The Shangri-La of Iowa

by inkstainedfingers97

The events of "Damp Terry Cloth in October" from Josh's POV.

I love Iowa. Lots of farmland, lots of cows. Well, actually, I haven't seen any cows since Donna and I got here, but I'm assuming they are out there. I know for a fact the farmland is out there, because Donna told me that Iowa is one of the country's top producers of corn, and you do need farmland to produce corn. Therefore, there is a lot of farmland in Iowa. Ostensibly, we drove through much of it on our way out to this charming country town, but it was pitch black outside with very few streetlights on the highway, so technically I can't say I've actually seen any farmland thus far with my own eyes.

Still, it's nice to get out of the city once in a while, enjoy the fresh air, spend some time away from all the noise and the people of city life. You'd think Donna would appreciate my thoughtfulness in allowing her to come along with me this weekend. I mean, she's always bugging me to take her on trips to random states like Hawaii, so she should be grateful. I almost didn't bring her along, but when I overheard her telling Margaret she had a date tonight, I thought to myself, Donnatella really deserves a treat. She's been working hard with me on this trade bill, she really ought to be rewarded with a weekend away from DC. If she came along with me to Iowa, she could take it easy, and see all our hard work come to fruition as she admiringly watches me kick Rawston's ass to De Moines and back. Of course, I'd have to make her do a little work to earn her way. The taxpayers can't just pay for a weekend of fun in the country for Donna, no matter how much she deserves it. She pretended to be annoyed, but considering all the effort I put in to giving her this unique opportunity to see the wilds of Iowa, I could tell s he was secretly pleased.

So my day was great. Not only did I win a bet with Toby, but I successfully prevented Donna from going on her date, and I got to have company on the airplane ride to the Shangri-la of Iowa. I was even happier when the guy trying to chat up Donna on the plane took one look at the adoring way Donna was looking at me and sighed in defeat, offering to give up his seat in tacit acknowledgment that the better man had won. Donna made the token protest that switching seats wasn't necessary, but it was so obvious by the way she leaned into my arm for the rest of the flight that she was glad that I had come back to ask her about the latest numbers from the trade bill and save her from another disastrous interaction with someone from the medical profession.

Needless to say, I'm feeling pretty content with myself by the time I make my way to the front desk of the hotel, a few minutes after Donna because she was out of the car like a shot and flatly refused to take my bags up for me.

It takes me a little while to get checked in, because of a slightly confusing interaction with the desk clerk. The guy finally gives me the key when it occurs to me that the room might be under Donna's name since she was the one who made the reservation. I congratulate myself on my quick thinking and whistle cheerfully as I head up to my room.

I let myself in and throw my suitcase in the far corner, shrugging my jacket off and tossing it on the bed. Then I pause. There's a suitcase on the bed already. Huh. Belatedly, I hear the shower running and my eyes widen, wondering why someone would sneak into my room to turn the shower on. I cautiously approach the bathroom door, which is slightly ajar, to see if there is someone actually in there, or if the water was just left running by mistake. As I approach, I hear a decidedly feminine voice humming, the voice becoming clearer as its owner turns off the tap.

I freeze, unsure what to do about my singing intruder, but before I can formulate a plan, the door opens and I am confronted by the sight of one Donnatella Moss, dripping wet and wearing nothing but a towel. I stare in disbelief for all of two seconds before she looks up and interrupts my reverie with a high pitched scream that nearly curdles my blood. Jesus, I never knew she could make such a loud noise. It scares the shit out of me, and I tumble backwards over the luggage rack in my haste to escape from the onslaught my ears have just suffered.

"What the hell are you doing in my room?" she demands.

I jump up from the floor, which is entirely too distracting a place from which to look at Donna right now. The floor provides a distressingly tantalizing view of those slender naked legs.

I knock over the luggage rack again, but I manage to get myself on my feet and I reassess the situation from my new vantage point. Her chest heaves as she sucks in several deep breaths. Turns out the vantage point from up here is mighty distracting too. My eyes practically bulge out of my head as I watch the knot in her towel move up and down as she breathes. I know I'm staring. I can't help myself. It's not every day you see your assistant almost completely naked, at least outside of your dreams, anyway. This is bad. I have to stop staring. I frantically cast my mind out for something sensible to say in this situation. "Your room?" I manage at last.

She puts her hands on her hips and glares at me. I'm beginning to think she might not have been pretending before when she was acting so annoyed, but this thought is mostly drowned out by a more primitive part of my brain that is currently occupied watching the towel shift as she juts out her hip to highlight her irritation. "Yes, Joshua, my room. If you think I'm going to do any more work tonight, you are out of your tiny little mind."

I have no idea what she's talking about. I can't process information properly when I'm trying to catalogue every inch of the bare skin before me. "This is my room," I say feebly.

She shakes her head pityingly. She must realize how taxing it is for me to try to think about anything but her alabaster skin. "No, Joshua, this is my room. Now, if you don't mind leaving the same way you came, I'd like to go to bed." She frowns. "How'd you get in here anyway?"

This is a trick question. I can't handle this. She's trying to make me suffer for that thought I just had about how easy it would be to just tug on the hem of that towel and watch it fall to the floor. Well, listen to it fall to the floor while I watched something else. Fine. She wins. She and her towel have limited my higher brain functions and I can't think of anything but the obvious answer. "Key?"

"Why did they give you a key to my room?" she asks. Well, she doesn't need to look so horrified at the idea. Some women would be very glad to have me in their rooms while they stood before me in nothing but a white hotel towel. She shudders. My ardor is cooled somewhat by the obvious distaste she feels at the idea of me being in her room while she's almost naked. I'm thoroughly depressed by this thought. However, the reduction in my enjoyment level of this situation frees up a little bit of space in my brain and I am able to formulate a complete sentence. "They said this was my room," I inform her loftily. That's right. Fulbright scholar, baby.

"I don't believe this," she groans.

Well, this is just insulting. My irritation prompts me to go into attack mode. "Why were you taking a shower in my room?" I ask with a leer. "As a proposition, it's not very subtle, but it would be a lot more effective if you waited for me to– "

"Joshua, this is not the time," she says. "I'm standing here naked, dripping wet– "

If she thinks I am unaware of that fact, she needs to have her head examined. "I noticed."

"– and you're standing there doing nothing to improve the situation when all I want to do is go to bed!" she yells.

Well, if that isn't an opening, I don't know what is. I can feel my face break out into a huge grin. "Well, now that I know you want a take-charge kind of guy, I certainly have no problem doing whatever is necessary to get you into bed," I say suggestively, stepping towards her. "I am a man of action, after all," I whisper in her ear. Ha! I'll show her. I can be sexy, too. I can be–

"Since you're such a man of action, you can go downstairs and get the desk clerk to give you a key to your own room, so you can go hang out there instead of harassing your sleep-deprived assistant," she informs me. She so wants me.

I sniff her freshly shampooed hair. Heavenly. "Okay," I sigh.

Oh, hell. What have I done? While under the intoxicating influence of Donna's shampoo, I made a disastrous tactical error. I have agreed to leave Donna alone with her towel. This means, in all likelihood, I will never see the towel again. I wonder if there is any way to salvage the situation and prolong my interaction with the towel. I'm still coming down from my shampoo high, so my efforts to think of a solution are dismal at best.

The only thing to do now is humbly accept defeat and try to leave gracefully. I walk towards the door, squaring my shoulders to bravely face my fate. Only, I'm walking awfully slowly. I decide that facing my fate bravely is overrated, and I want to delay it as long as possible. I look over my shoulder because this is the last time I'll ever get to see Donnatella and her towel. I only mean to glance back for a second, and then resume facing my fate bravely, but once I've turned, I can't look away. I fumble blindly for the door handle and step outside, my gaze still fixed on a nearly naked Donnatella.

Which is, of course, how I end up slipping in a puddle and find myself flat on my back, lying in said puddle about five seconds later. I feel a little dazed, and I slowly become aware that Donna is bending over me in her towel, touching my face and making concerned noises. This is more like it. If only my back didn't hurt like a bitch and my shirt was dry, this turn of events would be enough to convince me that I'd died and gone to heaven. As it is, I think I've got the next best thing. I've got Donna acting as Florence Nightingale, with a new and improved take on the nurse's uniform- pristine white hotel towels.

She's talking to me. "Say something," she says.

I blink. "I like your towel, Donnatella."

She smacks me on the head. I'm pretty sure Florence never did that to her patients. But she probably didn't look so hot in white hotel towels, either, so I guess it's a fair trade.

She stands up with a look of utter disgust on her face. I think about staying on the ground to renew my appreciation of this perspective on those long legs, but the puddle is a little cold so I decide to cut my losses and stand up.

Donna turns to the door and jiggles the handle. I stare, fascinated, as she shakes the handle and it does not yield. There is a God, and he has granted me a miracle. He has arranged this situation so that Donna, my nearly naked assistant, is on this side of the door, with me, outside; outside, with me, as in not in that room, with her clothes. There is a God, and he is a heterosexual male. She turns around and holds her hand out expectantly. "Give me your key."

The important thing here is not to gloat, or look smug, or do anything at all that will result in pain for me. "Uh...I don't have it."

"Sure you do, you just came in. Look in your pocket," she says.

I shake my head. "I put it in my jacket pocket and threw the jacket on the bed."

I watch with interest as she closes her eyes and starts hopping from one foot to the other. It looks like she's dancing just for me. In her towel. Why she's doing this, I have no idea, but I don't really care. I'm just grateful. The towel is shifting in the most exciting ways, and I congratulate myself on whatever good deed I did to deserve this.

"Fine," she says, interrupting my reverie. "We'll go downstairs and get another one from the front desk."

"What?" I say incredulously. "You can't go downstairs like that!" There's no way in hell I'm letting anyone else see her like this.

