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He shows up in the mornings now, with all the other working stiffs. At least that's what Megan, my morning employee tells me as she hands over the shift one afternoon. I gave up mornings when I bought the joint and as much as I miss our late night chats, I'm not about to give up my beauty rest for him.
So I'm surprised when the bell above the door rings and it's Rick. He looks good.
Damn good, I think as he struts in late one afternoon. It's not just his usual effortless and handsome self, but something a little extra. He's clean shaven and dressed to kill; he's looks downright debonair, has lost almost entirely the bad boy persona. It's been almost three months but the happy glimmer that I remember from our last chat is still shining in his eyes.
"Well, well, well. Look who finally decides to grace me with his presence," I sing-song, as he walks over to where I'm restocking the pastries and places a light kiss on my cheek.
"Oh you know, Jess, it's a hard job but I do have an awful lot of bad karma to burn off," he snarks back at me.
He pulls a pair of gloves from his pocket, snaps them on and starts assisting me with the baked goods as though he's just another one of my employees; albeit an awfully well-dressed one.
"Do I even want to know why you carry around the gloves?" I ask with raised brows, imagining all kinds of unseemly reasons.
"Rick Castle," he says with a wide grin, holding out his hand to shake. "Consultant with the N.Y.P.D., Twelfth Precinct. Nice to meet you."
My eyes widen in disbelief and my mouth is probably hanging just a little bit open in shock. I'm having a hard time believing that the man who has been known to change muses as often as he changes his underwear is still persisting with this shadowing gig. Usually his research jaunts last about a week while he sucks down as much information as he can, before he's off and writing, and then onto the next. I had figured when I last saw him that the effervescent aura he was giving off was related to some new flavor of the month. His usual; a busty blonde or maybe some simpering redhead, a vapid brunette.
But maybe he is really just digging the police work. He'd looked almost... proud... when he pronounced his consultant role.
"So, the usual?" I inquire, standing and brushing the crumbs from my slacks.
"You know it. Also, um... a latte. Make it a..." He hesitates and scans the menu board, his face serious and contemplative.
"Anytime today, Ricky."
"A... a caramel. Yeah, caramel. Thanks, Jess."
"Meeting someone?" I ask. This is becoming more and more intriguing; it's definitely a lady with that sugary order.
The milk gurgles and hisses as the steam quickly foams to the top of the beaker. I could swear for a second that I see a hint of indecision on his face. As though he isn't quite sure he wants to share. His eyes cloud over and suddenly he's paying me absolutely no attention.
Interesting indeed.
Rick is usually somewhat of an over-sharer, his mouth often revealing details that in retrospect he'd probably rather forget. I've seen that kind of hesitation on his face only a handful of times; twice before that I can recall immediately.
It means something serious is churning in that enigmatic mind of his.
The first time I'd seen that look was fifteen years ago, when he'd sheepishly sat himself on the counter one late night and whispered almost inaudibly, "Meredith is pregnant, I think I'm going to marry her."
After a none to graceful spit-take and a good long choking spell, I'd told him in as nice a way as I could muster that it was going to end in disaster. I'd tried to talk him out of it, tried to make him see reason and implored him to at least move in with her first. He'd just nodded his head and solemnly told me that he needed to try and do it properly. For the baby; to give him or her a chance to have what he never had. I had reminded him that Martha hadn't done too terrible a job with him and that he'd turned out quite well. He'd shaken his head and stubbornly ignored my advice.
The second time I'd seen it was two years later, when he'd brought in a giggly and adorable Alexis and set her up at a table with a coloring book and crayons before declaring quietly to me, "I think I'm going to go for full custody."
That time I'd hugged him tight and assured him that he had nothing to worry about.
"I'm scared I'm going to mess her up," he'd confessed. "I'm Richard Castle, playboy extraordinaire. Can I really do any better a job than Mer' at raising her?"
I'd tried to lighten the mood by reminding him that he was, at heart, still just Rick Rogers. (Mr-Freaking-Rogers-Fer-Christ's-Sakes!) How on earth could he possibly mess her up?
