He was an attractive man when I had watched him from a distance, but when he spoke to me, directly to me, it was as if I were the only person in the room. He was completely committed to our conversation, allowing no distractions, and the power of that, the intensity, was staggering. I could feel him.

I held his large, warm hand in mine, and I studied his face, excited for the chance to have a much closer look. His eyes were a beautiful soft bluish green, like ocean water, but still and calm and clear. He was muscular, but lean, and the muscles in his arms were tight and ropey, flexing as he shook my hand. His chest and stomach looked hard and firm, and I found myself wondering what he would look like as he pulled that shirt over his head. His hair was a messy reddish-brown color, and he kept pulling at it with his fingers.

I met his eyes and gave him my name, waiting a beat or two before nodding towards my daughter, proudly admitted my maternity. His eyebrows shot up in question.

"Wait," he said, shaking his head. "That's your daughter. You're her mother. Seriously?" He chuckled softly, waiting for me to laugh at the joke we must have been playing on him.

"Seriously. I'm her mother." I got that a lot. I looked young for my age, and we were often mistaken as sisters, with me being the much older sister, of course. A smile spread across my face, and I had to work hard to suppress an embarrassing giggle.

"Yes," my daughter said suddenly, wrapping her arm tightly around my shoulder. "That's my mom! And this," she said, giving me a quick and obvious up and down glance, "this is my future." She smiled, proudly, happily. She looked exactly like me when I was her age, and she knew she would look exactly like me when she was mine. And she loved it. I was attractive, kept in shape, and looked years younger than my real age. That line about me being "her future" was her standard line. She told everyone that.

He whistled slowly, appreciatively.

"Well, well, well," he said smoothly, lifting my hand to his lips. His spoken words were warm and liquid and sounded like music to me. "And what a beautiful future it is." He kissed my hand, giving it a little squeeze, and right as he released my hand, he winked at me. It was smarmy and flirty, and just a little bit cheesy, but oh my God, it was the hottest fucking thing I had ever experienced.

I blushed furiously, and I unfortunately erupted with that girlish giggle I could no longer control.

My daughter punched me in the shoulder and rolled her eyes.

"Mom!"

That happened all the time, and it really didn't bother her. She was used to it, but she also loved to call me on it, right in front of whoever was causing my behavior, just to embarrass me further.

Later, in the car on the way home, I decided to casually bring him up, to see what I could find out about him, now that I knew that my daughter knew him. They ran in the same circles, knew the same people. Of course, there was no way I would be able to question her without her figuring out what I was doing.

"So, that guy..." I started.

"Oh my God, Mom, seriously?" She interrupted, laughing immediately. "We're in the car for like two minutes, and you're already fishing for information on him?"

"Okay, okay, sorry..." I laughed with her. "But you know how I - "

"Yes, I know how you are. Believe me, I know how you are," she exclaimed with a grin. "But..."

I deflated a little, hearing the "but."

"But what? But... he's married? But... he's a eunuch? But... he's really a woman? What?" I pressed, my hands tightly gripping the steering wheel. I was anxious, wanting to know why I couldn't have him, and I wanted to know quickly, to put myself out of my self-created misery.

"But he's gay, Mom. Plays for the other team. Sorry." She patted me on the arm, giving me whatever comfort she could offer. And fuck, gay was something I couldn't overcome, no matter how charming I was, or good with my mouth.

"Gay?" I asked, exasperated. "Are you sure? How did you find out? Who told you? -"

"Mom. Stop. Seriously." She interrupted my rant. "Everybody says he's gay. He's been hit on by every girl I know, and he never bites!" I grinned and started to open my mouth to make a comment about biting, and she jumped quickly back in. "Okay, stop. I take that back. Please don't make any inappropriate comments about biting. I don't need images of you and your teeth in my head." She glared at me for a few seconds, and then we both laughed before she continued. "They keep trying, all my friends, everyone he's ever been in a show with, and he turns them all down. Very politely, but always a very clear 'no.' He obviously doesn't want to come out, but doesn't want any of this either." She gestured to herself, and it took me a minute to figure out what she was talking about.

"Wait," I said, glancing over at her to check her expression. "You tried? And he turned you down?" My daughter was gorgeous and sexy and rarely told no. And yes, I knew a little too much about her life. She nodded, obviously not wanting to share details. "Well, then... he must be gay," I agreed. We laughed again, and changed the subject, talking about other things on the rest of the trip home.

Well, if he's gay ("not that there's anything wrong with that"), then what's left for our heroine? Right? Right?

And thanks for all of the warm "welcome back's" from old friends. It's good to see you too :)

All things "Twilight" belong to Stephanie Meyer. The remainder of the perversion is all mine. :)