She glares at me. "Well, I don't exactly have a lot of choice, do I?"

"No! People will see you! I mean– yes! I'll go. You could stay here," I offer lamely.

"I'm not staying out here. It's freezing!"

"Don't you think you're exaggerating a little bit? It's a nice night out," I scoff.

She glares at me. "Josh, I'm wearing a towel, my hair is wet, and it's October. I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say it's cold out here. Now, come on." And with that, she stalks off.

As little as I want anyone besides me to see her in her towel, I'm hard pressed to think of a way to stop her from going downstairs at this point, so instead I follow her. Walking behind her gives me a whole new appreciation of the towel and Donna's naked back. Not to mention those glorious, endless legs of hers. I love that towel. I make a pledge to myself that I will not let that towel out of my sight. Whither the towel goes, I go.

Donna storms into the lobby with me close behind her and she marches over to the desk clerk.

"Can I help you?" he asks nervously.

"You'd better hope so," I hear her say, but then I pretty much stop listening because I've become transfixed by her legs. She has amazing legs. Why doesn't she wear shorter skirts to the office? Anyone who has such incredible legs ought to show them off. You know, as a public service. Donna is a very dedicated public servant. I might be able to use this line of reasoning as a way to convince her to hack off four inches of every skirt she owns. Or, I think, I could offer to take her shopping and buy her new, short skirts. With slits.

Seriously, I think I should have a legal right to see those legs whenever I need to. If she doesn't buy the whole public service spiel, maybe I can have them declared a national treasure that must be protected and enjoyed by the public. I could make it a legal mandate that Donna keep her legs available to me at all times. A short skirt would be the least she could do to fulfill that mandate. Really, though, it would be ideal if she just wore the towel instead. All the time. Unless, you know, she felt inclined to take it off for some reason.

Blah, blah, blah. Donna and the desk clerk are still talking. Suddenly, she leans forward and I gasp audibly as the towel rides up slightly. I can feel my eyes practically popping out of my head, and I feel like a rubber-necker at the scene of an accident. I know I shouldn't look, but I can't help myself. Please, God, I pray. I know I'm not worthy, but please let her lean forward another inch. I'll do anything if you make her lean forward another inch.

Donna's irate voice interrupts my thoughts. "Excuse me," she says coldly. "I would appreciate it if you would look at me when I am talking to you, instead of admiring the hotel linen."

My gaze jerks upward guiltily. I am so busted. My assistant just caught me completely checking out her linen, although I would like to point out that I was doing it in a very professional and respectful way. This is very bad.

Wait a minute. She's not talking to me. She's talking to the desk clerk. My jaw drops in disbelief. This slimeball was checking out her linen? That pervert.

Donna's voice rises in pitch and she starts gabbling hysterically about deathtraps, and Tony Perkins, and I think the desk clerk says something about a high school reunion, but the next thing she says I hear loud and clear. "Fine," she says. "Just let us into our room."

Our room. Our, as in hers and mine. Our room, as in a room we will be sharing, together. For the whole night.

This is a bad idea. It's one thing for me to ogle Donna and for her to drive me to distraction in that towel, but it's another thing to have to spend the entire night in the same room with someone who is as unhappy about the situation as Donna clearly is. I won't get any sleep. I'll just lie there, thinking about all that skin underneath the towel and knowing that I'll never get to touch any of it. Any remote chance I may have had of not thinking about the towel before will disintegrate into nothingness because the person beneath the towel will only be a few feet away from me, where I'll be able to listen to her breathe the whole night long.

I follow the desk clerk dejectedly out of the lobby, resigning myself to a night of tortured thoughts and unfulfilled desire, when suddenly, Donna grabs my arm. Jesus, her fingers are like ice. I've been having hot thoughts about my assistant while she is clearly cold and miserable, and dealing with two guys who are completely ignoring her feelings while they objectify her to ruthlessly pursue their own lust filled musings. I feel like a heel.

She's shivering beside me, and I wrap an arm around her and briskly rub her arm to give her a little extra warmth. She's still freezing though, so when the desk clerk takes his time looking for the key to our room, I step behind her and wrap my arms around her waist, folding her arms underneath my own. She leans into me and I pull her closer, willing some of the heat from my body to transmit itself to her. I rest my cheek against hers, a sensation of such sublime sweetness I don't think anything could possibly compare to it until she rubs her smooth cheek against mine and I decide that I could stand like this with her forever.

I could get used to this. This is nice. We are two people who fit together perfectly. This is heaven. We're just standing here, marveling at being together. This is wonderful. This is... over.

The desk clerk opens the door and Donna extricates herself from my arms faster than you can say 'white hotel towel.' I guess she wasn't marveling at our togetherness so much as counting the seconds until she could get away from me. I follow her into the room and watch as she turns and calls, "Thanks, Stewart! Sorry about the Tony Perkins crack!" Great, so the pervert with the key is the hero of the hour, while I'm... well, while I'm apparently just a pervert.

Donna starts rummaging through her bag, presumably looking for clothing. I can't decide which thought depresses me more, that Stewart the desk clerk has been promoted up from his status as Norman Bates while I'm stuck in here with the hottest woman who has ever despised me, or the thought that soon Donna will put on clothes and thus end my brief but thrilling encounter with her towel forever.

I run my hand through my hair distractedly. It's time to take the high road and put as much distance as possible between me and the hotel towel. There's only one other room in here, so I'd best avail myself of the only option available to me. "I'm going to take a shower, 'kay?" I ask, nodding towards the bathroom.

Donna doesn't look up. "Kay," she says, disinterestedly.

Another depressing thought: she definitely doesn't find the idea of me showering nearly as interesting as I would find the thought of her showering. See, if she told me she was going to go take a shower, you can bet that I'd be thinking about her being naked in the next room the entire time she was in there. I close the bathroom door behind me and then it occurs to me that now that I'm out of the room, she is going to put on clothes. In order to put on clothes, first she has to remove the towel, which means that she will be naked for some unspecified amount of time, just on the other side of this door. I stifle a groan. I need to remember my plan to take the high moral ground and not think about my assistant being naked. I think the plan involved me taking a shower.

I take off my clothes and turn on the tap, and suddenly it dawns on me that now I'm naked, while Donna might possibly still be naked out there too. Both of us are naked, at the same time, and we're only about fifteen feet apart. I turn the tap off and turn the cold water on.

Okay, cold shower is good. I'm just starting to convince myself that it's distracting me from thoughts of Donna and her towel, when I hear a knock on the door. "Yeah?" I call.

I hear the door open. "Josh, I sent Tony Perkins home. You don't have to worry. It's just me. I wouldn't hurt a fly." Great. I'm struggling in here with the greatest moral dilemma of my life, and Donna decides to make a funny. She always does like to mock my pain. She's sadistic like that. "Did you need something, Mrs. Bates?" I ask.

"I'm just going to blow you right here," she announces and I practically fall over. There's no way she just said that. If she did, then I've just lost the moral dilemma. I quickly review my options. Logically, I know that there's no way she just said what I thought she just said, but she's still there, so she must be waiting for me to say something in response. She seems to want permission to do something. Whatever it is, I should probably just let her do it. Of course, there's always the possibility that I'm hallucinating the entire situation. In which case, there's no harm in me agreeing, right? "All right," I say, my voice rising well out of my normal vocal range at the end of the sentence.

"Thanks!" she says happily. Wow, if I'd known this would make her this happy and grateful, I would have– damn. She definitely didn't say what I thought she said. She definitely said something about blow drying her hair, instead. I can hear the blow dryer going, and I decide that I have to stop thinking about sentences and appliances that have the word 'blow' in them.

I try to calm down and control my eagerness. Okay, Donna probably didn't come in here wearing the towel. She also probably didn't come in here naked. Therefore, she must be wearing clothes. That's good. It's bedtime, so she's probably wearing pajamas. Nice, long, flannel pajamas. Flannel pajamas would cover up a lot more of her skin than I see every day in her suits and skirts. There's nothing sexy about flannel. It's rather adorable, yes, but definitely not sexy. Unless the flannel is kind of threadbare... argh. What the hell is taking her so long? She needs to get out of here. Maybe if I turn the water off and make it clear that I'm done with my shower she'll get the hint. However, it is of the utmost importance that I do not look at her while there is only a shower curtain and a thin layer of flannel between our two bodies, or I will completely lose my battle for control.

I reach out and grope blindly for a towel. Suddenly my hand comes in contact with Donna's slender fingers and I freeze. I'm naked, and Donna is touching me. This is no way to reclaim the high moral ground. I snatch the towel she is holding out of her grasp and make sure the shower curtain is secured around me. I try to take deep, calming breaths to slow down my racing heart, and I've almost succeeded when she finally stops the hair dryer and I hear her leave.

I decide that looking at her at all will undo all the good the calming breaths have done me, especially when I'm dressed only in a towel, so I studiously avoid looking in her direction when I leave the bathroom to get my clothes, because even flannel pajamas would be too much for me at this point.

I go back in the bathroom to change for bed, and a new and horrible thought occurs to me. There is only one bed. I shake my head to rid myself of about a thousand different images that instantly flash through my brain and try to remember my resolve to not be a heel. I put my hand on the door handle. I can do this. I can be a sensitive, caring, and respectful friend, and not a sleazy person who is about to be a defendant in a sexual harassment lawsuit.

No, I can't. I stop short when I go into the other room. There is no nice, safe, comfy flannel in here. Instead, there is a bright blue tank top and incredibly short matching shorts, both made of some sort of shiny, slippery material that slides over her skin. To make matters worse, Donna is standing next to the bed with one foot perched on the edge of it as she rubs lotion up and down the entire long length of her leg. That shower definitely wasn't cold enough.

Maybe there's still hope for me. Maybe those are just the under layer of whatever she's planning on sleeping in, which is hopefully about twenty layers of various materials that are absolutely unappealing to touch. "Are those your pajamas?" I demand.

