Because It's Christmas.
It's the last week before Christmas, with no shortage of places to go and things to do – no wonder all the younger colleagues used the first opportunity to take off.
Grace could have gone too in fact, do some shopping at first, and finish her report at home later.
As weird as it sounds, she honestly preferred to stay.
The headquarters of the CCU isn't quite as desolate place as one might think in the evenings. The lack of natural light and oppressive basement atmosphere are more of an issue on daytime. It's actually rather cosy down here in twilight. What's most important – it's warm here tonight.
The problems with the heating started a few days ago, forcing everybody to wear extra layers of clothes, and pray for the maintenance to do their job before they all end up with pneumonia.
Coming to work this morning and finding the radiators barely lukewarm once again, Boyd lost his temper.
His three increasingly shouty phone calls finally brought along two overalls-clad blokes with an impressive collection of wrenches.
They all had to go to a crime scene in the outskirts of the city, so the plumbers were already gone by the time they got back. But the radiators were scorching hot, allowing Boyd to reap the fruits of his effort in shirtsleeves for the rest of the day.
The water in the electric kettle starts to bubble and the device shuts off with a loud click. Earl grey, no sugar for Boyd, ginger and lemon with honey for her.
Grace cautiously picks up both steaming mugs and heads back to their offices.
Boyd appears to be completely lost in paperwork. ''Thanks, Grace,'' he nods without lifting his glance from the case file, as she puts the mug on the corner of his overloaded desk.
Sipping her own spicy drink, Grace returns to her own 'second home'.
Contrary to Boyd's Spartan office, hers is loaded with books and all kinds of little things brought here in years in order to create the surroundings she feels comfortable in. And she's achieved that.
What she definitely hasn't brought here herself is the little red envelope that's mysteriously appeared next to her desk lamp. It most certainly wasn't there when she left five minutes ago.
She picks it up and explores more closely.
Nothing's written on it, apart from the golden 'Merry Christmas' above the decorative motif of snowflake. Grace rips it open, ridden with curiosity.
Two pieces of paper slip out instantly, turning out to be concert tickets on closer look. To one particular Christmas concert on Saturday night...
She re-checks the envelope inside and out, but whoever brought it here obviously preferred to remain anonymous.
She did briefly mention in the squad-room the other day how disappointed she was, having to miss that concert because the tickets were sold out so quickly. It's only logical to presume her colleagues being behind such pleasant surprise. But the younger ones would have surely added a card or something. Besides they're all long gone from here... There's no doubt the prime suspect is sitting in the adjacent office.
''May I disturb you for a minute?''
''Sure,'' Boyd casts her a look over his reading classes that are half-way down his nose, ''What is it?''
''You didn't happen to notice anything unusual around my office a few minutes ago?''
''No... Why?'', his ignorance is almost convincing, ''Is something wrong?''
''Not really. It's just that while I was making tea, someone's left a surprise present on the desk for me. You haven't got any idea who might have done that?''
''Santa's little helpers,'' Boyd offers, struggling to keep the straight face.
''Could be,'' she concedes, smirking, ''though I personally suspect one rather big helper. In any case I'm very-very grateful. The only problem is that now I have to find someone to go to the concert with me.''
''Ask some friend,'' he suggests helpfully.
''I'm sort of doing this now. Would you be interested?''
''I might,'' the broad satisfied grin betrays he's secretly hoped her to do exactly that, but he still continues the game,''I have to check my diary first.''
He reaches for his leather-cover executive notebook. ''What day we're talking about?''
''Saturday, the 23rd .'' she plays along, rather enjoying it.
''Let me see...'' He turns the pages painstakingly slowly, and reaching the right one at last, declares generously, ''Looks like I'm available that night.''
''Terrific! It's a date then!''
Grace berates herself for such overly enthusiastic reaction a moment later, as Boyd's grin turns devilish.
''A... real... date!?'', he drawls, full of mischief, ''In this case I'll better write it down lest I forget it. I wouldn't want to miss it for the world!''
She rolls her eyes at that, and returns to her unfinished report, leaving Boyd to paint the oversized 'DATE WITH GRACE' in his notebook.
The little restaurant Boyd has chosen for their after concert dinner reinforces Grace's firm conviction that he must have some inner radar to help him discover all the hidden gastronomic gems in London, the existence of which she would never know without him.
The lack of proper parking space near it is the only minor shortcoming this place has.
