Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

Kate Beckett should have known that there would be trouble the instant his head had popped up over the partition in the ladies' room at the precinct.

She'd gone in there—she'd had every right to, since she's a female and a member of the 12th—to read a bit of Heat Wave. Specifically, the sex scene to which that weird Agent Gray, Castle's alleged CIA guy, had alluded. More than alluded. He'd said straight out how how racy it was. So there she'd been, minding her own business in the cramped stall, leafing through the book. And it really had been her business, is her business, since Castle has been following her around for months, constantly sticking his nose in where it doesn't belong, to get background material for his goddamn book. It totally pisses her off, even though he does have a great-looking nose and her own nose has involuntarily reminded her on numerous occasions just how good he smells. Amazingly good. But of course he has all that money to throw around to make sure he that smells good.

She should have known.

"It's on page 105, by the way," Castle had said, appearing unexpectedly over the partition between her stall and the next one, looking down at her and the open book in her hand. WTF? He'd barged into the ladies room? He'd blindsided her, and she'd been so lame trying to pretend she wasn't reading. Then he'd said that Agent Gray—and speaking of lame, how lame is that obviously fake name for a spy?—was right, the sex is "steamy." And then he'd left. Just left her there, scrunched up in the stall, blushing and flustered and mortified. Once he was gone, she'd read page 105. Oh, no. No, no, no. She'd closed Heat Wave, hidden it in her bag, pulled herself together, and returned to her desk. At least he'd left the premises, hadn't been standing around there smirking.

Beckett had gone home soon after. As soon as she'd stepped into her apartment, she'd stomped to the kitchen. Coffee would help, it always helped. While she'd waited for the water to come to a boil, she'd simmered. Her blood must have been 210 degrees. That's 99 degrees in Celsius, she'd thought idly, wishing that she were in some part of the world that used Celsius, which is almost all of it. At least 190 countries. How far away from this hell could she get? How much vacation time did she have? She'd go online, buy a ticket to Australia or Madgascar, grab her passport and a bag and go. Wait for it all to blow over. Or maybe never come back.

She'd spent most of the weekend trying to purge page 105 from her memory, but it hadn't worked.

And then it had gotten worse. Much, much, worse. On Sunday evening she'd been lying on her sofa in yoga pants and a sweat shirt, The New York Times in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. She'd saved the Arts & Leisure section for last because it's her favorite, and she'd been contentedly reading until she'd seen the enormous Barnes & Noble advertisement splashed across two full pages. There was the announcement, set in large boldface type and displayed in a box so that it was impossible to miss, that Richard Castle would be signing copies of his latest book, Heat Wave. "Sure to sizzle at the top of the bestseller lists!" Publisher's Weekly had said. She'd closed her eyes before proceeding, ground her teeth, and resumed her painful survey of the paper. That's when she'd hit the bad-luck trifecta. 1) He'd be at Barnes & Noble's Union Square store, which is just a few blocks from the precinct. 2) He'd be there tomorrow evening. 3) He wouldn't just be signing, he'd be reading. As in reading aloud to the assembled hordes of slavering fans. And probably every single person from the precinct who isn't on duty.

"I'm gonna kill you, Castle," she'd said to the small photo of him in the ad. "I'm going to fucking kill you."

She'd slept fitfully, and on Monday morning she has to devote extra time to her makeup, trying to conceal the dark circles under her eyes. Castle walks off the elevator at the precinct two hours after she does, bearing two coffees—one of which he places on her desk—and a box of doughnuts.

"Good morning, all," he says, so cheerily that she wants to arrest him for unwarranted jollity. "I've brought two dozen doughnuts, including the seasonally-appropriate pumpkin-frosted ones, and an invitation."

"To your Hallowe'en party?" Ryan asks hopefully.

"That'll come later, I promise. No, this is to my book reading and signing tonight, right in the neighborhood Barnes and Noble. And in here"—he holds up a large envelope and shakes it slightly—"I have coupons for a free book for each one of you. I'll just put this all in the break room."

The break room, huh. She'd like to break him right about now, despite the coffee he just gave her, not to mention pumpkin-frosted doughnuts, which she knows he knows are her weakness.

"Thanks, man, that's nice," Espo says.

"Also, I'm not sure that I mentioned it before, but I won't have the pleasure of your company this week and next because I'm off on a book tour first thing tomorrow. And I need today to get ready, so I'll just say goodbye and I hope to see you all tonight."

"Count on it, Castle," Ryan says.

"Mftu," LT says, his mouth full of glazed doughnut. " 'scuse me. I'll be there. Thanks."

"Thanks," Beckett says, trying not to choke. "See you in a couple of weeks."

He stops, looking surprised, just as she hoped he would. "You're not coming tonight?"

"Sorry, Castle," she picks up her phone. "I have a hundred and five things to do. Can't make it." She punches in her own home number and begins to talk about forms she needs and what does the nonexistent person on the end of the line mean that they're out of stock? She's still participating in this one-way conversation when he gets in the elevator and disappears from view.

That evening Beckett's in a funk. The thing is, except for page 105, she loves the book. Not only that, but she wants to hear him read it in that deep, honeyed voice of his, the voice that can turn her to mush, that can make unmentionable parts of her very, very warm. She pours herself a glass of wine and looks out the window. "He makes me crazy in the worst way," she tells her reflection, and takes a sip of Burgundy. "He makes me crazy in the best way." She is the very definition of conflict, and decides to look at the infamous page again. She sits in a chair, her glass on the table next to her, and flips open the book.