"Yeah," she replies, looking a little surprised.

Wrong answer. I point a finger at her. "You can't wear that to bed," I announce. Not if you want me to survive the night without becoming a babbling idiot.

"Why not?" she asks.

"They're not appropriate," I tell her.

"They're pajamas and I'm going to bed," she says. "Sounds appropriate to me."

How can she think this is an acceptable answer? Can't she see what I'm going through over here? "No, I mean... they're not appropriate for me."

"That I can agree with. They wouldn't really do much for your figure anyway," she quips.

It would help immensely if she would work with me a little bit here. "I mean, why did you bring those, instead of something else?" Like yards and yards of flannel.

"These are my favorite pajamas, Josh," she says.

They are? Does that mean she wears them every night? When I call her at night, is she wearing those pajamas while she talks to me? "Do you wear them a lot?" I ask, momentarily distracted from my ambition not to be a heel.

"I guess I wear them a lot," she answers warily.

She's looking at me strangely, and I take this as a prompt to get my head back in the game. I need to keep my objective in mind at all times. The objective is to get Donna some more clothes so that I don't spontaneously combust before morning. Since Donna doesn't seem to be working towards meeting this objective independently, the way to achieve it is to smoothly guide her to the realization that it is in both our best interests for her to cover herself up more. "Don't you think they're a little revealing for a business trip?" I ask.

"Well, I didn't think anyone else was going to see them, because I thought I would be sleeping in my own room," she replies pointedly.

I resist the urge to bang my head on the wall and instead wrack my brain for a new strategy. "I thought you were cold," I remind her.

"I am cold," she says.

"Don't you have anything warmer? Those aren't going to keep you very warm, are they?" I ask desperately.

"I don't have anything else, and these are going to keep me a hell of a lot warmer than sleeping naked would," she informs me.

I swallow. There goes that higher brain function again. "Okay."

"Are we done talking about my pajamas?" she asks. "Cause I'd like to brush my teeth." She doesn't wait for me to answer before brushing past me, which is just well, because I've been struck completely dumb.

I sit down on the bed and wait for her to come back from the bathroom so I can brush my teeth as well. If it takes us each about four minutes to brush our teeth, then I have eight whole minutes to compose myself before I have to look at those slippery pajamas again. When she comes out, I jump up and rush past her with my eyes screwed shut.

I'm relatively calm when I come out of the bathroom, and thankfully am able to remain so because Donna has buried herself under a pile of blankets and the blue pajamas are nowhere in sight. With me on the floor, and her under all those blankets, I might just make it after all. I grab hold of the top layer for myself and start to pull on it.

"What are you doing?" she cries, grabbing the blanket and pulling it back towards her.

"I'm taking this blanket," I tell her, tugging on my end a little bit. She has like fifty blankets, surely she can spare one for me on the floor.

"No you're not," she says firmly. I look at her and sigh in defeat. It's just as well. It'll probably be better in the long run that I'll be cold and uncomfortable on the floor and that she'll have another layer over those blue pajamas. I grab a pillow and toss it on the floor, preparing to settle in for the night.

"What are you doing?" she asks curiously.

"I'm getting ready to sleep on the floor," I tell her, even though I should think that this is fairly obvious.

She yawns. "Don't be silly, Josh. I'm not going to make you sleep on the floor."

If I don't sleep on the floor, the only place for me to sleep would be in the bed. With her. Unless she's planning on making me sleep in the bathtub, but I'm pretty sure she's talking about the bed.

She's clearly waiting for me to respond. This is a difficult situation. I need to review the pros and cons of accepting the offer of a nice, warm bed for the night instead of a cold, hard floor. On the down side, I'll have to spend the entire night inches from Donna while she is clothed in only those slippery blue pajamas, staring at her and listening to her breathe. On the up side, I'll get to spend the entire night inches from Donna while she is clothed only in those slippery blue pajamas, staring at her and listening to her breathe. That choice is pretty clear, all in all. Remembering my resolve to be a gentleman, I offer her an out. "I don't mind–"

"There's no reason we can't share," she says amicably. Then she does the unthinkable. She gives me what can only be described as an incredibly seductive smile, and then she says, "Besides, I've got plans for you that require your presence in this bed."

Is she saying what I think she's saying? Does she in fact, not think I'm a heel? Does she, instead, think I'm an incredibly handsome man she wants to make violently passionate love to? "Really?" I ask, in what I hope is a nonchalant tone of voice.

"Yup," she says, nodding her head.

I'm so not nonchalant. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure," she says firmly. "Get in bed."

It's actually scary how fast I obey. I grab the pillow from the floor and practically jump into the bed, tucking the pillow under me as I go. I stare at her, wide-eyed, wondering what she's going to do next. She gives me an incredibly seductive wink and then– then she sticks two blocks of ice under my legs.

"Donna!" I cry, jerking my legs away. "Your feet are freezing!"

She pouts. She really is adorable when she pouts. "I know, Josh. That's why I thought you might help me warm them up."

I scowl. "That was a dirty trick, Donna," I say.

She grins. "It worked, though."

I grumble, but remembering my resolve to be a good friend and not a complete sleazeball, I cover her feet with my leg. Actually, I may be somewhat selfishly motivated here, as this noble gesture provides me with the opportunity to rub my leg against her own silky leg in the process. So really, the sleazeball is winning out here, but the important thing is that she thinks I'm being a good friend and not a total sleazeball.

She pats me gently on the shoulder and yawns. "Thanks for keeping me warm," she mumbles, and falls asleep so quickly she doesn't even remove her hand from my shoulder. I thank my lucky stars for about the gazillionth time that night.

I gaze at her tenderly. "Anytime, Donnatella," I whisper. "Anytime." And I watch her in the moonlight until I fall asleep too. I'm sharing a bed with Donna, and she has willingly established a physical connection between us by placing her hand on my shoulder. I try to stay awake as long as I can to savor every moment I have lying next to her, but frankly, it's very difficult to stay awake at the end of the day when you are one hundred percent relaxed and content with the world.

When I wake up, it's just starting to get light outside. I reflect that it's awfully nice to wake up with the sun, without the intrusion of the alarm, especially when you've had just about the best dream of your life about towels, a nearly naked Donnatella, and her loving you because you're warm.

Oh my God. It wasn't a dream. Donna is curled into my side, with her head on my chest and one arm slung across my stomach. I need to stop breathing now. I don't want to move even a fraction of an inch if it means that she will wake up and pull away from me. I realize my arm is around her waist and I instinctively tighten my grip on her. I close my eyes and will myself to go back to sleep so I won't disturb her.

Unfortunately, just then, several things happen all at once that bring an end to this blissful moment. The phone shrills next to my ear, and Donna jerks awake. She flings my arm off of her, almost wrenching my arm out of its socket in her haste to untangle herself from my grasp, and practically leaps over me to answer the phone. She doesn't make it all the way over me, though. She ends up throwing herself across my torso to get to the phone, and I instinctively grab her waist to prevent her from overbalancing and toppling off the bed.

It's only after I hear her snap, "What?" into the phone that I realize that I have effectively pinned her on top of me. Or, I reflect, she has effectively pinned me under her. And she is still wearing the blue pajamas.

Donna, however, seems oblivious to all of this. "I'll tell him," she says, fighting a yawn. "Good-bye."

I'm not sure what I expected to happen after she hangs up the phone, but I certainly didn't expect her to flop down on my chest in a boneless heap, so when she does so, I can't help but let out a startled grunt. I want to kick myself for drawing attention to myself, because I'm secretly hoping that now that she has settled in on top of me, she'll just stay there indefinitely. I'm pretty sure that's not in the cards now.

She slowly lifts her head up off my chest and stares at me, her mouth forming a little 'o' of surprise. I pat her on the back, hoping that this gesture will encourage her not to slap me or, you know, remove herself from her present position. I can see the gears turning in her head as she processes what has precipitated our current situation, and it's almost comical the way her eyes widen when she realizes that she has thrown herself across my body and just tried to use me as a pillow. She looks completely mortified. In fact, I'm pretty sure she's wearing the exact same expression she wore the day Karen Cahill sent me her underwear.

The situation suddenly strikes me as incredibly funny, and I start to laugh. Donna has the most uncanny luck for ending up in strange situations, and I've been fortunate enough to be involved in both this one, and the underwear one.

"You should see the look on your face," I say, through what I am embarrassed to say is a strong fit of rather unmanly giggles.

She relaxes visibly. After all, me laughing at her embarrassment is familiar ground for us. "Yeah, well, it's not every day a United States Congressman wakes me up while I'm spooning my boss," she says wryly. So she remembers the spooning. Good. It's unlikely that I'll ever forget it. Too bad it was so short lived. Although I must say I'm impressed with her reflexes.

"I've never seen you move that fast before," I say, still laughing. Emboldened by the fact that she hasn't used those reflexes to get off of me yet, I take my life into my hands and ease my hand under her blue tank top to rub the small of her back. No big deal, right? I mean, I touch the small of her back practically every day, to guide her down the hall. This is a perfectly innocent touch. Never mind the fact that every time I guide her down the hall from now on, I will be thinking thoughts that are most decidedly not innocent about how the skin of her back is even silkier than those blue pajamas.

"I don't really react well to being woken up suddenly," she informs me. She's still not moving. I wonder if she realizes her voice is so low and throaty when she first wakes up. "I tend to be much happier if I'm woken up slowly and gently."

I can think of several ways to wake her up slowly and gently that I think would make her very happy if the opportunity ever presents itself again. "I'll keep that in mind for future reference," I say with a smug grin.

"You do that," she says, and rolls off me. Oh, well. I suppose reality had to intrude at some point. I can't be too disappointed, though. After all, she didn't sound one hundred percent averse to the idea of me ever waking her up in the future. And she's not getting out of the bed. In fact, she seems to be settling in again.

