Chapter 3
That night, Kate found herself in a hot bath reading Summer Dark. She'd lost count of how many times she'd read through it. She couldn't stop herself. Every time she read it, she saw more, heard his voice, saw an angle she hadn't previously found. He unfolded in her mind, a vivid picture of him in a dark, quiet beach house, lonely and lovesick and desperate, and her throat ached with the pain and beauty of it all.
He must have written straight through from beginning to end, because she could trace him through it. The first poems were angry, desperate, frustrated. They made her throat tighten and she didn't want to read them but she had to. Because she did this to him.
But later his words got softer. He got calmer. The anger melted. All that remained was love.
I kissed you
(silver stars hot flush sudden shock oh God lips tongue)
once
(you fit in my arms)
just then
(your body fits mine)
you stole my breath and gave me yours
(I'll never breathe again without tasting you)
But let Beauty beware
because when I kiss you again
it'll be for keeps
They all made her heart twist in her chest, clench tight, and she just couldn't breathe normally. But there was one that made her flush. Not that she didn't know how he felt, but – to read it on paper – to think of him imagining it –
You've never been mine
I've never touched you
made you shiver
watched you blush
made you beg
made you gasp
(I think of you too much and not enough)
But I would be yours
and I want to have you
(all of you)
against me, hot and desperate
and feel you dissolve into me
and watch your eyes roll back
and finally watch you sleep because
I don't want anything but all of you
There was one she couldn't think about too much. She just – she just couldn't.
I want all of you
everything
forever
and ever
and I want to be yours
(for as long
as we both
shall live)
Tracing the progression through the book was one thing. But the ending? He didn't bother hiding anything by the time he was done. He'd figured no one would read it anyway. She knew he'd lost any inhibition by the time he'd written the ending. He'd had nothing to conceal.
On the last two pages, words were sparse. He didn't have much left to say.
On the first:
She will bring him good, and not evil, all the days of her life.
Proverbs 31:12
And the last was from him again, a single line:
I love you.
Typical Castle. Blunt and straightforward and a hell of a lot braver than she was.
After she climbed out of the bathtub, she got ready for bed, keeping the book in her line of sight the whole time even as she rolled her eyes at her own patheticness. Kate. Coward. He said he loved you and you can't even admit you heard him say it.
She'd never said the words aloud, even to herself, but Kate had long ago silently accepted that she couldn't say she didn't love Richard Castle more than she'd ever loved anyone.
She curled up in bed, reading the last few pages one last time (all right, three or four more times), unable to stop the fluttery whirl of butterflies that hit her stomach as she read him telling her he wanted to marry her. Castle. He knew how to write. He'd written her a whole book of love letters, even after she broke his heart.
She set the book aside (finally) and hesitated, but finally picked up her phone. She'd found the book less than twenty-four hours ago, but right now she couldn't think about anything else.
Tomorrow was Sunday; she was on call but didn't have to go in unless there was a case.
So after a long moment of pretending she shouldn't, she sent Castle a text. If you're not busy tomorrow, you want to get some lunch?
The response was as quick as always. Your willing slave, Detective. Tell me where and when.
She bit her lip, the smile on her face refusing to fade. Because nothing had really changed. He was still going to follow her around and make idiotic comments to make her laugh. She was still going to roll her eyes at him. And he was still going to look at her with love in his eyes. Because he'd been doing that for a long time.
…maybe she could start by not looking away.