"You must be Kate!" Anita's voice is like honey, a slow-drawl to it that reminds Rick of lazy afternoons and, inexplicably, football games. The woman is a whirlwind, her small stature doing nothing to dissuade a larger than life personality or the need to express her excitement with physical gestures much like the wide hug that she bestows upon a very surprised Kate Beckett.
It's quite an amusing picture that paints itself in front of him, with Beckett towering over their hostess in her four inch heels and therefore having nearly a full foot of height. Still, Kate figures out some way to adjust, bending at the knees to return the hug of a total stranger, confusion swimming in her eyes and a tight smile gracing her mouth.
Even so, she's still beautiful and Rick's grin is genuine when he releases the steady grip on her hand to also give their chef a hug and to ask about her husband and four children in turn. He misses Kate immediately, a small ache taking up residence in his gut that makes him want to snatch her hand back. With such limited contact between them, its absurd how unfamiliar it feels to be without the comforting weight and warmth her fingers clasped by his own.
It makes him wonder what it might be like if he ever has more of her, if his life is destined to be spent waiting for any and all physical contact from the magnificent woman whom he is leading through the doors and into a tastefully decorated room.
Fourteen-Forty is a restaurant in the loosest sense of the word, with ten tables that can configure for a maximum of forty people and provided the back end of the name for the place.
The room is all soft lighting and clean place settings, deep grey tablecloths topped with bone white china and twinkling stainless steel silverware. Each of the tables boasts a small centerpiece with a variation of blooms, arranged in differing configurations that all somehow appeal to both a masculine and feminine sensibility. From his previous dining experience, Rick knows that the menu is equally on par, fusions of Anita's New Orleans upbringing and her husband's Greek influence that mingles spectacularly with years of travel and falling in love with food in all four corners of the world.
Their hands draw back together like magnets, the chocolate brown of Kate's soft curls tipping forward to hide the shy grin that spreads across her face in the small distance that they follow Anita to the table that already holds a bottle of wine and two full glasses. The reluctant grin becomes a full smile when she catches the sight of their waiting table, fingers carefully squeezing at his own in a silent acknowledgment that sends his full heart into a skidding series of thumps, pushing a ghost of a breath out of his mouth when they approach the space meant for only two.
A considerable amount of effort is involved in retrieving Kate's chair from its place under the table with only one hand, but his task proves useful at the wide smile, the teasing flicker of her eyes that display how pleased she truly is that he wishes to be so close to her. Silence and subtext, actions replacing the words that they are both far too scared to say, a partnership built on quiet moments and undeniable chemistry. That tangible element, the very thing that presses against his ribs and keeps Rick slightly off kilter surges forward again as Kate takes her seat, his hands sweeping up to rest across her shoulders, twirling across the curled ends of her hair in a move that has her drawing in a soft, satisfied sigh.
That small sound, the encouragement that it infuses him with is enough to give him the courage to lean forward and give the lightest brush of his lips to the delicate curve of her cheekbone, to linger a fraction longer than he should.
When Rick pulls back, he finds his heart is wholly unprepared for the reaction of his detective. Kate doesn't make a sound, barely even moves, but he's arrested by the softness in her eyes, the emotional depth turning her green eyes darker, stopping his heart for the second time in as many minutes with the complete openness with which she regards him.
If he ever doubted her feelings, how much she cared for him, he finds it completely impossible to remain in question now. And as such, he has to physically restrain himself from leaning forward to capture her mouth with his own and display his own generous feelings.
"Kate," it costs all the air he has to whisper her name, Rick's head bending forward just enough that his forehead brushes against her temple, edges of caramel hair tickling at his cheek. He can smell that familiar hint of cherries, a more subtle infusion of vanilla and coffee that absolutely makes him weak at the knees. And then there's the added gentle press of her lips to his skin, the soft rustle of his hair when she lets go of a shaky breath.
"Not here, Castle," Kate says, voice full of an emotion that he can't name, probably because its a tangled web that has to be on par with the myriad that churn in his gut. It's love and lust, fear and hope, want and desperation. "Soon, but not here," she whispers, lips scraping against his skin with every spoken consonant, warm, slender fingers splayed wide across his jawline. Her thumb rests across the fullness of his lower lip, in a gentle sweep of touch in the same beat that tears seem to clutter the forest green of her eyes.
The questions die on his lips, tipping forward to claim the space between their bodies. It's the the gentlest brush of mouths, but it strikes like a lit match deep in his gut for the four heartbeats that Rick sustains the contact. There is enough of a caress in their kiss to release a quiet groan from Kate, and shaky sighs from each of them when he rises to his feet, fascinated with the deep pink blush painted along her cheeks.