Do You Believe in Magic? by Ann Macela

becoming more and more attracted to him. This whole reaction was so unlike her. How could what she was feeling have happened so fast? Only her distress and anxiety had kept her from shivering under his touch on her hands.
    “You know as well as I do, Clay, this is all just business. I meant what I said yesterday. It’s all pretend.” She made her tone as brisk and as positive as she could. She couldn’t let him get away with his arrogant statement.
    “Is it?”
    “Yes, of course.” She nodded sharply to emphasize her opinion.
    “Let’s take it easy here, Francie, and see how it goes, okay? Let’s simply go to the theater and have a good time,” he suggested calmly.
    His request wasn’t exactly an agreement with her assessment, and she almost opened her mouth to push for one, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. He was right. They had to get through this evening, and at least one other evening as well. At some point she had to introduce him to Kevin. She had to keep control of herself, guard her heart, and not succumb to a handsome man’s charms.
    “I’ve read a couple of good reviews for this show,” she said to change the subject. She certainly didn’t want to continue this one.
    Clay gave her a quick glance. This relationship didn’t have to be and wouldn’t be purely business. Not if he had anything to say about it. Damn. He didn’t want to have a conversation about this attraction between them in a moving vehicle, when he couldn’t look her in the eyes or touch her or concentrate totally on what her body and eyes were really telling him. For now, she had accepted his suggestion to keep things light, so he followed her lead for something else to talk about. “Daria and her husband saw it and recommended it.”
    They discussed the musical for the remainder of the trip. At the show, by mutual—if unspoken—agreement, they made only inconsequential conversation, mostly about books they had read as children.
    For dinner after the show, he took her to a French bistro on Montrose Boulevard, not far from the Museum of Fine Arts. Both of them still avoided any mention of what had brought them together. Instead they went off on a sports kick and found a mutual interest in basketball.
    “I played point guard on my high-school team, but not college,” Clay said. “Didn’t have the interest or the drive it took to compete at an almost semi-pro level. Didn’t want to spend the time on it, either, I guess. I was happiest in the computer lab. How about you?” He didn’t say he’d been team captain or the team had won the state championship. It seemed too much like bragging. So did mentioning his winning team at the Downtown YMCA. Little disgusted him more than guys who relived their teenaged athletic careers as though it made them special. They often hadn’t done a thing to be proud of since.
    “Where’d you go to college?” Francie asked.
    “MIT. How about you?”
    “Texas at Austin. I had the height for center on the women’s team, but didn’t play after high school, either, except on some intramural teams,” she answered. “I had academic scholarships, so I concentrated on my studies.” She didn’t mention she’d been on the All-State Girls’ Team or that her high school had been state champions. She also didn’t mention her university intramural team had been champions in their league or that she continued to play in the women’s league at the Downtown YMCA. It seemed too much like bragging. Besides, she didn’t like being seen as only a jock who couldn’t possibly have a brain in her head. Or worse, a body to be lusted after with no thought as to the woman who inhabited it. Clay wouldn’t treat her like either one of those. She knew that deep down, somewhere in her middle, but she didn’t have time to dwell on the revelation as he asked another question and led her thoughts elsewhere.
    They went on to discuss basketball, the NBA and the Houston Rockets, the WNBA and the