I turn on my side and prop my head on my hand so I can look at her as she tucks her pillow under her head. "What did Rawston say?" I ask, even though I don't give a damn.

"He said had to reschedule the eight am meeting for one this afternoon," she replies.

I glance over my shoulder at the clock and frown. "It's a good thing, because we would have slept through it if he hadn't called," I say, tactfully refraining from mentioning that I was actually awake before his phone call. "Who schedules an eight am meeting on a Saturday morning, anyway?"

She quirks an eyebrow at me. "You do. You wanted to schedule it as early as possible. I believe your exact words were, 'I'll be damned if that hick is going to sleep in when he's making me fly to Iowa on a weekend just to talk to him for an hour.'"

"Well, at least I had a good reason," I say.

She rolls her eyes at me.

"What should we do with our newfound freedom?" I ask, hoping against hope that it will involve Donna's towel somehow. Hey, you never know.

She dashes my dreams. "You should go get me breakfast," she says decisively.

"Me? Why don't you go get it?" I ask.

"What am I? Your maid?" she demands.

I decide not to point out how illogical it is for her to expect me to get her breakfast and then be offended when I ask her for the same thing. "We could go together," I suggest.

"It's probably cold out there, Joshua. I'm finally warm in all these blankets, and you want me to go outside in the freezing cold?" she pouts.

She's really adorable when she pouts. I'm such a sucker. "Fine," I sigh, but I can't work up any real irritation. This is my chance to redeem myself from being a heel for so much of the past twenty-four hours. I probably need to earn a few brownie points with God with a couple of selfless acts, because I'm pretty sure the events of last night and this morning more than used up any I might have stored up over the years. Also, if I leave her here, maybe she will stay in the blue pajamas until I get back.

"There's a bagel place across the street," Donna offers helpfully.

I make it over to the bagel place and back to the hotel in record time. I don't bother trying to choose, just ordering a bit of everything to save time. I do remember Donna expressing a preference for hazelnut lattes, and I know she likes sweet things in the morning, so I grab a container of strawberry cream cheese on my way out.

I burst into the hotel room with my bag of goodies and grin when I see Donna. Apparently, buying your assistant breakfast is worth a lot more brownie points than I thought, because she hasn't moved from the bed, and she is still wearing the blue pajamas. To make things even better, she is smiling at me, a full on, thousand watt Donnatella smile, that makes me go weak in the knees.

I hastily dump the bag on the bed and start pulling things out of it so a) she won't be tempted to get out of bed, and b) I don't drop the bag on the floor and faint from happiness at the sight of that smile.

I have to sit down when she smiles again at the sight of the hazelnut latte. This is a different kind of smile, the kind of smile that I think of as her Joshua smile, because I've never seen her smile that way at anyone but me. The Joshua smile is reserved for when I've managed to do or say something that pleases her, but she doesn't want me to know how much. It's amazing to me that such a simple thing as remembering she likes hazelnut lattes is enough to elicit such a smile.

I take a bagel out of the bag and spread it liberally with the cream cheese. She picks up the container and looks at it. "Strawberry cream cheese?" she asks with approval.

I shrug nonchalantly. "I know you like to start the day with something sweet." I take a big bite of my bagel and watch her closely to see if this evidence of my thoughtfulness merits another Joshua smile.

She looks at me and bursts out laughing. Okay, I know it was a cheesy thing to say, but– my thought is interrupted when she declares with a smile, "You're sweet," and reaches over and wipes a bit of cream cheese off the side of my mouth with her finger.

I stare at her, transfixed, as she proceeds to stick her finger in her mouth, close her eyes and make a contented noise as she licks the cream cheese off her finger.

Okay, let's review. Donna just told me I was sweet, after we had just established that she likes to start her day with something sweet. Then she touched the side of my mouth (while smiling), and took something that was touching my mouth (the cream cheese) and put it in her mouth, an action that resulted in her moaning in ecstasy (I know I said it was a contented noise, but I changed my mind. It was a moan of ecstatic pleasure.) while sucking on her finger, which happens to be one of the sexiest things known to man. Would it be conspicuous if I leapt out of bed at this moment to take a cold shower?

Donna notices me staring at her. "What?" she asks self-consciously.

It probably would be. I swallow. "Nothing."

Fortunately, she accepts my answer at face value. "Okay. What do you want to do now?" she asks.

For starters, nothing that involves either of us leaving this bed. I cast my mind about for something other than the obvious activity and my gaze lands on the television set. "Let's watch cartoons," I suggest. Not as good as my original idea, but a timeless pastime, nonetheless.

Donna smiles at me. "You want to watch cartoons?"

I shrug. "It's Saturday morning. It's the only thing good on."

She grins. "That is so cute."

I smile broadly. "I'm cute?"

"I think the fact that you like cartoons is cute," she clarifies.

That's close enough for me. I flip on the TV and turn it to a station broadcasting "Muppet Babies." We both climb under the covers and arrange ourselves so we're sitting shoulder to shoulder with our backs against the wall. I can feel her bare arm against me, and it feels... nice. It's sort of difficult to feel too lustful when you're watching "Muppet Babies," so I've calmed down a bit from the cream cheese incident. Now I just enjoy being near her, and feeling the warmth of her arm next to mine. It's cozy. And it's fun watching cartoons.

"I can't stand Miss Piggy," Donna comments.

"Yeah," I agree. "What does Kermit see in her?"

"Beats me. I think Kermit should hold out for someone else and Miss Piggy should get together with Gonzo."

I frown. "Which one's Gonzo?"

"The blue one with the big nose. Cute, but annoying."

"Which one's your favorite?" I want to know.

She thinks for a minute. "I kind of like Beaker. One of the sciency ones."

"I like Animal," I tell her.

"Animal is very cool," she agrees.

"Muppet Babies" ends and a rerun of "Saved by the Bell" comes on.

Donna sighs. "Zack Morris is so hot," she comments.

I glance at her. "What's so great about him?" I ask, taking a sip of my coffee.

"He gets away with murder by charming the socks off everyone he meets. Plus, he's got a great head of hair."

Unconsciously I frown and run my hand over my own hair. Donna notices and laughs. "You've got good hair, too," she assures me, ruffling my hair. "Nice and fluffy."

Wow, that felt really good, I wonder– wait, did she just describe my hair as fluffy? As in the adjective usually used to describe marshmallows, little bunnies, and all other manner of girly, pink, extremely unmanly things? "You think my hair is fluffy?"

"Fluffy's good," she tells me. She pauses, as though she's thinking about something. "It's good on you, anyway," she amends.

What does that mean? Does that mean that the fluffiness of my hair is overcome by my chiseled good looks? Or does it mean that the fluffiness is actually good and acceptable on its own merit?

Donna, meanwhile, is completely ignoring me, returning her attention to the television. "What an adorable smile. You've gotta love those dimples."

So the fluffiness– wait, I have dimples! Does she think I have an adorable smile? Does she, in fact, love my dimples? Damn it, she's talking about the blond kid on TV. The one with the great head of hair which is in no way fluffy. "You do realize you're lusting over a fifteen-year-old kid, right?" I demand.

Donna is unfazed. "It's an old show. He's probably at least thirty now," she says. "So who do you think is hottest?"

Is this a trick question? "Well, Zack isn't really my type, so I'll have to go with Slater on this one."

"What do you think of Kelly?" she wants to know.

I look at the brunette on the screen. "She's got a funny shaped head," I reply.

"How 'bout Lisa?"

"She's very cute," I acknowledge, glancing back at Donna. "Jessie's the hottest, though."

"So you like her because she's a brilliant, voluptuous woman with curly hair?" she prompts.

"It's more the fact that she's a tall leggy blonde who never shuts up." You know, I meant that to be an insult, but somehow I think it ended up coming out as a compliment. I glance at Donna to gauge her reaction to my Freudian slip. She looks stunned. Oops. I may have given a little too much away there. "She's not as hot as Screech, though," I add hastily.

She looks at me for a moment with an expression I can't read. Finally she turns back to the television, and says, "Screech is the man." I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding and turn back to the show.

The morning flies by. I call Leo and make Donna do the work he tells me to do, but it isn't actually that much, and I'm able to spend most of the morning with her bare arm touching mine as we lean into each other slightly while we watch TV. Seriously, I never want to leave Iowa. I never want to leave this room. We have everything we could ever possibly need here. Water, leftover bagels and muffins, Donna's blue pajamas and those white towels...

Unfortunately, we did actually come here for a purpose. We get dressed, and Donna straightens my tie, just like she always does, and my breath catches in my throat because it's different this time because we woke up together... and I really like getting ready for the day with her.

We drive over to meet Bill Rawston, but instead of meeting him at his office, we end up at his house. A big blond guy opens the door. Donna perks right up.

"Mr. Lyman? Ms. Moss? I'm Bill Rawston. It's good to meet you. Won't you come in?" he says, beckoning us inside.

Donna leans towards me and whispers breathlessly in my ear, "I forgive you."

She forgives me? For what? Was she mad at me for some reason? Because although she probably would be mad if she had any idea of the thoughts that have been running through my mind in the past twenty four hours, she has thus far seemed blessedly clueless. More to the point, what exactly about this guy is causing her to want to forgive me? I mean, he's not completely deformed, I suppose, if you like that freakishly tall, disturbingly musclebound look. It doesn't do much for me, personally, but Donna does seem to have an unfortunate weakness for Republicans.

Rawston goes through the motions of hospitality, but I'm anxious to get the show on the road once I've accepted the unexpected offer of a beer. I open my mouth, but he cuts me off before I can launch into my spiel. "Mr. Lyman, I'm really glad to finally meet you. I'm a great admirer of your work."

"Thank you," I say, bemused.

