Over the next few weeks, two of the things Briar Rose learned quickly about Frank Reagan were that he was doggedly persistent about what he perceived as matters of honor—given the lengthy negotiations about arranging a Saturday morning to take her shopping was the current case in point—and also that he was prompt. She'd barely managed to peek through the window and grab George's collar before the doorbell rang.

"Hang on!" she called, tightening her grip. George was gentle and friendly, but he was also big. Briar Rose opened the door cautiously, trying to keep her dog from surging forward.

Frank Reagan stood there, unfazed. He gave her a nod, and then extended a hand towards George, who brightened and gave his wrist several appreciative licks. "Borzoi?"

"Uh, yes. So, George, this is Frank," she murmured, and blushed, looking up. "Sorry, it's a habit."

She got that quick little quirk of a smile again, and this time Briar Rose saw dimples bracketing that mustache. "You introduce people to your dog?"

Briar Rose gently tugged George back so that Frank could come into the foyer. "Yes. It . . . helps him gauge who's a friend."

Frank nodded as if this made sense. George's tail was pluming back and forth at having found a dog person. "So, let me get my bags . . ."

He waited patiently, one hand stroking down the Borzoi's back as Briar Rose scooped up her purse and a few of the string bags in the bin by the door. She'd forced herself to stay casual, which for Saturday meant putting her hair into one long braid and the rest of her into jeans and a sweater. Given that the man waiting for her was just as casual—baseball cap, button-down, sweater, jeans and sneakers-made matters easier, and Briar Rose barely remembered the shoe box as she waved him out and told George to guard the house.

"So, the farmer's market at McKinley, then up to eighth and fifty-second," Briar Rose murmured as she buckled up her seatbelt. "By my best guess it shouldn't take more than two hours. Two and a half, tops."

Frank shot her a sidelong look, his grip on the steering wheel. "Should I set my watch?"

Briar Rose returned the glance. "I . . . look, I'm nervous here. You're a busy important man and I don't want to waste any more of your time than I have to, all right?"

It was almost funny to watch him sigh and run a hand down his face; Briar Rose listened to the breath leak out of Frank before he spoke, his tone low and patient. "Doctor Clowderbock—"

"B-Rose," she corrected, "Or Briar Rose. It's easier to say."

"Briar Rose," he amended. "This isn't a waste of my time or yours. You stepped up at the scene of a crime without any hesitation, which is rare in this day and age. You helped to care for a crime victim who ended up being a vital part of a much bigger investigation which saved New York City thousands of dollars. In the course of that you lost a dress that my assistant estimated was probably worth a few hundred. I rarely get to reimburse anyone personally for good deeds done on behalf of the city, so please allow me this chance to thank you."

Once again she felt her face heat up, this time in response to the sincerity of his words. "Did you . . . rehearse that?" Briar Rose asked curiously.

Now he looked a little wary. "Maybe," Frank admitted, glancing in the rear view mirror before pulling out onto 85th.

The McKinley Park Farmer's Market was one of the nicer Saturday errands on her list, and Briar Rose already had an idea of what she wanted even before they'd parked. "Green beans and a few ears of corn; I'm making succotash, and I want to see if they've got any good apples in yet," she murmured, looking at the list on her phone. "Also charcoal biscuits for George if they have any."

"Succotash," Frank echoed absently. "I thought that just came in cans from Libby."

Briar Rose whipped her head up and glared at him. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say what I thought you just said. Seriously—you've never had fresh, real succotash?"

It was faintly hilarious to see such a big man look uncomfortable; Frank looked away, scratching the back of his neck. "Not really. I'm . . . more of a potatoes sort of person."

"Well they have those here too," Briar Rose assured him. "We'll see what's out."

She took her time, doing her best to focus on the offerings, sniffing, weighing, asking questions just as she did every Saturday. Several people at the stalls knew her, and Briar Rose chatted as her string bags began to fill up. Just at the edge of the first row was a huge bin of potatoes, and she watched Frank saunter over to it.

The sign read: Upstate Russets 10lbs/$5.00 and when he reached for his wallet, Briar Rose knew she'd have to intervene. Moving quickly, she cut in front of him so closely he nearly ran into her, but Briar Rose flashed the vendor a quick smile. "Excuse me, but I'm wondering about the Russets?"

