Greg marveled at the rain as he strode down the last block before he reached the building whose address was written on the slip of paper in his jacket pocket. He couldn't remember the last steady rain he'd seen in Vegas. He pulled up his collar and wiped the water from his eyes.
He stopped in front of the building and took the paper from his pocket once again. He checked the number on the paper against he number on the glass door of the building and, once satisfied that the two matched, started up the steps and pressed the buzzer for the apartment.
"Yo," came a female voice from the speaker.
"Uh, hi," Greg began. "This is Greg Sanders. I'm looking for Anne."
There was a short silence on the other end of the intercom.
"Third floor. Come on up," said another, lightly accented, female voice.
There was another buzz, this one longer than the first, that indicated that the door was now unlocked. Greg took a deep breath and opened the door. He looked about for an elevator and sighed at the out of order sign. He found the door marked stairs and, still dripping wet, trudged up to the third floor.
Once he reached the top, Greg walked to halfway down the hall and knocked at the door scribbled on the paper.
The door opened to reveal a plump young woman dressed in a pair of dirty washed jeans and a red sweater with three quarter sleeves. Her dark, shoulder length hair was swept away from her face and held in place on one side with a bobby pin, a flower matching her sweater in the pin. What kept Greg transfixed in the doorway were her eyes: large, round eyes the color of milk chocolate.
"Greg?" she asked in soft voice with a pleasant Spanish accent.
"Uh . . . yeah," he stuttered. For having never been attracted to big women, Greg found he was deeply effected by how simply pretty this woman was.
"I'm Anne," the young woman replied.
A few days earlier, Grissom had inquired about Greg's plans for the weekend. Greg answered that he had planned on catching up on some much needed sleep. Grissom sighed heavily and offered up that his niece would be in town to visit some friends, Greg's interest was piqued.
"How old is you niece?" Greg asked cautiously.
"Twenty-two," Grissom replied. "She's an advertising major at the Seattle Art Institute and she's coming down to visit some friends from high school. I'm making her explore the job market here."
"Making her?" Greg wondered aloud.
"Yes," Grissom answered simply. "She's going to school and doing exceedingly well, but she has very little direction or idea of what to do after she graduates."
"So . . ."
"So, I was wondering if you could keep an eye on her. Take her around to some of the agencies here in the city and see if she shows an interest in one."
"But not . . . like. . . take her out," Greg said.
"No, not take her out," Grissom replied.
Greg agreed and took the piece of paper Grissom handed him.
"She's," Grissom paused, "Not what you'd expect."
Grissom had been right.
"Come in," she offered, opening the door wider.
"Nice place," he said dumbly, looking around at his surroundings. The room was overrun by furniture: a sofa, a loveseat, two rocker/recliners, and an entertainment center containing a television and DVD player, a stereo with surround sound. He could see that the kitchen was off to the left of the living room and a short hall beyond the living room furniture that he assumed led to a bedroom and a bathroom.
"Thanks," she smiled. "I'll let Dee know later. This is her place."
"Oh," he said, at a loss. Her smile nearly melted him.
"You've met," she said. "On the porch."
"Right," he laughed nervously.
"You want a towel or something?" she asked.
"Huh?"
She gave a small laugh. "You're soaked," she pointed out.
"Yeah. I, uh, wasn't expecting the rain," he explained.
"Yeah," she laughed. "I brought it with. Dee said she needed the humidity." She handed him a paper towel from the kitchen counter. "So, you'll be babysitting me today?" she asked as she watched him dry his face.
"Well," he began, "You're uncle. . . Grissom. . . Gil," he sputtered. She wouldn't stop smiling at him. He could drown in her eyes. "He asked me to show you around some." He began looking around for a trash can.
"So, he asked you to date me," she said, taking the now soaked paper towel into the kitchen.
"No," Greg said firmly. He was about to add that he was in fact warned against it, but decided not to.
"What are we doing then?" she asked, still smiling.
Greg sighed inwardly. He couldn't lie to those eyes.
"I'm supposed to help you find direction," he admitted.
"He's making you take me to look for a job isn't he," she said flatly, but the smile never left her face.
"Yeah," Greg answered.
"You must be from the lab," she said.
"Yeah," seemed to be all he was capable of saying.
"Huh," she said, flicking her tongue across the left corner of her mouth. "Well, I guess we'd better get going then." She picked a lightweight waterproof jacket from the back of a chair and slipped it on as she opened the front door. "The sooner we get it over with, the sooner we can have some fun."
"Uh. . . I guess," Greg said as he followed her out into the hall.
"So, where are we going?" she asked as she opened the door into the rain.
"According to our itinerary," he said, producing a small sheet of notepaper from his jacket pocket, "we're supposed to go around to some ad agencies so you can get a feel for the industry."
"No," she said, snatching the paper from him and crumbling it into her pocket. "We won't be doing that."
Greg stopped walking.
"What are we going to do then?"
"Have you eaten?" she asked.
"No," he answered and followed as she began walking down the street, oblivious to the cool rain falling to the sidewalk. She walked straight through puddles seemingly without a care.
"Then let's do that first and go from there," she smiled. "What sounds good?"
"I dunno," he said hesitantly. "We should probably. . ."
"Walk aimlessly around inside an ad agency for an hour hoping that we're not kicked out for trespassing?" she finished for him.
"Well. . ."
"C'mon. Don't be a wuss. Live on the edge and do something that my interfering, know-it-all uncle didn't tell you to do."
She smiled and Greg could feel his palms get sweaty. She had a way of looking at him . . . No, he chided himself, that's probably just what she looks like. Just the same, he caved.
"What do you feel like?" he asked, rewording her earlier question.
"Asian," she answered.
"Japanese?" he asked
"Sure."
"Tropicana. They have this place called Mizuno's Teppen Dining. It's really great."
"Great," she said, flashing him that heart melting smile once more.
"We'll get a cab," he said. "It's kinda far."
She shrugged and rolled her eyes slightly. "If you want."
"It's about three miles," he turned east and pointed, "that-a-way."
"Then I guess we should take a cab," she agreed and smiled, waiting for him to hail a cab.
When a taxi finally pulled to the curb to let them in, Greg, on a whim, opened Anne's door for her. There was something about the way she was looking at him that made him feel . . . like being a gentleman, he supposed. Of course, it may have had something to do with a previous threat from Grissom.
"On your best behavior," he'd warned before Greg left the lab that morning. "If you don't treat her like a lady, Greg, you'll be stuck behind a microscope for the rest of your career."
Greg knew that Grissom meant business because he'd never heard such a threatening tone from the man before. And if Greg hadn't seen the look on his face (such a defensive and distrusting look), he wouldn't have believed him.
"Where to?" asked the driver.
Greg told him where they were going and began telling him the fastest way to get there but decided not to. He suddenly wanted to spend as much time alone with Anne as he could. She was smiling at him again.
"So, what do you do in the lab?" she asked.
"Mostly DNA analysis," he answered. "But what I'd really like to do is direct," he quipped. Much to his satisfaction, she got his joke and laughed.
"How did you stand school?"
"What do you mean?"
"How many honors classes did you have to take in high school? And what about advanced placement? I couldn't have handled that. That's why I'm a business nerd."
It was Greg's turn to laugh. He'd never heard anyone outside of his field or computer engineering refer to him or herself as a nerd.
"I dunno," he said. "I just . . . It fascinates me. Following the evidence and junk," he said.
"And junk?" she asked with another small laugh.
"I use the word junk like a term of endearment when it comes to my work. I love it and I hate it all at once."
She laughed again and then simply smiled at him.