Grace doesn't mind the twenty-minute stroll back to where they had to leave the car at all. It is damp and chilly outside, but satiated with delicious seasonal-flavoured food as they are, it doesn't matter really. All the windows of the little shops they pass by are nicely decorated, and the twinkling Christmas lights here and there give the street a truly romantic holiday atmosphere. A perfect ending to the evening that has exceeded her hopes in many ways.
The utterly positive experience the main event offered outweighs everything else of course. Boyd clearly enjoyed the concert just as much, though she initially wouldn't have listed him as a big fan of classical music. Furthermore astonishing were his remarks and comments that implied to surprising competence and vast knowledge of the field. She's wanted to ask him about that the whole evening, but before she manages to do that, Boyd picks it up himself. What Grace hears surprises her profoundly.
''Piano lessons? For ten years...!?'', she looks at him incredulously.
''Roughly ten yes, I reckon, as my mother bought the piano for my fifth birthday. I was overwhelmed with excitement at first, as you can imagine. A week later she dragged me to Mr. Zukerman's piano class for the first time, and I found out to my huge disappointment that making music wasn't all fun and joy,'' the corner of his mouth rises in ironic smirk. ''From then on it was like clockwork - every Tuesday and Thursday after school. And old Sam Zukerman knew well how to make you feel sorry later if you missed his lesson without solid reason. It took me years to realise that besides musical education he also gave me a valuable school of discipline. Just as singing in the boys' choir was an excellent practice of team-work,'' he concludes pensively.
''You sang in a choir as well?!'' The man really is full of surprises.
''I did,'' he nods, ''we had concerts and everything!''
''All of you neatly combed and in identical uniforms,'' she offers amusedly.
''Don't remind me that...'', he groans in feigned agony.
''I bet you were a true eye-catcher, choirboy Peter,'' she chuckles.
''Yeah, for the elderly ladies at the church, perhaps,'' he snorts derisively. ''The girls at school definitely preferred battle-scarred football players. And they didn't think too high of pianists either. Hence my profound change of course at the age of fifteen. Broke my poor mothers heart, I'm afraid. She never disguised how much she'd have preferred a career in music for me.''
''As a pianist or as a singer?'', she wants to know.
''Oh, she was far more ambitious than that! For some weird reason she was utterly convinced I had the makings to become a conductor, and cherished the hope that her son would be the next Herbert von Karajan.'' He shakes his head in genuine disbelief, ''Beats me completely what gave her the idea.''
Though she's never had a chance to judge his musical talent, not even having any remotest idea of it's existence until tonight, Grace could actually rather agree with the late Mrs. Boyd. The 'orchestra' he's leading in these days might be very different from what his mother wished for him, but Boyd sure has the ability to 'conduct' it, and in no shy way.
''I'm think that despite you didn't end up in front of the Vienna Philharmonic, your mother still felt proud and pleased with the way you turned out,'' she offers him a little self-confidence boost. ''In the end she just wanted her child to be happy and do well in life, didn't she?''
His pace slows down.
''Don't we all...'' The deep sigh and his grief-stricken face are heart-rending.
''Boyd...''
There really ain't any right words to comfort a father who unquestionably loved his son very much, and cherished hopes and dreams for his future as well, none of which ever meant to come true unfortunately.
Desperate to express support and understanding in any possible way, Grace just takes hold of his hand.
Boyd gently squeezes her fingers in return, managing a bleak smile.
It's Grace's luck he doesn't let go of her hand right away. The brand new high-heeled boots she's wearing for the first time tonight prove to be the worst choice for slippery streets in the dark. They reach an icy patch of pavement, and it's Boyd's fast reaction and enviable balance that avoids the accident. Still reeling from shock, she gratefully accepts the arm he offers her with old-school courtesy and tiniest hint of ironic smirk.
Firmly safe-guarded now, Grace risks to lift her eyes from the sloppy pavement again. The temperature must have dropped considerably in past few hours, for the indefinite wet substance that has been dripping from the thick grey clouds above the city all day long starts to resemble snow more and more.
They stop for a moment to admire the slow dance of white flakes around the street-light. An extra large one lands on Grace's face, sticking to her eyelashes and making her blink in discomfort.
Before she herself can do anything about it, Boyd already reaches to wipe it off.
The feather-light touch of his fingertips amazes her, considering how brash and robust he sometimes is. 'Pianist's fingers', the sudden realisation makes her smile.
Boyd's slightly arrogant smirk changes into something tender and affectionate, as his hand glides down her cheek in delicate savouring caress.
