When Richard Castle learns his publisher hired a writing consultant to help him complete his latest novel he's insulted-until he meets her. Dr. Kate Beckett was merely looking for a summer job between semesters, but could three weeks with the famous writer might be more than she bargained for?

A/N: The inspiration for this story came from 2 sources. First, my best friend is actually a literature professor just like Kate in this story. Second, I read the story "Back to Where We Have Never Been" by caffinate-me on this site and it sort of inspired me to create something similar, yet definitely with my own twist. I hope you guys enjoy it; there are 22 chapters.

One

"Richard Castle, are you listening to me?"

Gina Cowell stood across from the man seated at the large cherry desk. He wore a t-shirt depicting a super hero wearing gold and red with a glowing orb in his chest. He held a medieval action figure in each of his hands and was pretending to make one stab the other with a small plastic sword; a game over three decades too young for him.

"Gina," he sighed, not even bothering to look up at her. "You should know by now that I'm rarely if ever listening to you."

With a growl, Gina unfolded her arms from her chest and stalked towards the desk, her stilettos making sharp taps against the wooden floor. She reached across the desk, grasped one of the figures by the head and wrenched it from his grasp. With a whine, he looked up at her. "This is serious. Black Pawn is serious."

Castle sighed and tossed the remaining action figure back onto the desk. He laced his fingers together behind his head and leaned back in the swivel chair. "Black Pawn is always serious about their threats, but they never follow through." He cocked his head to the side and continued. "Haven't you heard the story about the boy who cried wolf?"

Pushing herself away from the desk, Gina began to pace the three foot square open area in the room. "Just like everything else, this is just a joke to you, isn't it Rick? Well Black Pawn isn't laughing. Your manuscript was due a month ago."

"And you had it a month ago," he informed her simply.

Gina stopped walking and stabbed a well-manicured index finger in his direction. "Except I was horrible, even by your standards."

"Hey!" Castle sat upright so quickly that the feet of his chair rattled against the floor. He glared across the desk at his publisher's representative slash ex-wife. That cautionary tale about mixing business with pleasure? Well Richard Castle had learned the hard way.

They had a staring contest that lasted thirty seconds before Castle blinked, relenting. "Okay, they didn't like the manuscript. Fine. What was wrong with it? Maybe I can fix it."

She dismissed the idea with the flip of her hand as her pacing continued. "It's beyond fixing."

"Nothing is beyond fixing. It just needs a tweak or two here or there."

Gina gazed at her former spouse incredulously. "A tweak or two? The exact words of the editor were 'If we publish this both his reputation and ours will be irreparably tarnished.'"

Castle grimaced inwardly. So maybe coming up with a story idea after a forty-eight-hour The X Files binge-watch was not the best idea. Supernatural wasn't exactly his wheelhouse anyway.

"Don't you have anything else?" Gina asked with her ever-present impatient tone.

"Sure." He responded with utmost casualty. He stood from his desk chair, arched his back in a cat-like stretch, and then padded his way out of the office. Though it was almost four o'clock on a Thursday, he was still wearing the shorts and t-shirt he slept in the night before and, now that he thought about it, the night before that as well. Pulling up the neck of his shirt, dipped his nose and sniffed. Perhaps after Gina left he should shower. And shave.

Glancing back over his shoulder to see that the sharp dressed woman was following him on his voyage to the kitchen, he tapped his temple with his left index finger. "I got a million ideas right up here."

"Any of them written down?"

He didn't respond. As he peered into the refrigerator, Gina rested her elbow against the kitchen counter. It had been over half a decade since she called the loft home, and with each passing year she felt less and less comfortable relaxing in Rick's territory. She knew he wouldn't have minded if she took a seat and softened her tone with him, but that just wasn't her way. In this instance, Richard Castle was just like any other client she needed results from, and results she would get.

"What's the matter, Rick? Don't you like your cushy lifestyle? Your Manhattan apartment? Do you really want us to take that from you?"

Castle pulled his head from the refrigerator, can of soda in his hand, and slammed the door shut a bit harder than necessary. "You can't take my home, Gina; you don't own that."

Gina pursed her lips and waggled her head from side to side. "No, but we can take back that ten million dollar advance you were given based on the promise of a new novel. That'll put a dent even in your bank account, Ricky."

He smiled a poisonous smile at her. "Not as big of a dent as you take every month." Her expression flattened as he cracked open the soda can and took a long swig. Putting the drink aside, he pointed at her and then folded his arms over his chest, leaning against the island with his hip. "That's it—that's why you care isn't it? Because what is the alimony percent of zero dollars of income? Wait, let me get my calculator…" He made a move to reach in his back pocket, but then smirked at her.

Gina let out a phony-sounding chuckle. "That's right, Rick. Have laugh—have a good laugh at my expense. But believe it or not there is a part of me—a very small part of me, but still a part—that genuinely cares about your well-being and if you do not have a brand new best seller to Black Pawn by the end of summer they will terminate your contract, and, though you might not believe me, I genuinely don't want that to happen."