"Good eye," the man told her. "Fresh from a co-op up in Garden City, all organic."

"Nice," she murmured, aware of Frank behind her. "So why the high price? Because honestly? I can pick up a ten from the supermarket for three and some change."

The man's expression shifted a little, his mouth curling up a bit. "Ah, but who knows where those are trucked in from? Now you look like a smart shopper and I appreciate that, so how about fifteen pounds for five?"

"Fifteen for five if you throw in one of those heads of cabbage too," Briar Rose countered. "Maybe that little one that probably won't sell otherwise. I'm a regular; just ask Carla."

The man laughed. "I thought so. Deal. Need any onions?"

A little more haggling got her the onions as well and by the time Frank handed the man seven dollars the last of the string bags was bulging.

"That was . . ." Frank began, his voice amused, "impressive. Do you haggle all the time?"

Briar Rose flicked her braid over her shoulder. "Yep. They don't want to have to haul their produce home, and as I said, I'm a regular. I want a bargain but I'm fair about it. And I know produce."

"How?" Frank asked, opening the trunk and neatly setting the string bags.

So Briar Rose told him about growing up Cherry Hollow, West Virginia. "Population five thousand, give or take," she mused. "I swore to myself I was going to get out and live in the biggest city I could find and now . . . well sometimes I think about going back."

"What's stopping you?" he asked, pulling the car out of the parking lot.

"The simple truth that it's not the same place I left," Briar Rose sighed. "I've got some property there that's going to seed even as we speak."

The ride up Eighth was comfortable; they talked about the city and what they liked and disliked about it, about the changes they'd both seen over the years. By the time they crossed Fifty-Ninth though, she realized he was looking concerned.

Already Briar Rose was learning the expressive language of his eyebrows and at the moment Frank was scowling slightly, drawing them down as he looked at the sidewalks. "We're in one of the satellite Chinatowns," he rumbled.

Briar Rose agreed. "Yep. They have one of the best consignment shops in Brooklyn. There. I think we can fit in that spot . . ."

Ten minutes later they stood in front of a little storefront with iron grille work and a green and pink awning over the door. Slightly goofy looking koi decorated the barred windows and a bell tinkled when Rose pushed open the door, the shoebox under her arm.

"Hai!" came a cheerful call. "Yīshēng!"

"Ginnie," Briar Rose exchanged a hug with the round little woman who came out from behind a counter. "How is your mother doing?"

"Better. Much better," Ginnie replied cheerfully. "No more tumor so she is walking again. So good."

"Very good," Briar Rose agreed, and caught Ginnie's glance at Frank. Turning, she noted once again how big he was especially in such a small shop. "Ah, this is my friend, who is, ah, here. With me. So, do you still have that dress?" she rushed, trying not to look as embarrassed as she felt.

Ginnie shifted her slightly suspicious gaze back to Briar Rose. "The Chanel, or the Halston?"

"The Halston's still here?" Briar Rose tried to keep the surprise out of her voice. "I thought it would have been snapped up by now."

"Buyer fell through; wanted free alterations," Ginnie sighed. "Still here. Maybe check them both out?"

"I'm only here for—" Briar Rose began, but Frank interrupted.

"We've come all this way. Maybe we can arrange a . . . two for one?"

Ginnie grinned. "Boyfriend has good idea."

"He's not my boyfriend," Briar Rose called, but Ginnie had disappeared into the back room behind the counter so she turned to stare at Frank.

He stared back, raising his eyebrows a little. "Haggling?" he murmured pleasantly.

Briar Rose huffed. "This is different. We're not talking potatoes here."

He a strangely wistful expression crossed his face. "No, we're not. And I'm sorry the clerk mistook me for Doctor Hatch."

"What?" Confused, Briar Rose blinked but Ginnie had returned with the bagged dresses over her shoulder.

"Take them both to dressing room. He can help if you like."

"No," Briar Rose accepted the dresses. "No he can stay right there. I'm pretty sure this won't take long."

-oo00oo-

It wasn't until they headed back down 8th, and Briar Rose was struggling hard with a whirl of embarrassment, pleasure and awkwardness that she figured out what Frank had meant. She looked at his profile as he drove, noting a very faint pleased look on his face. "Wait a minute. You think Lucas is . . . that I'm involved with him?"

