I have officially been hooked by the FNL bug, yet another Tulie fic, even though I promised myself I wouldn't start another one until I finished at least one of the other two I had. Not to be. I got inspired by this piece and wondering what things would be like if my two favorite characters met years later. What kind of people would they be and what kind of attraction would manifest? I hope this answers some of that. This is primarily Julie's story and from her perspective, I have fun writing her, so let me know what you think of it. I own nothing and mean no harm and please please please review!!! ~Sara

Living out of a suitcase was a lot easier than people thought. The right amount of mix and match able non wrinkling clothes and you were set. Slacks, for the dressing up, jeans for the every day, no more than three each of tank tops, tee shirts, and fitted long sleeve blouses in varying shades that complimented each other, and then there was the simple black dress when slacks just wouldn't do.

She had indulged in the largest carry-on allowed by all airlines and the one with the strongest set of wheels; there were enough pockets and cubbies that all of her other necessities were tucked away without worry.

Julie Taylor was a woman who knew how to pack and pack well.

Hefting said luggage onto the conveniently place ottoman at the foot of her double bed she unzipped her bag, letting the contents breath when possible was a must. Kicking off her flats she curled her toes into the thicker than expected carpet. So far so good, two marks on the plus side already.

Mentally writing out her description of the suite, modern yet tasteful décor in rather attractive shades of grays and blues, she headed for the window and pulled apart the floor length drapes, the material which was softer and cleaner than most found at other hotels; another plus.

The view from the uppermost floor was spectacular, the city of Baltimore was not one she knew well, but its gem of an Inner Harbor certainly looked promising. There were hotels nearby, most she could see, that were taller, shinier, but at the top of eight floors she rather liked being closer to the water, and she loved the industrial exterior look of the building.

Very different and that was a good thing in this case; sometimes the bigger and brighter the architecture the less inviting the welcome.

As a travel writer it was her responsibility to explore every nook and cranny of a location. To learn its good sides and bad and report honestly back to the people who have come to rely on her opinion. It was a job she took very seriously if not one she had ever imagined herself doing.

Back in college, and before that high school, she had been convinced that it would be she, Julie Taylor, who would write the next great American Novel, or perhaps uncover the one big scandalous story that would topple the monsters controlling the Nation's crumbling health care system.

The real world it seemed had other plans for her thought. The writing she did, while good, was no where near the level it needed to be to affect that sort of change. It was a revelation that had hit in her second semester at Michigan and she barely made it through the year.

Disgusted and disheartened she had slunk back home to Dillon, to Mom and Dad, and spent the summer wallowing in depression. When the fall descended and her mind made up she headed back on the road, back to school, with every intention of switching her major to something, anything other than English and a minor in Journalism.

The next three days, her Father had insisted she only drive according to the plan he had mapped out for her, which included stopping each time the sun set, and only at hotels he had made reservations for, had changed her life. With gritted teeth she had obliged, anything was better than having her parents drive her to school for her sophomore year, a stigma she would not start the year off with.

Having taken along her laptop she had passed her free hours in the hotel rooms and restaurants commenting on her room and accommodations. There were blogs all over the Net for just such a thing and she stumbled into them easily.

Maybe it was good timing or her complete irritation at having to step foot in any of the varied hotels, but the hits to her pages began to grow. People liked her comments and observations; posters cared about what she was seeing and how it was affecting her. Amazed, she took an extra couple of days to explore the hotels near campus and watched her notoriety grow.

Instantly hooked, she started the school year with a positive and determined attitude, she continued forward in her writing degree but added lots of geography courses and several history ones as well. Those hours spent struggling through topographical maps and the rise and fall of modern capitalism had proved useful; those courses had given her broader outlooks to not only considered the place that the hotel was built but the people who had built them.

She had capped off a grueling junior year with several classes in the anthropology and psychology departments. So maybe she had gone a little off the deep end in dissecting human behavior as it relates to migratory movement, but that was the fun of college.

To this day her Father took pride in telling everyone who would listen, and some who wouldn't, that it was his doing that she was a successful writer. He positively crowed about it. Thinking about it made her smile, her vision of the Harbor blurred as she thought about home, her parents, and Gracie Belle, who was raising hell in elementary school.

Her little sister was everything she had never been, loud and boisterous, and exactly what her parents needed.

Too many times her parents, while proud of her accomplishments, bemoaned her lack of stability. She had no fixed address, just a P.O Box in Manhattan and an email account for all other necessities; no apartment, her license was still from Texas with Dillon as her home address. Julie Taylor was a ghost with a carry-on suitcase and kick ass packing skills.

But mostly they just complained that they missed her, and she missed them, but for now, her course was plotted.

Yes, ma'am she was on top of the world, at the top of her game and she was damn proud of herself.

Hardly anyone she talked to from school was happy with their careers, well except for Tyra who had gone after exactly what she wanted and would not tolerate one moment of it not living up to her expectations; she at least understood loving every moment of your job, no matter how insane it was.