He took a step towards her and leaned both hands on the opposite side of the counter on which her elbow rested. Lowering his head slightly so they were eye-to-eye, he said, "Oh I believe you; then what would you do for money?"

Her eyes narrowed. "You're an asshole."

"Thank you," he said, placing his hand over his heart and lowering his chin as though he were deeply touched.

Pushing herself away from the counter, Gina took half a dozen steps back towards the office before she turned back to face him. "Do you have anything I can read?"

Castle snatched his soda can off the counter and walked back towards the office. "No, but hey thanks for the deadline extension."

"Well I'm glad you're thanking me now because I don't think you will be in a little while."

Castle stopped walking so abruptly that Gina all but ran into the back of him. When he whipped around, his six-foot-one frame towered over her despite her stilettos. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Pursing her lips and folding her arms she informed him, "It means your deadline extension comes with strings."

"Which are?"

"You must use a freelance writing consultant to ensure that your next manuscript isn't a steaming pile of dog shit."

Castle blinked at her. "What the hell is a freelance writing consultant?"

She shrugged and dropped her hands to her sides. "Exactly what it sounds like – a writing consultant…who works freelance."

With an eye roll, Castle returned to his desk. "Gina, I have written two dozen best sellers without a consultant—I don't need a consultant."

"Says the man who hasn't written anything above trashy grocery store romance level quality in almost a year."

"Hey," he began sharply. "I did not use the phrase 'burning loins' once in my last book."

"Maybe you should have," she retorted. "50 Shades is selling copies by the thousands."

He blinked at her. "I'd rather have my thumbnails pulled out."

She grinned poisonously. "But then how would you write?" He gave her a mocking expression before popping open the top of his laptop and opening his latest Word document outline. Perhaps, he figured, if he appeared busy, Gina would simply leave. Instead, she walked closer to him so that the thighs of her extremely tight business suit brushed against the front of his desk.

"Her name is Dr. Katherine Beckett and-"

"Doctor?"

"PhD which is more than I can say for you."

He held up his hands in defense. "Hey, you know me – traditional schooling cramps my style."

"Whatever. We're meeting with her Monday at 3:30; I'll text you the address after I confirm."

Castle rested his left elbow on the desk and propped his chin up with his fist as he considered this prospect. "I take it I don't have a choice."

"No, you do not."

With a grumble, he conceded. "Fine. At least tell me if she's some sixty-five-year-old battle axe whose wardrobe hasn't been updated since the Carter administration."

Gina shrugged. "I don't know; I've never met her." Castle grumbled, but she ignored him as she turned and walked towards the exit. "Remember: 3:30 Monday. And Rick?" She paused and turned back to look at him. "Please at least try not to destroy your entire career."

Kate Beckett stepped into her apartment, shut the door, and leaned back against it with a sigh of relief that only the end of another semester could bring. Granted, that day was only the end of the five week summer semester and thus the sigh was proportionally smaller than a full sixteen week semester sigh, but it was a relief nonetheless. She dropped her keys into the bowl on the table near the door, toed off her sensible heels and padded her way into the kitchen. There, a bespectacled man waited for her.

"Ahh I thought I heard you," the five-foot-ten figure with a mop of black hair on his head smiled. He stepped out of the tiny kitchen and greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. "How was the last day?"

"Fantastic; it was the last day," Kate replied with a smile.

"Did your students shower you with gifts?"

She let out a light laugh. "Uh, no, but they didn't hit me with their books as they left so I'll take that as a win."

"Yes," the man said as he pushed a pair of dark rimmed frames further up the bridge of his nose. "I suppose that—ah." He was interrupted by the whistle of a tea kettle on their miniature stove.

As her boyfriend tended to his beverage, Kate walked over to the messy pile of mail taking up most of the space on their two-seater kitchen table.

"Ah yes," he sighed, leaning against the refrigerator as he sipped the brew as though it had originated from the Fountain of Life. "That really is perfect."

"New tea?" she asked, not even looking at him.

"Yes. I found this new store today—you can mix your own leaves to make a Zen-filled brew. It's really-"

"Paul," Kate interrupted as she pulled a receipt from beneath a Chinese food ad. "Did you spend eighty-nine dollars on tea?" She glanced over at her boyfriend with horror, but he seemed too engrossed in his drink to notice. "Paul!"

"Wha-ah, yes; yes the tea was a little expensive but-"

"A little expens…" her high pitched voice ran out from her own shock. "Eight-nine dollars! Did you pay someone to pick the leaves specifically for you?"

"Kate, they're imported."

"From where? Mars?"

Paul opened his mouth to retort, but then his gaze softened. "What's really the problem here, Kate?"