He turns to Donna. "If I may, Ms. Moss," he says, in this incredibly smarmy voice, "you are even lovelier than I envisioned you."

I practically choke on my beer. What the hell? I mean... I mean... what the hell? He envisioned Donna? What the hell does that mean? That bastard. Envisioning Donna when he doesn't even know her.

Donna looks just as stunned as I feel. "You envisioned me?" she asks breathlessly.

Oh, crap. I know that look. She's got stars in her eyes. She's been taken in by the pseudo charm of yet another gomer.

Rawston turns red. Wuss. He'd better be embarrassed. He starts tripping all over his words, and I mentally will him to fall on his figurative ass. "What I meant to say was– " he says hastily. That I'm a complete sleazeball, I don't deserve the way you're looking at me right now, and you really ought to look at your boss that way instead of me because I'm a worthless Republican loser. That's how that sentence should end. Instead, he continues sheepishly. "Well. When I called this morning, I could tell I'd woken you up, and I felt really bad. But I was impressed by how composed you were, and I thought you had a nice voice, and I just sort of idly wondered... what you looked like," he says lamely. I bet you did, you pervert. "Ms. Moss, I'm really sorry if I offended you in any way– "

Come on Donna, don't fall for that pathetic attempt to be suave. He envisioned you. What a cheesy line. My stomach sinks. I think she fell for it. She looks like the cat who ate the canary. I bristle when she reaches over and pats him on the arm reassuringly. "Call me Donna."

Nooooo! What is she doing? He's the enemy! Why does she have to be so sweet and trusting? She should be slapping him and telling him that his politics are an offense to the good name of democracy, not forgiving him for being a pervert who envisions her.

He looks immensely relieved. "If you'll call me Bill," he says. They both turn towards me expectantly. No way. I'm not making nice with this Republican simpleton. He can call me Mr. Lyman, and be grateful for the privilege.

Donna gives up on me first and turns back to Rawston. "You'd better call him Josh," she says. "If you call him Mr. Lyman he might get some crazy idea that you respect him."

Great, Donna. How am I supposed to intimidate this guy into doing what I say with my bad ass tactics when you, my supposedly dedicated assistant, just inform him that the idea of someone respecting me is completely ludicrous?

"And that's a bad thing?" Rawston wants to know.

She nods. "Trust me. The last thing you want to give Josh is respect. He takes it as a sign he intimidates you and then he'll just be unbearable." Hey, I am intimidating.

"All right. If you don't mind, Josh," Rawston says to me.

Well, there's really no way to gracefully refuse now. "Of course not," I say through clenched teeth.

"Well, anyway, I'm sorry about switching the meeting at the last minute like that. It's just, I'd forgotten my son had a soccer game this morning, and I really had to be there. I've had to miss so many of them because of trips to Washington." Wait, he has a son? He's married? I suddenly like Bill a lot better, despite him being a smarmy Republican.

He runs his hand distractedly through his hair. "That's why I've been trying to stay in my district as much as possible and I made you guys fly out here this weekend. I'm committed to my work, but he needs to be my first priority."

Well, sure. You can just take care of your son and your wife and stay far away from Washington. "Understandable," I say cheerfully.

"I think it's admirable that you're working so hard to put your family first," Donna tells him. "What's your son's name?"

Bill brightens. "Matthew. He's six."

"So he plays soccer? What position does he play?" Donna asks. Oh, brother. Enough with the small talk. Let's get down to business.

"Defender," he says proudly. "Well," he admits, "at that age they don't really have positions. They just all run around after the ball in a big clump. But Matt runs in the back of the clump and stops the clump from taking the ball towards his goal."

"Sounds thrilling," I lie.

"Well, the finer points of soccer are lost on me anyway," Bill says. "I'm more of a baseball fan, myself. Give me a Mets game any day."

"Josh is a Mets fan," Donna informs him. "He got to meet Mike Piazza."

"You got to meet Mike Piazza? Dude!" Bill cries.

That's right, Republican boy. I am da man! "Mike Piazza called me dude," I say smugly.

"That's so cool," Bill says enthusiastically. "Hey, do you guys want sandwiches? I have to get Matt's lunch ready, and I make a mean tuna fish sandwich, if I do say so myself. Then we can get down to business."

"Sure," Donna says. Bill jumps up and starts preparing lunch. Yes, now we can get to work. This guy has stalled long enough. It's time for him to feel the wrath of Lyman.

Donna glances over at me. "Josh," she says warningly. You know, she's the only person I know who can take my name and turn it into a loaded statement. I attempt to look like I'm not thinking about how to tear this guy down, but I must fail, because she glares at me. "Play nice," she says.

"What do you mean?" I say, feigning innocence.

She doesn't buy it. "I know that look, Joshua. You're thinking about how to tear this guy down." How does she do that? She goes on. "You're in a belligerent state of mind, because that's what turns you on. Don't attack him. I'm telling you, it's not appropriate."

"Why not? Because he's so busy flirting with you?" I say snidely.

She shakes her head like I'm an idiot. "Don't be stupid. It's inappropriate because he's going out of his way to serve you tuna fish and beer, in his home, on a Saturday. He's complimented you, talked about his family with you, and apologized for inconveniencing you. For you to treat him with hostility in this situation is not only going to kill any chance you have of getting him to switch on this vote, but it is going to make you look completely ridiculous. So don't do anything stupid, for once."

"Donna, you have to fight dirty to get these guys. Trust me, I know what I'm doing," I say loftily.

"Fine. If you want to make a fool out of yourself and President Bartlet, go ahead," she sniffs.

I hate it when she's right. I just wish it didn't have to happen so damn often.

Bill disappears for a minute, presumably to take his son his lunch, and then comes back with sandwiches for each of us and a plate of brownies. "So, I understand you want to talk to me about my vote on the new trade bill."

I'm being nice, I'm being nice. "That's right. We need your vote to pass it."

Bill shakes his head. "I'm afraid I can't help you out. That bill will close down factories all over the country and send them down to Latin America. My constituents need the jobs those factories represent."

"Oh, please. You know those jobs are going out of the U.S. anyway," I scoff, leaning forward in anticipation of smacking him down. Donna nudges me with her foot. I shift uncomfortably. She knows me too well.

"Actually, I don't know that. I think that if this bill doesn't go through, those jobs will stay here," Bill says calmly.

I shake my head. "No, they won't. Those factories can't afford the price of labor in this country. If this bill doesn't go through, those businesses will close down and we'll be buying those products at twice the price as imports from other countries."

"That's a nice story, but it doesn't really help the workers in this country."

"It helps them because as consumers, they'll be able to get better prices on those products."

"That's not a lot going to do them a lot of good if they don't have the money to pay for those goods because they don't have jobs."

"The President won a Nobel Peace Prize in Economics, and he thinks this bill is in the best interests of the United States for the long term," I remind him.

"The long term is exactly what I'm talking about. But I'd like to see some short-term solutions to get us on our way."

Donna slides me an index card and I glance at it. I sigh, remembering what she'd told me about a memo we'd gotten from Rawston's office about this bill. "You want money for your district to provide training and job placement for factory workers."

"That's right."

"I can't give it to you. If I give it to you, every Congressman in the country is going to be demanding money for pork barrel spending on the basis that it will help their constituents make an economic transition."

"Then you should give it to them," Bill says resolutely. "For all you know, it will help them make an economic transition."

"No, for all I know, it will reduce education spending to fund research on grasshoppers in Alaska," I snap. These pork barrel spending tactics make me crazy.

Bill is silent for a moment. "I've met President Bartlet. I have a good deal of respect for him, and his understanding of the economy. I think he would agree with me that helping the workers of this country make this adjustment is of utmost importance not only to my constituents, but to his."

I look down at my beer bottle. Normally at this point in the conversation, I would take this opportunity to remind him that the President won't be blackmailed by a freshman Congressman from Podunkville, Iowa, but the thing is, he's right. The President would want these people to have the opportunity to learn new ways to provide for their families. "I'll see what I can do," I say gruffly.

Bill grins. "Okay."

"So we can count on your vote," I prompt.

"You can," Bill affirms.

"Wonderful," Donna says, smiling one of those thousand watt Donnatella smiles.

Bill smiles back at her, because it's hard not to smile when one of those smiles is directed at you. "When do you have to go back to Washington?"

"Our flight isn't until tomorrow morning. They don't exactly have shuttles running every hour between here and D.C.," she informs him. Hey, that's right. Does this mean there will be more spooning?

Bill hesitates. "Listen, do you want to stick around here for a while? I mean, there's not exactly a whole lot to do in town, or anything, and I think there's a Mets game on in a little while."

Nope, sorry. We've got to get back to the hotel and get started on our spooning. We can watch the Mets game there. Wow. A Mets game and spooning with Donna. Doesn't get much better than that. "We don't want to inconvenience you," I say diplomatically. Poor sucker. No spooning for him.

"It's no trouble," Bill says earnestly. "It's got to be more comfortable than the hotel, right? Kick back."

More comfortable than having Donna's long slender body pressed up against mine? Not likely.

"We'd love to," Donna says with a smile. Fuck. Defeated, I follow them into the living room with a plate of brownies and see a little kid sitting on the floor in front of the television.

"Hey, Mattie, is your movie over?" Bill calls. "I want you to meet some people."

The little boy gets up and walks over. "The Lady and the Tramp got married," he informs us.

Donna bends down to greet him. I watch her curiously. Of all the situations I've seen Donna in, I've actually never seen her with kids. I've never thought about her with kids. Now that I think about it, it seems like something she would be good at. "You must be Matthew. I'm Donna, and this is my friend Josh."

"Hi," Matthew says.

"Your dad says you're six. What grade are you in?" she asks.

"First," he replies.

"He reads on a second grade level," Bill interjects proudly.