The initial brush of his lips against hers is just momentary, still leaving them a chance to write it all off as a joke. His expression clearly speaks of the need for some kind of back-feed or reassurance from her. Spellbound, she's incapable of giving it, at least in any verbal form. Boyd seems to get the answer he expects nevertheless, and encouraged by that, the following kiss is much more determined and confident already. Without any conscious thought, but instinctively drawn towards him, Grace responds eagerly.
Reality checks in with a loud and spiteful whistle, followed by raucous laughter and a few particularly vulgar suggestions. Luckily the rowdy group of youngsters disappears behind the corner before Boyd manages to do more than throw a threatening glance towards them.
''You really know how to pick the place,'' Grace grumbles, not finding any better way to break the awkward silence, ''straight under the street-lamp...''
Boyd gives an amused snort at that, and tilts his head inquiringly, ''Have I ruined Dr. Foley's impeccable reputation now?''
''It won't hurt to have some respectability left for the coming year, you know,'' she retorts rather tetchily.
''Let's take it somewhere more private then! I happen to have a few bottles of that favourite wine of yours at my place, and there are logs ready in the fireplace...'' he offers enthusiastically.
Grace is truly shocked by such turn of events.
''Do you always prepare that thoroughly for your dates?'', she manages, half incredulous, half ironic.
''What? No...'', Boyd frowns in confusion, starting to realise that he might have been a bit too brazen for his standards even.
''Jesus, Grace... I didn't mean it like that... I wasn't referring to...'', he hurtles to mitigate things, ''I honestly didn't plan any of it - the wine was meant to be a New Year present for you actually... and as for the fireplace... those logs have been there for god knows how long already, to tell the truth I have no idea whether I'd be able to light them at all.'' He sounds quite desperate. ''I just don't want this evening to end already! ''
''Neither do I, Boyd,'' she gives him a reassuring smile, fully determined to do something without over-thinking for once in her life. ''Let's go to your place!''
He exhales in obvious relief, remarking self-deprecatingly, ''We should hurry before I manage to say anything else stupid to fuck up everything.'' The mischievous grin returns,''Or before the car snows completely in!''
It's not that drastic yet, but the wipers still prove ineffective to clean the windscreen.
Boyd climbs out of the car again, gets the necessary tool from the trunk, and starts to brush the wet snow off the glass impatiently.
Grace turns on the car radio, hoping to catch the weather forecast and learn what might be in store for the rest of the holidays.
She doesn't have any luck though, it seems to be just non-stop music on all channels at this hour.
Spending a few hours at the shopping centre last week she honestly felt she couldn't endure any more 'mainstream' Christmas songs till next year.
Though it's in sharp contrast with the melodic classical music they enjoyed just a couple of hours ago, the song with bouncy rhythm and rather primitive lyrics that comes from the radio right now she quite likes. It has invigorating and spirit-lifting effect somehow.
''Don't you come to freeze your fingers off now,'' Boyd admonishes, as she follows him out of the car, ''I'll get it myself...''
He does get it - the snowball she quickly makes, and another handful that she grabs from the car roof.
Apparently too much of a gentleman to have a snowball fight with her, Boyd opts for a reproving head-shake and a glance loaded with moral superiority.
The cold snow does pinch her fingers unpleasantly, and most attractive way to warm them up is burying them in the soft thick hair at the nape of his neck.
Her boots provide the much-needed extra inches, so she can get her arms around Boyd's neck easily, but she still can't reach his lips - he's too damned tall and keeps his chin obstinately lifted.
The only occasion Grace remembers clinging to a guy the same way was during her brief head-over-heels crush on Toby Jones, the basketball-team captain of their school. She chuckles shamelessly at her own folly.
''I really have to get you off the street before someone calls the police...'', Boyd grumbles with well-feigned exasperation.
Before doing that he still magnanimously lowers his head to meet her lips, his hands pulling her into warm and protective embrace.
Grace knows the man far too long to fall for such apparent leniency. His retaliation will come later, in some wickedly pleasant form, and polite conversation in front of the fireplace won't be the way this night's going to end.
''Why tonight?''
She's just thinking loudly, not expecting Boyd to answer, and in no way attempting to withdraw her consent to go with him.
To her surprise she doesn't get the predictable plaintive groan from him.
In fact he even seems to ponder about it himself for a moment. Then the cheerful grin lights up his face.
''Because it's Christmas!''