So what if her friends in college were talking mortgages and engagements, she had passports stamps from places she could hardly pronounce. She had watched the New Year start in Sydney, had attended weddings on Greek Isles. Her life was full of amazing experiences.

Experiences she had shared with her faithful readers.

And no one else, frowning, she snapped the lovely drapes shut. Where had that thought come from?

Yes, she lived what most considered a solitary existence, but she was by no means lonely. All she had to do was pick up her Blackberry and text Tyra or pull her laptop out of her shoulder bag and wonder into one of the many chat rooms she frequented.

Not lonely at all.

"Who the hell am I trying to convince?"

Talking to oneself was an unfortunate side effect to her work. It was a running joke amongst her self and the few other writers she had come to know over the years who worked the circuit. The more one talked to one self the worse the distractions offered by their hosts.

Unfortunately she couldn't blame the hotel for the outburst; no, she was dipping into thoughts best left alone.

There was that word again; she snorted, full on out loud.

Heading back towards her suitcase she dug out a clean pair of underwear some jeans and a bright red tank top; she needed a bit of bold to jar her from her blue thoughts.

The suites' master bath was heavenly. Bypassing the sunken tub, which she was totally checking out later she went for the glass encased shower and turned on its eight jets of magic.

She over indulged in the steaming water and took her time using the complimentary lotions. Using toiletries provided was a given but she had a small emergency kit buried in her bag just in case the product given were dreadful. That lesson had been learned the hard way in Toronto; she hadn't quite forgiven the Canadians for that follicle debacle.

Well aware that the cleavage on display was alarming, and the jeans were just a tad to snug on her ass to not catch many a roving eye, she shrugged at her reflection and pulled her wet back into a tight ponytail.

What use was having it if you were just going to cover it all up; she grinned, and that was her Aunt talking in her head. The blush that spread across her neck as she turned left to admire her profile could not be helped. She might have the goods to flaunt, but that didn't mean she did it often or well.

With her pinkie she smeared on some shiny gloss, coconut this month, and ran a dab of mascara over her lashes, and she was set.

Tugging out her favorite pair of Quicksilver flip flops she cursed when the pocket they were in refused to let go, "Ah ha!"

Victory; with a grin, she dropped them to the floor and stepped into them, her mood much better than it had been an hour ago.

Reaching for her hand bag, deciding against her shoulder bag and the lap top within, she decided any note worthy comments could be jotted down on any one of the notebooks in her pocket book. Half written thoughts or ideas, comments, and even the occasional opening chapter to yet another novel she would never finish were scattered throughout the half dozen Moleskin journals.

For all the work she did in a Word document there was something wonderful about writing out the word in your own half legible scrawl.

Taking one last glance around the room, noting where everything was, it was always important to note such details lest someone go through your stuff and you not be aware of it. Privacy is always at the top of every good hotelier must list.

Confident all was well, and feeling far bolder than she could remember being in recent months, she headed out to explore the hotel and the city beyond.

The staff was good, very good; not one of the people in uniform had batted an eye when she had sauntered down the hall. She knew she looked a tad bit under dressed for the price range of the suite she was occupying but that was all part of her job.

No one at the hotel knew they were being reviewed, as far as they knew, she was some rich kid on school break; she never had caught her looks up to her age.

All of her postings online were done under a pseudonym. That was something she had insisted on. As much as she enjoyed the popularity of the work she did and the power she wielded over hotel bookings, she wasn't eager for her name to be popping up in blogs.

So the comps the hotels sent to the magazine were carefully rerouted through dummy companies and quietly booked in one of her varied aliases. It all sounded very James Bond even though it so wasn't, a few keystrokes by one of the tech guys and all done. She had been disappointed in that show, she had been expecting lots of typing and clicking and something involving an array of three monitors; but no such luck.

This weekend Camille Turner was enjoying a three day stay and had all sorts of reservations booked. Spa treatments, cardio, yoga, hair cut, mani/pedi; she was toned in places she didn't think could be exercised and Tyra couldn't be more pleased at the care she took in her hair; if she only knew.

Then there would be the actual sightseeing. Many places offered their own sorts of attractions, tours and activities. From diving to hiking to history to spinning pottery; she got a taste of it all. And that was just on the grounds themselves.

Anything within walking distance of the hotel was fair game too. She made no bones about the fact if a hotel touted its ease of access to whatever tourist trap they better be correct down to the foot. Nothing in her opinion was worse than the propaganda spouted by the resorts in Orlando.

Tomorrow she would tackle the foot work, right now she wanted to get a feel for the hotel itself, check out some of the shops, but after lunch.

Her flight in from St. Louis had not provided any type of sustenance and she had bypassed terminal fast food in her haste to get checked in and her stomach was growling.

The elevator, which was paneled in wood stained pleasantly dark, was spacious and tight on its descent. There were too many elevators out there that bounced their passengers around and she had little tolerance for them.

Bypassing the more formal restaurant on the second floor and the lounge there as well, she headed to the lobby; she had spotted a promising looking coffee shop with an attached gift shop; convenience was good.