A brief flicker of his mustache confirmed it, and Briar Rose spluttered. "No! Oh lord no, no no. He's smart and funny but just . . . not in this lifetime. That is a thought that needs to be taken out back and shot, Commissioner."

He made one of those little non-verbal sounds. Briar Rose sighed heavily.

"Look. I've had fun today. More than I've had in . . . well, a long time. And honestly, you didn't have to get me both dresses. I blame Ginnie for making it impossible to say no to a great bargain. But I don't want any misconceptions here. I know this is a one-off and Lucas Hatch is not my boyfriend."

"Glad to hear it, especially since he called my assistant three times last week and is right on the verge of being charged with harassment," Frank murmured. "Not the sort of behavior I condone, particularly when I was under a misassumption."

Briar Rose gave a humorless chuckle. "I'll make sure he reels his libido in."

Yes. Her husband and children would appreciate that," Frank pointed out quietly.

That left a little sourness between them, and Briar Rose felt discouraged. It had been a fun morning up until this point and she wasn't sure how to get back on better footing. When they pulled up to her place, she took another breath. "I'm sorry Lucas is being a jackass. I'll talk to him."

"Briar Rose," Frank murmured, and she liked the slow way her name rolled out, "I'm sure he's gotten the message."

He carried the produce in while she took the dresses and once inside, Briar Rose directed him towards the kitchen where they sorted out the potatoes and re-bagged them. "How many potatoes do you eat?" she asked, eyeing the sack.

"My fair share. They're for dinner on Sunday," Frank assured her. "Eight to ten Reagans at any given time will make short work of them."

Briar Rose grinned. "I bet. Mashed?"

"Usually. Sometimes baked, au gratin once in a while," he mused. "It's an Irish thing."

"You ought to try succotash," she teased. "Might give those praties of yours a run for their money. In fact . . ."

And that was how forty minutes later she sent Frank Reagan home with a full crock pot and strict instructions. "Refrigerate overnight. Plug in low for three hours and do not unlock that lid a minute before serving it up."

"Or what? Is it going to shut down the containment grid and let all the ghosts out?" Frank griped back, but she saw the dimples again and smirked back at him.

"Or you won't get the best flavor," Briar Rose finished sweetly. "It's better when it gets a chance to blend. I'm betting the majority of those many Reagans will like it. And if not . . ." she shrugged, "at least they get a good serving of vegetables in before they figured it out."

Frank gave a nod. "Stealthy." He set the crock pot on the floor on the passenger side before closing it and turning to face Briar Rose once more. This time his gaze was softer, and she looked up at him enjoying how relaxed he looked.

"Thank you," he told her quietly. "I wasn't sure how this . . . venture would turn out and it's been surprisingly . . . enjoyable."

"Yes," Briar Rose agreed, shoving her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. "And thank you for the dresses. It's going to be fun figuring out which one to wear to Yo-Yo Ma next month."

He nodded and then seemed to collect himself, straightening up once more. Briar Rose could see him picking up his burdens again, mentally returning to his duties and responsibilities just by the set of his shoulders. Seeing it twisted something in her chest and she couldn't tell if it was sorrow or pride or some strange blend of both.

"The crock pot," Frank murmured. "I'll return it—"

"Your next free Saturday, maybe?" Briar Rose offered. "Hang on to it and we'll figure something out. Um, just one last thing . . ."

She came a little closer, just within the edge of his personal space. "I know this is going to sound weird but can I just . . . touch . . ."

Frank sighed, and bent forward. Briar Rose darted her hand out, stroking her index finger over the shiny thick strands of his mustache, giving a little smirk before yanking her hand back. "Thanks. I've been dying to do that since the day I saw it."

"Usually it's kids," Frank replied in resignation. "They don't believe it's real. What's your excuse?"

"It's sexy," she blurted, blushing.

He stared at her for a beat. "Okay that's not usually the response I get from anyone, especially the kids."

"Good," Briar Rose giggled. "Okay then. Go mash your potatoes and I'll see you again sometime, Frank Reagan."

And the look he gave her all but promised it.