She slammed the receipt back on the table and folded her arms; she hated when he patronized her. "The problem, Paul, is that we should be saving money right now for the move. We talked about this!" His coffee addition she'd made peace with. Hell, if she couldn't have the occasional Starbucks to get it through the day, she probably would have murdered a student or two long ago, but eighty-nine dollars for a matchbox sized container of tea was completely outrageous not to mention entirely out of their already scant budget.

"Oh…" Paul sighed, leaving the kitchen, tea mug in hand. "About that. The landlord called and we're not going to be able to move in August first like we planned."

Kate followed him out into the sitting room slash bedroom of their miniscule Manhattan residence. "What?! Why?"

Paul blinked at her. "There was a fire."

"A WHAT?!"

"Kate," Paul said in the same warning tone he always used when her voice began to approach too high a decibel.

She cleaned her throat and repeated her inquiry at a more reasonable volume. "What?"

"Evidently the current tenant got a little reckless with some bacon and caught the kitchen cabinets on fire. The damage isn't major, but bad enough that it won't be ready for us."

"So…so what are we going to do? That's barely a month away!"

"Ah, but we're in luck!" Paul sat down on one end of their loveseat and she joined him on the other. "Remember that other place we looked at while we were out there? The one across the street from that Greek place we ate at? It's still available!"

Kate thought for a moment, recalling their whirlwind tour of eight houses in a twenty-four hour period from three months prior. "Was that the one with the white cabinets and ugly green tiles in the bathrooms?"

Paul's face fell. "I liked those tiles."

"But Paul," she began, scooting a bit closer to him. "That place was almost a thousand more a month than the place we rented."

"But it's so close to campus!"

"Hence it being almost a thousand more a month!"

Paul finished off his tea before setting the cup aside and nodding. "I know that's not ideal, but, Kate, we really don't have much of a choice. Like you said, we're moving in one month and look at how many places we crossed off the list. At least we know this place doesn't smell horrible or have mold. Besides, think how convenient it will be to be able to walk to campus. Remember, there are no subways in Illinois."

Kate forced herself to mirror his smile. How could she have forgotten? She was only reminded about the lack of convenient public transportation in her future home every time she stepped on a subway or bus in the city. "I know that will be nice, I'm just-"

He held up his hand. "I know; I know. You're concerned about the money, but honey, you really don't need to be. My salary will be more than enough. Which is why I already told them we'd take it."

She stood off the couch. "Without talking to me?"

"Honey," he said, standing as well. "I didn't want to risk losing the house—then what would we have done?"

She nodded, relenting to that point. "Okay…well, it's just a one-year lease right? I mean, we'll be able to look for something better—less expensive—for next year right?"

"Sure, if we find this place doesn't fit, but, really, I think you're going to love it." He smiled at her before returning to the kitchen.

Kate stood in the middle of the apartment chewing on her bottom lip as she processed the new information. She'd already begun organizing the new house in her mind as far as where they would put their current furniture and what furniture they'd need to purchase. Now, she'd have to start all over, which wasn't the biggest problem in the world, except their furniture budget would be significantly reduced. Which, she supposed, was fine; who needs chairs anyway?

"Uh, Paul," she began as a thought hit her. "What did the landlord say about our deposit? I mean, we're getting it back, right?"

"Ummm," Paul hedged as he walked into the room. "Honestly, I didn't ask; I'll call him back tomorrow. I'm sure we'll get the deposit back."

"Or we're out almost four thousand dollars," she countered, knowing the deposit was two months' rent upfront. Paul said nothing. "Well, I guess it's good that I got a call today from Black Pawn."

Paul's brow furrowed. "The publisher? What do they want?"

"To offer me a job."

Paul chuckled and scooped up his laptop from the end of the bed. "Well I hope you told them no."

"No, no—it's just a summer job," she clarified. "Three weeks in July."

"What for?"

"A writing consultant for some quasi-famous mystery writer having trouble with his latest book."

Paul arched a curious eyebrow. "Did they tell you who?"

Kate bobbed her head. "Richard Castle."

"Never heard of him."

"Well, he's one of Black Pawn's golden boys, so of course I heard of him since I worked there," she explained. "But also my mother's read his stuff for years, so I'd actually heard of him before my job as well."

Paul pursed his lips as a distasteful expression crossed his face. "I never understood your mother's dreadful taste in literature."

Kate laughed. "Neither have I."

"Are you sure you're going to be okay with this job? I mean, reading some crappy mystery story?" Paul shuddered, as though the thought was akin to a three week commitment to work at a sewage processing plant.

"For seven hundred and fifty dollars a week I'll read and critique whatever that man hands me," she stated simply.

"Seven fifty? Damn; I'd do that too!" he laughed.

"No," she countered, walking over and slipping her hands around his waist. "You wouldn't. You couldn't get through ten pages without throwing the book down in disgust and complaining about each characters lack of social morality."

He laughed and looped his arms around her back. "True; you know me too well."

"Yes," she said, kissing him, "I do."