybe you have a secret admirer, Professor!"
Class had started, and he had no time to think of roses, southern lovers, or girls who knew far more about flora than they should.
He took the newest rose loosely in two pale fingers. Picking up his bag, he slung it over a slim shoulder. The teacher parking lot was silent, and completely empty. He could walk to the university from his apartment, but there was no need to walk alone.
He leaned against the wall, perfectly silhouetted in the setting sun. His worn blue jeans hugged well formed legs, threadbare cotton button up straining over a well-muscled chest. The only hint of wealth was a single golden ring adorning his left ear. He glanced up, impossibly blue eyes beaming in a tanned, heart shaped face, still dusted with childhood's freckles. A single large hand titled up, the thumb brushing the tip of a ten gallon hat.
"Howdy, partner. Would you be lookin' fer an escort?"
The cowboy's voice
sent shivers up his spine. He stepped forward into the warm circle of
arms. "Clay Bailey, one of these days you'll be the death of
me."
"That ain't likely, seein' as I never managed it
when we were on opposite sides of the field."
He smiled against the warm chest, basking in the strength and gentleness and absolute warmth of Clayton Bailey.
"Kiss me, cowboy."
"Gladly, partner."
Their lips met, as they had so many times since his seventeenth birthday, and Jack Spicer knew that he was very, very lucky to be alive.