"Really? You must be pretty smart. Josh and I work for the President. I bet he could use a smart guy like you. Do you think you might want to work for the President someday?" she asks. See, if anyone else said that, it would seem condescending, but when Donna says it, she just sounds curious and sincere. Probably because she actually cares about what this little boy is thinking, and not just sucking up to him because he's a Congressman's son.

"Can I be a firefighter for him?" Matthew asks excitedly.

"Sure. If you're a firefighter, you protect people, and the President always needs people to help him protect everyone else, 'cause that's one of the most important parts of his job," she tells him. I've never thought about the role of the Commander in Chief in quite those terms before, but... it's true. I wish the President could hear her say that. I know the burdens of that role weigh heavily upon him, and I bet it would help him to hear the sure faith in Donna's voice as she explains that role with such simple clarity. She and I both know that the reality of that position are infinitely more complicated than that, but the thing about Donna is, she remembers what the rest of us have a tendency to forget: that whatever the intricate consequences of our actions, our goals and aims truly are devastatingly simple- to protect people.

The kid interrupts my musing. "I have a fireman hat," Matthew informs Donna. "Do you want to see it?"

"Sure," she replies easily, as though she hasn't just inspired me to work harder for our country and become a better man. She looks up and Bill and me. "You guys get started on the game. I'll be back in a bit."

Matthew takes her hand and leads her up the stairs as I gaze after her. I do that a lot. Gaze at her, not lead her up stairs. She's always oblivious, but other people notice. CJ especially seems to catch me doing it a lot. She just shakes her head and mutters something under her breath about, "can't believe... clueless... idiots." I usually pretend I can't hear her.

"So," Bill says cheerfully, and I tear my eyes away from Donna's retreating figure. "Let's check out the game."

We sit down on the couch and I try one of the brownies as Bill turns on the game. It's really good. We chat for a few minutes as we watch the game, but the truth is, I'm bored. I wonder what the hell is taking Donna so long. Maybe I should check on her. I make up a lame excuse about needing to go to the bathroom and go upstairs to find her.

I hear her voice coming out of the second room on the left, and I peek in the room to see her sitting on the bed with Matthew on her lap as she reads him a story. My breath catches in my throat and I clutch at my chest as though my hand can stop my heart from pounding so hard I'm afraid it's going to beat its way out of my rib cage. I've never seen anything so breathtakingly beautiful in my life.

Matthew is fighting a losing battle to keep his eyes open, and Donna seems to unconsciously assure him that it's okay to let go by the way she strokes his hair and continues to read, the soothing cadence of her voice lulling him closer to unconsciousness. She's so natural at this. She could be his mother, comforting him before releasing him into the oblivion of slumber. I always think of her as being young, but the truth is, she's old enough to start thinking about having her own family. My chest tightens thinking about Donna with a couple of kids of her own.

I wonder if she ever regrets the things she's given up since coming to work for me. If she hadn't met me, she probably would have had time to meet someone who isn't a gomer, married him, and had a couple of adorable blond children by now. I always thought I would have kids by now. Little kids with dimples are cute. Especially blond kids with dimples.

I've been standing here way too long. I turn away before she sees me and I do something pathetic like beg her to have children with me. I head back down to rejoin Bill and the Mets game, feeling depressed. I wish Donna was here to comfort me. I decide to drown my sorrows in another brownie. Or three.

She finally comes downstairs a few minutes later and deposits herself on the couch between the two of us. "Matthew's asleep," she announces.

"You got him down for a nap? I'm impressed," Bill says. "Usually it's like pulling teeth, and he's up again after ten minutes anyway."

"I was just reading him The Velveteen Rabbit and the next thing I knew he was out like a light," she says.

Bill nods. "His mother used to read him that."

Mental alert. Danger! Danger! "Used to?" I ask with a feeling of dread.

"She died in a car crash two years ago," Bill tells us.

"How awful," Donna says sympathetically and I groan inwardly. On the one hand, I feel really bad for this guy, but on the other hand, he's single, and he has already proven himself to be good husband/father material, and Donna's looking at him with barely disguised emotion with those big blue eyes of hers.

"Yeah. She was in a coma for a day and a half, and then just slipped away," he says quietly.

"The waiting is horrible, isn't it?" Donna says, looking very far away and horrible for a moment. What in the world is making her so sad and why the hell didn't I know about it? I mean, I don't know everything about Donna, not by a long shot, but it breaks my heart that she wouldn't share something as important as losing someone close to her with me.

"You've had some experience with that?" Bill asks.

She comes back to the present and clears her throat. "Yeah. We had a happy ending, though. I can't imagine what I would have done if he hadn't made it," she says, looking awful again. Pain is shooting through my chest and I want nothing more than to gather her in my arms and hold her until that look of horrible sadness leaves her eyes.

Bill nods. "I was pretty messed up afterwards. But I had Mattie to get me through the worst days."

"He's a great kid," she says, looking more normal.

"Yeah, he is," Bill agrees. "Not that I'm prejudiced or anything," he says with a grin.

"You're allowed. So how's the game going?" she asks, smoothly segueing into a lighter topic.

"Mets are winning. If they can hold onto the lead for another inning, they've got it locked up," Bill says.

Grateful to be off the topic of death and the barely disguised grief apparent in Donna's face, I reach for the nearly-empty plate of brownies. Donna grabs my wrist and plucks the brownie from my hand. "How many of these have you had, Josh?"

I sort of lost count after number five. "I don't know. Three?"

"Don't you think you'd better quit while you're ahead?" she says, arching her brow at me.

"I can hold my brownies, Donnatella," I scowl.

"Blood pressure, Joshua," she admonishes. "Three's your limit. Besides, this way there's more for me." She takes a big bite of my brownie and smiles at me wickedly. "Mm."

Bill looks between us. "You two have a very unusual relationship," he comments.

"You have no idea," I mutter.

"I think it's wonderful that you manage to maintain such a close friendship when you work together every day," Bill says.

"It's a ruse. I'm just biding my time until I can get Josh out of the picture and take over his office," Donna says cheerfully.

I glance over at her. "You know, I could fire you for treasonous acts."

"Actually, Josh, I don't think you could. Many people would think that I was serving the country's best interests if I got rid of you. I'm a patriot, above all," she declares virtuously.

Ha! Like I believe that sweet and innocent act. "I'm going to have you deported back to Canada," I grumble.

A couple of minutes later Matthew comes tumbling down the stairs and runs into the living room. "Hi Donna!" he says brightly. "What are you doing?"

"Gee, son, nice to see you too," Bill says dryly. Matthew ignores him. I don't blame him. I find Donna much more interesting than Rawston, too.

"Your dad, Josh, and I are watching a baseball game. Do you want to watch with us for a while?" Donna asks him.

"Okay." Matthew doesn't hesitate. He knows a good deal when he sees one. He heads straight towards her and climbs in her lap. I watch enviously as he snuggles into her and she rubs her cheek on the top of his head.

After a little while, all the brownies are gone and Donna and I get ready to leave. We collect our coats and stand in the front hall to say good-bye to Bill and Matthew.

"Hey, I'm having my high school reunion tonight. You should come. It's going to be the social event of the season," Bill says to us.

"Aren't those usually reserved for people who actually attended the high school?" I say skeptically.

"Nah. I don't think anybody would throw you out if you showed up. When I say it's the social event of the season, I mean it. This town doesn't have much in terms of a night life. They'd probably be thrilled to have a couple extra warm bodies."

"We'll think about it," I lie. Not a chance in hell.

"It was very nice to meet you," Donna says to Bill, shaking his hand.

They are staring at each other. I don't like this. I don't like it at all. "It was very nice to meet you, too, Donna," he says in a low voice. Is that supposed to be attractive, or something? I've got to figure out a way to put a stop to this.

"Are you coming back, Donna?" Matthew pipes up.

She immediately releases Bill's hand and kneels down to look Matthew in the eye. I knew I liked that kid. "I don't think so, handsome. But if you ever come to Washington with your dad, I want you to come see me, okay? Otherwise the other girls won't believe me when I tell them what a good-looking guy you are." Hey, I thought I was the only one she thought was handsome.

He smiles. "Okay."

"Do you think I could get a hug good-bye?" she asks him. He puts his arms around her neck and she gives him a kiss on the cheek. I've never been so jealous of a six year old before in my life. "See you later, Matthew."

Several hours later I'm pretending to read as I attempt to ignore Donna and the way she is bouncing on the bed right in front of me.

"I think we should go to the reunion," she announces.

"Donna, why would we want to go to a reunion for a bunch of people we've never met and will never see again?" Especially when we could stay here and I can watch you bounce on the bed.

"Why not? We don't have anything else to do. Do you have a better idea?"

It probably wouldn't be wise to suggest that she continue to bounce on the bed for me. "We could go bowling," I say.

"You hate bowling."

Damn, I forgot about that. "We could go to a bar."

"I bet they have free booze at the reunion," she counters.

"We could stay in and have screaming naked sex on this bed."

She looks unimpressed. "That was sneaky, the way you just dropped that in there." Hey, you can't blame a guy for trying.

"You could at least put that towel back on," I wheedle. "We can even go down to talk to Stewart if you want."

She bounces again. "Next?"

"We could go to the movies."

"Is there anything good playing?" she asks curiously.

"I have no idea," I confess.

She grins at me. "Come on. It'll be fun."

I sigh. It's really not fair for her to use that smile when she's arguing with me. "Donna, I make it a point to avoid my own high school reunions. Why would I want to go to someone else's?" I complain.

"I'll let you have three beers and as many hors d'oeuvres as you want," she promises.

I look at her suspiciously. "You just want to go flirt with Rawston some more."

"Excuse me, I did not flirt," she says. "However, he does happen to be a moderately good-looking man who finds me terribly attractive and charming, and he did invite us, so if he should express some interest in talking to me, I would be not completely unwilling to respond. Of course, he's not as handsome as you, but I'm willing to trade down a little for one night."