"One of his hands began to reach for her blouse but hesitated." Oh, right, like Castle—yeah, yeah, in the book it's Jameson Rook, as if everyone doesn't know that he's really Castle—would ever hesitate to unbutton her blouse. "She clutched it and placed it on her breast." Oh, God. And all the tonguing and the nibbling. And then she—Nikki—straddled him and ripped her blouse open and the buttons went flying? Oh, please. And then after his fingers had ridden "the slick of perspiration above the dampness of her bra" he unhooked the front clasp?

She throws Heat Wave across the room. Everyone, but everyone, is going to give her unspeakable grief for this. Ask her how long she's been sleeping with Castle. And, oh, no. Her father. Her dad is going to read this? Yes, of course he's going to.

Who does Castle think he is? Had he even thought at all about how people they know, people they work with, would react to this? How she, his so-called muse, would react? No, he hadn't. Her life is going to be hell.

The hell begins on Tuesday morning and lasts throughout the week. To paraphrase page 105 again—and by now she has it memorized—he has no idea. And how dare he? she mentally splutters. How dare he co-opt the line she'd used on him after their first case? "You have no idea." That was private, goddam it.

She finds Post-its on her computer, asking what kind of tequila she recommends. Someone leaves a gift bag on her chair, and when she peeks in she sees a lacy, front-closing bra. Conversation stops whenever she walks by a group of cops, and begins again after she's a few steps past. On Wednesday, when she's just finished her shift, a tidal wave begins.

"Have an extraordinary evening," the desk sergeant says.

"Thanks. You, too," she replies, a little taken aback by his choice of adjective. And then he looks right at her, winks, and goes back to his ledger. What was that about?

Extraordinary is what it's about. She writes something on the murder board and Karpowski says, "Extraordinary, Beckett." Extraordinary this, extraordinary that. And then she comes out of the ladies room and hears a patrolman ask his partner as they're walking down the hall, obviously not aware that she's right behind them, "How extraordinary do you think she is?"

That does it. She doesn't like the leering tone of the rookie's voice. "Donovan," she hisses. "And Jefferson. In interrogation one. Now."

The trio enters the room and she pulls down the blinds. "Sit," she commands. The two officers look sick.

"Extraordinary? You want to tell me what you meant by that?"

"Uh," Jefferson says.

"You, Donovan. I'm asking you."

"I was just, you know. It's in the dedication."

"The dedication?"

"Of the book. You know. Where Castle called you extraordinary. Said 'To the extraordinary K.B.' "

She's glad that she's got five years or so on this guy, and a lot of experience in hiding her emotions and in thinking fast. She hasn't seen the dedication because it's not in the galley that Castle gave her. He called her extraordinary? That's amazing. Overwhelming. Her heart is melting. She hopes the boys in blue can't see her swallowing hard. And now she thinks hard and makes the mental leap.

"And so you want to know if I'm extraordinary in the sack, is that it?"

"No, no!"

"I know a lie when I hear and see it, Donovan. You're a boatload of tells right now. So pay close attention to what I'm saying. Do not ever, ever, speak like that about me or any other woman in this precinct again, got it? It's unprofessional and worse. I should send you to the boys' room and make you wash out your mouth with soap."

"Sorry, Detective."

"Duly noted. You understand that Heat Wave is a work of fiction, right? And just for the record? There is nothing, and I mean nothing with a capital N, going on between Castle and me. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Dismissed."

She goes back to the bullpen and tells Espo and Ryan that she's taking half an hour of personal time. It's personal, all right. She's personally going to Barnes & Noble where she will personally pick up Heat Wave and personally read the dedication. Since there's an enormous poster of the book jacket and an entire table of copies right inside the front door, she's in and out of the store in seconds. Wow. The whole dedication. "To the extraordinary KB and all my friends at the 12th." Just wow. But then people like Donovan read page 105 and suddenly put a very different spin on the dedication. Ruin it. Shit.

Using the nineteen minutes she has left, she sits on a Union Square bench in the warm autumn sun and thinks. A plan is bubbling up. A simple plan. She's going to talk to Castle. She's not letting him off the hook for this, no way. She uses her phone to check his website; aha, there's his tour schedule. Saturday, Washington DC. He finishes his appearance at six, and she's banking on his going straight back to his hotel. But which hotel? She books a roundtrip ticket on Amtrak and heads back to work, equanimity restored. At least for now.

On the train to Washington she compiles a list of places that Castle could be staying in, and narrows the list to six. She finds it on the second call; she'd thought he might choose it because it's the sister hotel of one he always uses in Chicago. The one that brings you a goldfish in a bowl in case you're lonely. He's told her about that a few times.

"Hotel Monaco, how may I help you?"

"May I speak to Richard Castle, please? He's a guest."

"Richard Castle?"

"That's right."

"One moment, I'll connect you."

Beckett ends the call and makes a note of the address. Good. She has some time to kill, and uses it to visit the National Gallery of Art, since she hasn't been there in years. At 6:10 she takes a seat in the lobby of his hotel, her eye on the door. Seven minutes later, he strolls in, but doesn't see her. She follows him to the bank of elevators. Oh, damn, why does he have to be wearing that aftershave? The one that makes her knees wobble. And that blue shirt. As soon as he pushes the UP button she says, from directly behind him, "Hi, Castle."

"Beckett?" He very nearly gives himself whiplash. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, if you let me into your suite—I assume you have a suite?"

He nods but doesn't manage to speak.

She looks coolly at him. "If you invite me in I'll explain it to you."

TBC