The menu was short and varied; she ordered a hot sandwich, fries and the largest cup of coffee they would give her and took a table near the entrance, affording her the best possible view of the lobby. People were coming and going, there was a relaxed vibe, quiet money stayed here. New money stayed the Hyatt, old money at the Tremont. The International was at the edge of the Inner Harbor and took pride in being so.

She wasn't sure how that was going to translate into her overall stay here, but she pulled out a notepad and jotted down that and several other observations. The fact that the fitness center was not open 24 hours was a bit outdated. And it definitely sucked that there was not free wireless in every suite. In this day and age that was simply unforgivable.

The food was good though. Her sandwich was a hot runny mess and she loved it. The fries were of the boardwalk variety, and while not her favorite there enough salt and vinegar on them to make her lips pucker and that was a plus. The sign had boasted that the fries were just as good as the boardwalk fries in Ocean City, MD. She made a note to check out any possibilities there. It was a backwards sort of networking but if a place she was visiting made a good impression, than its affiliations were worth noting.

A loud crash jerked her attention back to the lobby, a fry was half way to her mouth, and she smiled around the bit of potato she bit in half. Football players, specifically Ravens players had knocked over one of the luggage trolleys. Her Father would have been proud of the many and loud apologies, no Panther would have been ever leave a mess of their own creation for someone else; and she smiled behind her hand as the big men struggled to balance the bags back on the cart.

Baltimore was a sports town; a big one. Maybe a trip to the nearby stadiums was in order. While she could admit that she had gone through a phase in college, had shunned any and all sport related activity, she had gotten over it; it was in her blood after all, and she followed her teams.

On the college and professional circuits there were the teams her Father would be cheering for and a few of her own that she picked up along the way. An afternoon at Camden Yards sounded great.

As the commotion in the lobby was settling down, her eyes drifted over the sea of purple and white jerseys; there was something there, at the corner of her memory and she couldn't quite grasp it.

It would come to her, probably at the most random of times, but there was something about the Ravens jerseys that she should remember.

"Damn," she stood, tray in hand and tried to shake off the frustration and dumped the trash in the bin. The gift shop was accessible through the restaurant or by its own entrance from the lobby. She wandered through and took her time poking through the necessities and souvenirs. On the spinner rack by the entrance she found the perfect keychain, she had a keychain from every place she had ever stayed in; the date of her stay written in black sharpie on the back.

The car she had driven to back to school in the summer after freshman year was in long term storage in Oklahoma City; stashed away in the trunk, she hadn't driven it in ages, were the special things she had collected over the years, including her ever growing collection of key chains.

While she was skimming through the latest US weekly the new Nora Roberts tucked under her arm she got a text.

"Tyra," she grinned down at the screen.

They exchanged thoughts as she paid for her selections and headed back out to the lobby.

Her feet carried her out into the sun, when she looked up from her last message, she found herself looking out over the water. There was no doubt in her mind that whenever she did settle down, wherever it was there was going to be water; lots of it.

Maybe that's why she hadn't been anxious to sign a lease or buy a 'starter' home. She had a clear vision of what she wanted in terms of her home, and while she made damn good money, she wasn't quite there yet.

Not to mention her parents were going to be all kinds of upset when she broke it to them that she wasn't going to be settling in Dillon with a bunch of grandchildren nearby for them to spoil.

Her Mom was going to be the best grandma though, it brought a smile to her face imagining the birthdays and Christmas Eve's that her Mother would be orchestrating; she always was one for the big events.

There was a plan; work and work and save and save; and then she could buy her land and build her house.

All alone; there was that stupid voice again. The one that was nagging at her, asking her all sorts of unwanted questions, like did she want to build that house all by her self, and when was she going to get working on those kids?

The food she had devoured was settling like lead in her belly.

Turning and heading back into the hotel, she felt the first twinge of a headache. Squinting out in the afternoon sun without her sunglass mixed with her too tight pony tail was doing a number on her head.

A quick stop back at the gift shop and she bought the strongest Tylenol they had she headed for her suite. Some pills and a nap with the air turned just a tad cooler than comfortable was just what she needed.

Her keycard took on the first try for which she was grateful, as many times as she had used them she still struggled more often than not with the swipe.

Cranking up the A.C. she stripped out of her jeans and tank top, freeing her breasts from the underwire, she massaged the skin under her breasts, what women were forced to do for fashion.

Digging out her softest sleep shirt she turned off every light and took three little white pills, but left the bottle and some water on the nightstand, she crawled under the covers. The comforter she had left on the bed was heavier than it looked and she snuggled deep underneath, immediately she felt the tension easing from her body; nothing was better than hotel pillows.

One of these days she was going to break down and buy one for the rare occasion she was not checked into a hotel somewhere, but every time she though she had found the perfect pillow she laid her head on another one that rocked her world.

Snickering into her pillow, which was pretty amazing, she closed her eyes and began counting back from fifty trying to push aside the details of the night to come and the events during the day tomorrow. When her mind got to spinning with the lists than she knew it was going to be a rush set of hours and all she wanted to do was sleep.

Focusing harder on the numbers she switched her count over to French, it took more energy and she felt herself fading.