I don't know why she always thinks that's going to work. The insincere flattery. It so doesn't work. But I really am more handsome than him. I groan. "I can't believe I'm agreeing to this."

"Really?" she squeals with delight and throws her arms around my neck to give me a kiss on the cheek, which of course makes me want to ask if she'll reconsider option number three. Or at least the bouncing. She grins. "This is going to be so much fun."

When we get to the high school, Donna appropriates a couple of blank name tags and a blue pen to write with. She hands me one and I look at it. "Zachary Smith?" I say skeptically. I didn't know impersonating someone who sounds like an insurance salesman was on the agenda for the night.

She shrugs unapologetically. "Hey, if we're going to crash a reunion, we might as well do it in style. Think of it as an experiment on human behavior. We can see how many people pretend to remember us."

I look at her name tag. "Jessica Murray?"

"Zack and Jessie, Josh!" she says excitedly.

I look up at her with a leer. "They end up together, right?"

"No, I think Zack sticks with Kelly, the one with the funny shaped head," I inform him.

"So Jessie pined for the handsome and charming Zachary for the rest of her days?" I prompt.

"No, she ended up with Slater and they had dozens of muscle-bound geniuses as children."

"Her loss," I sniff.

We go into the gymnasium, which is full of people and very loud music.

This is crazy. I lean over and whisper to her, "I don't think this is going to work."

"Sure it will. Come on, I'll prove it." she drags me over to the first person she sees, a curly-haired woman in a blue dress. She glances at the woman's name tag and hugs her enthusiastically. "Nancy! I thought that was you. God, you look great. It's so wonderful to see you again!" she gushes.

The woman falters for a second, but recovers quickly. "Jessica? Oh my gosh, how are you?" she asks, smiling broadly. I don't believe it. Donna's crazy idea is actually working. "It's been an age, hasn't it? What have you been doing with yourself?"

"I've been out in California working at a publishing company in San Francisco," Donna replies easily. "How 'bout you?"

"I'm a teacher here in town. Second grade. My husband's a biology teacher at the junior high."

"How wonderful!"

Nancy nods, and glances over at me.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Donna says. "You remember Zachary Smith, don't you?"

Nancy frowns. "I'm sorry..."

"You probably don't recognize him without the glasses and the braces," Donna tells her and I practically swallow my tongue. Glasses and braces?

Nancy's face clears. "Of course, Zachary. You used to be in the science club, didn't you?"

Oh great. I stifle a groan. Not only am I crashing someone else's high school reunion, but I'm pretending to be someone else, and instead of the suave baseball player I was in reality, I'm branded as the school nerd. Donna pats me on the arm. "Zachary works in a biotech firm now."

"I see," she says politely. "So have you guys kept in touch over the years?"

"Pretty good touch," Donna laughs. "We're married."

My heart quickens. Well. My day just got about ten times more interesting.

"Oh, wow! I didn't even know you guys were together in high school," Nancy says.

"Oh, we weren't. Zachary and I didn't really move in the same social circles in high school," Donna explains. Of course not. I was too nerdy to even have a social circle. "In fact, I didn't even see him for years after graduation, but then we ran into each other at a bookstore and got to talking, and then three months later we were married!" How the hell is she coming up with this stuff? She missed her calling. She totally could have rocked with that drama major. Or was it a drama minor?

"So you've been together how long now?" Nancy prompts.

Donna beams at her. "Our ten year anniversary is next week, actually."

Really? Does that mean we're having anniversary sex? "Congratulations! Do you have any big plans?" Nancy says.

"We're going to spend the weekend at Tahoe and go skiing," Donna replies.

She sighs. "How romantic."

"Oh, Zachary is quite the romantic," Donna says.

That's right, baby. I'm the king of romance and don't you forget it. "How did you propose, Zachary?" Nancy asks. They both turn expectantly towards me.

I swallow nervously. Oh, um... when I said king of romance, I may have been overstating a little. My palms are suddenly sweaty and I clear my throat nervously. You can do this, Lyman. You are the king of romance. You can explain how you proposed to Donna. Oh, God. How would I propose to the most amazing woman on the planet? "Well, uh, I asked her to go to Hawaii with me," I begin lamely. Donna's eyes practically pop out of her head. Is that good or bad? Maybe I should have thought through this whole 'pretending to actually propose to Donna' approach a bit more. Oh, well, I can't really go back now. I decide to risk it. "And I... uh, bought her a pair of skis. I planted the skis in the sand and hung a bow tie over the poles." I look at her and she stares back at me. I think the staring is a good thing. I continue, not breaking eye contact with her. I think it's a very good thing. I take a deep breath. "I got a little kid to take her out to them, and then I walked up to her with a cup of coffee. I gave her the coffee and told her that she made me want to fight for everything good in this world. I told her that I treasured every minute we spent together. I told her that she was the most valuable thing in the world to me, and that I couldn't envision my life without her," I say. I look straight into her eyes. "And then I asked her to marry me."

Donna looks a little emotional. She turns to Nancy. "Isn't that the sweetest thing you've ever heard?" she sniffs. Oh, yeah. That was definitely a good thing.

"Oh... yes," Nancy says dutifully. She obviously thinks we're crazy. Who the hell takes skis to Hawaii?

A tall man in a suit walks up to us. "Hey, Chip!" Nancy greets him cheerfully. "I've just been catching up with Jessica and Zachary."

The man does a double take and stares appreciatively at Donna. Yeah, I'd pretend to remember her too. "Jessica Murray? Wow, you look amazing. How are you?"

"I'm great," she replies. "And yourself?"

He shakes his head. "Man, I'm great now that I've run into you. I didn't think it was possible for you to be any hotter than you were in high school, but you've managed it."

"Thank you! You're looking very well, yourself," she tells him. No, he doesn't. He looks like a gomer. Go away, gomer. "Do you remember my husband Zachary?"

Chip frowns. "I don't think so." Wow. Look at that. Being introduced as her husband is so much more effective than all those mental 'back off' signals I've refined over the years.

"Zachary was in the science club," Nancy informs him.

Chip's features smooth out. "Oh, right. Didn't you used to wear glasses?"

What the hell is it about me that makes it so easy to believe that I was a colossal geek in high school? "Yeah," I reply through clenched teeth.

"How'd you manage to snag Jessica? Half the guys on the football team had a crush on her."

"Really," I say flatly. They had a crush on a beautiful girl that didn't exist.

"Yup. I know because I was the worst one." Smooth talker.

"I never knew that. Half the football team had a crush on me?" Donna asks with interest.

"You bet. We all spent weeks writing really bad poetry and trying to think of words that rhymed with Jessica before the junior prom."

"Fascinating," I say in a bored tone. Nothing rhymes with Jessica. I try to think of things that rhyme with Donna.

Chip nods at me. "So what made you realize that she was the one for you?"

I glance at Donna. "It was Roethke," I say. Ha. He's not the only smooth talker around here.

Chip frowns and Nancy asks, "The poet?"

I nod. "Yeah. We were reading Roethke in English class, and I came across this line that said, 'I knew a woman, lovely in her bones.' I looked up and saw her across the room and I knew what the line meant. Then I saw her in that bookstore and my first thought was, 'I knew a woman, lovely in her bones.'" Well, actually, I read it at Harvard and I saw her across the bullpen, not in a bookstore, but whatever. Belatedly I realize that if Donna has read the rest of that poem I'll probably be getting slapped sometime soon. I glance at her nervously.

She doesn't look like she's going to slap me. She must not know the rest of the poem. It's pretty hot. I look at her closely. Or maybe she does. Her eyes are dilated and she's unconsciously licking her lips while staring at me. Oh my gosh, she knows the poem and she doesn't want to slap me. I am da man!

"Smooth," Chip comments.

"So do you two have kids?" Nancy asks.

Donna tears her eyes away from me, but I continue to drink in the sight of her. "Oh, yes," she answers distractedly. "Three. Triplets, actually. Identical." Triplets, huh? I really am da man.

"Wow, that must have been a difficult labor for someone with a frame as small as yours," Nancy comments.

"Yes. Zachary still has scars," Donna tells her. "I broke two of the bones in his hand." That's so the sort of thing she would do.

"Are they boys or girls?" Chip asks.

"Girls," I supply immediately. Three little blond girls with blue eyes.

"What are their names?" Nancy wants to know.

"Justina, Wilhemina, and Clementina," Donna says. How the hell does she come up with these things? I try not to snicker at the looks of poorly disguised horror on their faces.

Bill Rawston comes in at that point and he makes a beeline towards us. "Hey! You guys made it!" he says, shaking my hand enthusiastically and kissing Donna on the cheek. Hey, when did they graduate from a handshake to a kiss on the cheek? Back off, buddy. That's my pretend wife you're kissing.

Donna winks at him. Winking? I'm going to have to put my foot down soon, before they head off to make out under the bleachers or something. I can't let these people think I'm going to stand for that sort of thing between my wife and another man. Meanwhile, Donna's letting Bill know about our little game. He probably won't get it. He doesn't strike me as someone with much of a sense of humor. "Well, the flight from California was a little bumpy, but we seem to have remained somewhat intact," she says. "Zachary and I were just telling Chip and Nancy about our triplets." He's probably going to ruin this charade and Donna will stop referring to me as her husband.

Bill glances at her name tag and the corner of his mouth quirks a bit. "Gosh, I haven't seen them in ages. How old are they now?"

"They just turned eight last month," Donna informs him.

"I see," he says, clearly fighting off laughter. He turns to Nancy and Chip. "It's good to see you two. Nancy, where's Ron? He owes me ten bucks from our last poker game."

Nancy waves her hand vaguely. "I think he got waylaid by Mrs. Pierce. She never gets tired of telling him that he was her prize student of all time, even though she's seen him twice a month at school board meetings for the past eleven years."