Alexis had chosen that moment to wander over for an unsolicited cuddle. He'd ruffled her hair; I'd swiped a tear from his cheek and ruffled his too.
"See? Told you so, you big doofus," I'd grinned. "She loves you, you love her, and you've got nothing to worry about. You're a great father, Rick. Never doubt that. So go and fight for what's yours."
And so here we are again. Rick has something big going on in his head and I, quite frankly, have no idea how it could possibly be connected to a shadowing gig with the N.Y.P.D.
I tamp down the grounds, eyeing him as he shifts his weight from left to right. I wait quietly as the dark roast is forced through the spout, revel in the intoxicating and delicious aroma as the espresso flows down into the rich, steamed milk.
"Rick?" I prod. His eyes clear and a smile blooms on his face. I take a tooth-pick and begin drawing a flower pattern into the foam on top of his cappuccino, waiting him out. I draw out the process, flicking my wrist deftly to create little veins and imperfections onto the leaves now adorning the sepia and creamy white foam. I'm not yet willing to let him escape; not before he at least gives me a little something to chew on.
"The latte's for Detective Beckett." His mouth quirks into an uneven and barely there smile; his eyes gleam, merry and bright.
"Ah..."
I'd know that smile anywhere. Richard Castle is playing coy. I cross my arms across my body, raise a brow and give him a stern look that all but screams, "Dish!"
But it's all becoming clear anyway. This detective is a woman, and she has obviously taken his fancy.
"Oh, shut up," he moans. "It's not like that."
"Right," I say, clearly not believing a word of it. "So tell me what it is like." I smile, reaching over to squeeze his arm as I load the beverages onto a disposable carrier.
"I'll do you one better," he says. He digs around in his laptop bag and with lowered lashes he hands over a well fingered sheaf of pages. I think I might be able to detect even a hint of a blush on the apples of his cheeks.
Well, well. It seems Richard Castle has indeed got something big on his mind.
I would even go so far as imply he might be falling in love. He had walked around with a similar cast of pink to his cheeks before it had all gone to hell in a hand-basket with Kyra.
"Ooh, new fodder!" I exclaim, grabbing the pages with undisguised glee.
"Just read it and... tell me what you think," he says with a bashful shrug of his shoulders.
Rick Castle, nervous about something he's written? It's been a really long while since that has happened. It must be serious.
He slides a ten onto the counter and quickly strides, almost runs, out of the 'Hut. Before I can even shout out a goodbye, he's left.
I decide it's well past time for my own coffee break. I grab a muffin, quickly snag a seat in the back and begin to read.
"It's raining men."
Nikki Heat didn't even turn. She just sighed his name. "Rook."
"Hallelujah." He held onto his smile until she finally looked at him, shaking her head. "What? It's OK, I don't think he can hear me."
She wondered what sort of karma payback it was for her to be saddled with this guy. It wasn't the first time that month she had wondered it, either. The job was hard enough if you were doing it right. Add a reporter with a mouth playing make-believe cop and your day just got a little longer. She backed up to the long flower boxes that deigned the perimeter of the outdoor cafe and looked up again.
Rook moved with her. "I would have been here sooner except somebody didn't call me. If I hadn't phoned Ochoa, I would have missed this."
"It's just tragedy upon tragedy, isn't it?"
"You wound me with your sarcasm. Look, I can't research my article on New York's finest without access, and my deal with the commissioner specifically states—"
I read all three chapters he had handed over in impressively short amount of time and sit quietly, smiling to myself. The sexual tension had almost oozed off of the pages, and the easy banter and fast-paced action had compelled me to keep reading, ignoring the shop, until there was simply no more to read. I'm left hanging, excited about his latest venture and in need of another Rook and Nikki fix.
It's obvious that he's drawn heavily from his experiences with this Detective Beckett woman and the faraway look in his eye, the pinking of his cheeks, is now making a whole lot more sense.
Well, well, well. It seems like Ricky Boy has met his match.