"Chip, what's new with you? Are you still seeing Carol?" Bill asks.

"Naw, we broke up last month," Chip says unconcernedly.

Bill shakes his head. "This guy's still a serial dater," he tells us. "The only thing different from high school is that it's a new girl every year instead of every month."

Chip shrugs. "Well, I just haven't been able to bring myself to settle down since I let Jessica slip through my fingers. I had a serious crush on her in school."

Bill looks at Donna. "Didn't we all? I have been kicking myself all these years because I never had the nerve to ask her to dance. I thought if I could have one dance with her, I would be completely satisfied with my lot in life." Oh, brother. How cheesy can you get? Bill turns to me. "Zachary, do you think you could help me realize a life-long ambition here and let me dance with her for a few minutes?"

I consider refusing, but Donna would probably kill me. Besides, he can't really seduce her on the dance floor in front of all these people who think Donna and I are married. One little dance probably can't do too much damage. "Sure. As long as you bring her back," I qualify. Just in case.

"Thanks." Bill turns back to Donna and holds out his arm. "Would you do me the honor?"

She takes his arm and they go out onto the dance floor. Chip and Nancy hastily make their excuses and go off to converse with people who, you know, they actually went to school with. They probably just don't want to be seen with the school geek.

I remember Donna's promise of free alcohol and I head over to the bar. I order a drink and look out to the dance floor to make sure Bill Rawston isn't taking liberties with my pretend wife. Oh, fuck. They're smiling at each other. And he's holding her way too close for someone who is supposed to be married to me.

I take a long pull from my drink and reflect that things have come to a sorry pass. I'm in Iowa, on a Saturday night, crashing a high school reunion, and the woman pretending to be my wife is in the arms of another man while I'm alone at the bar.

I see a woman ordering a drink next to me. Hey, if Donna is going to dance the night away with Congressman 'I envisioned you' Rawston, I might as well have a little company myself. I smile at her. "Hey, weren't you in my Civics class?" I offer.

She looks at me suspiciously. "I don't think so."

What's up with these Iowa people? They fall all over themselves to assure Donna they remember her, and none of them do the polite thing and pretend to remember me. "I used to be in the science club," I say flatly.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't really know anyone in the science club."

"Right," I say, defeated. "Sorry for bothering you."

"That's okay," she says. She frowns. "Hey, has anyone ever told you you look like Josh Lyman? You know, President Bartlet's Deputy Chief of Staff?"

I like this woman. She refers to President Bartlet with his title, and she knows who I am. Maybe she's a member of my fan club. I smirk. "He's that really handsome guy?"

She shrugs. "I guess. If you like that fluffy hair look."

For the last time, my hair is not fluffy!

"Anyway, you look a little like him," she says. "Except I think he's a little taller than you and he's starting to go bald."

I can't decide whether to be flattered or insulted by this comparison. I take a swig of my drink. "He must be pretty smart, though," I say nonchalantly. "Working at the White House, and all."

She snorts. "You'd think so, wouldn't you? But they let this guy do a press briefing one time, and he got everyone riled up about a secret plan to fight inflation that didn't even exist. Completely bungled the whole thing."

Good God. Am I ever going to live that down? I still maintain that it was CJ's fault. I grimace at her. "So what do you do?" I glance at her name tag. "Rachel."

"I'm a psychologist," she replies. She looks at my name tag. "What do you do, ah, Zachary?"

"Oh, I, uh, work in a biotech firm," I say.

"Really?" she says with interest. "What sort of things do you do for them?"

"Er... biological, technical things," I mumble.

"Like what?"

"Um..."

Fortunately, a miracle occurs at that moment and I am saved. Donna appears by my side. "Hey sweetie," she says. She's enjoying herself way too much. "Are you having a good time?" She grabs the drink from my hand and takes a big swallow.

"Peachy," I grouse. I try to get my drink back, but Donna just slaps my hand away and takes another sip.

"Hey, weren't you on the cheerleading squad?" Rachel pipes up. I don't get it. No one seems to notice the fact that Donna's like, ten years too young to be at this reunion, yet every person we've met has unfailingly gone out of their way to remember the good old days with her while they persist in ignoring my fake existence.

Donna smiles at her. "Drama club. Rachel Brown? I remember you. We didn't really know each other, but I always thought you seemed really smart. What did you end up doing?"

"I'm a psychologist," Rachel answers.

"Oh really?" Donna says with interest. "That must be fascinating."

"I find it very rewarding," she says.

"Rachel, it was great to see you again," Donna says warmly and threads her fingers through mine. "Do you mind if I steal my husband for a dance?"

Oh, thank you God. I'm not sure whether I'm thanking God more for delivering me from having to answer questions about working in a biotech firm, or the prospect of having Donna in my arms for a dance. Yeah. I am sure. It's option number three, Donna referring to me as her husband. Though number two's not bad either.

"Not at all. It was good to see you both again," Rachel says politely.

Donna tugs me out on the dance floor. "How's it going?" she asks brightly. Right. Drama club. It's all a game.

"Fine," I say. "How's it going with you? Have you made yet another Republican conquest?" I ask with dread.

"He asked me out," she informs me.

There's that old familiar sinking sensation in my stomach again. "I figured he would. You two looked pretty cozy on the dance floor."

"He's a very nice man," she says.

"So what did you tell him?" I ask, even though I'm almost positive I don't want to know the answer to this question.

"I told him to give me a call next time he's in Washington." Great.

"Love blossoms in the Midwest," I say, attempting not to sound bitter and pathetic.

She sighs. "Not really. He's not over his wife. I told him we should be friends instead."

Thank God. "Are you disappointed?"

"No. I'm flattered he asked. I'm holding out for someone else instead."

Unconsciously, I tighten my grip around her waist. "Who?" I choke out.

"Matthew. He thinks I'm a princess."

"Smart kid," I say.

"Damn straight."

We're silent for a moment, swaying to the music. Donna has her pensive face on and I wonder what she's thinking. I swear, the woman can read my mind sometimes, but there's so much I don't know about her. Like this afternoon, when she got upset talking about waiting. "Who were you talking about?" I blurt out.

"When?" she asks.

"This afternoon. When you were talking to Rawston about his wife. You said waiting was horrible. I was just wondering... who you were talking about," I say lamely.

She looks at me as though aliens have taken over my body. "You, of course."

"Me?" I echo.

She looks at me incredulously. "Hello? Fourteen hours of surgery with you inches from death– trust me, that was all the lesson I needed to know that waiting is horrible."

"Oh," I manage to say. I suddenly feel kind of panicky and there's a horrible feeling in my gut. I hate that the awful, sad look in Donna's eyes from this afternoon was because of me.

She gives me a Joshua smile and squeezes my hand. "I'm just happy we had a happy ending," she says softly.

I give her a small smile. "Me, too."

She glances at her watch. "We'd better go. We've got an early flight tomorrow."

"Okay." I take her hand and lead her off the dance floor, tucking her arm in mine as we go out into the hall.

When we get back to the hotel, I feel antsy, but I'm afraid to start a conversation when all I can think about is how pretending to be married to Donna really didn't feel like an act. I sigh. I don't want to go back to Washington and have to wait til I get to the office to have Donna straighten my tie, and not wake up with her head tucked under my chin, and when I meet her friends, be introduced not as her husband but as her boss.

We get into bed and Donna rolls over and kisses me on the cheek before retreating to her side of the bed. "Good night, Josh."

"Good night, Donnatella," I say wistfully.

I can't get comfortable. I toss and turn restlessly. I need to stop thinking about Donna as my wife. It's not professional. I stare at the back of her head, with all that blond hair spilled over the pillow. I wonder if she knows how beautiful she looked with a child in her arms. "You looked really good today," I blurt out. "With Matthew."

She turns towards me. "What do you mean?"

"I mean... it looked so natural with him in your arms. You'd be a good mom," I say lamely.

"Thanks." She gives me a Joshua smile. "Do you ever think about having kids?" she asks me.

"Yeah," I say. "I'm not sure it's ever going to happen, though. Do you think you'll have kids someday?"

She sighs. "I've always wanted to have kids. But when I go out with a guy, I can't seem to think that far ahead. Usually I'm concentrating on making it to a second date."

"How many kids would you want?" I ask curiously.

She thinks for a minute. "Two, I think."

"Two's a good number," I agree. "I'm not sure I could handle triplets."

She laughs. "I definitely couldn't."

I grin. "Justina, Wilhemina, and Clementina?"

"I named them after Zachary's grandmother, great-grandmother, and great-great-grandmother," she says seriously.

"What were their middle names?" I want to know.

"They all have the same middle name. Constance, after your great aunt."

"You are an evil woman. But I thought it was hilarious how you managed to convince those people they knew us," I tell her.

"You weren't so bad yourself. I was pretty impressed with the Roethke story."

I gaze at her. "I was hoping you would like the proposal."

In the moonlight, she looks almost frightened, but she answers nonetheless. "That was my favorite part," she whispers.

"My favorite part was when you introduced me as your husband," I whisper, just as scared. I tentatively reach out and stroke her cheek.

"That was my second favorite part," she says, closing her eyes and turning her cheek into my hand.

"My second favorite part was spending half an hour with you while you were wearing nothing but a towel," I say. I pause. "It was a very close second. If you put it on again, I might have to reevaluate the ranking scale."

She scoots a little closer to me. "You know," she says shyly. "My feet are a little cold again, tonight."

"Here, I'll warm them up," I say, pulling her to me and wrapping my arms around her.

She nestles into me, her back curved into my stomach, my hand splayed across her stomach, and my foot rubbing up and down her leg. I nuzzle her neck and sigh contentedly. Iowa has been pretty nice, all in all. However, Hawaii is going to be about ten times better. Now all I have to do is figure out how to get those damn skis on the airplane.