Entrées & Luncheon Dishes

As usual, don't own psych, don't pretend to, like playing in the sandbox, TPTB own everything, I got nuthin', no infringement intended, yadda, yadda.

Juliet O'Hara, decorated veteran of the Santa Barbara Police Force had faced down the most hardened criminals, the most strung out junkies… she'd even faced down death itself—admittedly, with a subsequent breakdown, but in the moment, she'd barely flinched—however, nothing had ever terrified her quite as much as her current foe.

"Oh, come on, O'Hara."

"Shut up, Carlton," she muttered, still glaring at her intended target.

"Well, it's not going to take care of itself—either you do it, or I will."

"The hell you will. This one's mine."

"So you keep saying, but I'm not seeing any actual action happening."

"Carlton, I swear to God, if you don't stop talking—"

"You'll what? Nail me with a stony glare? I don't see that working any great wonders on your current victim."

"Lest you forget, partner, I am holding a deadly weapon."

"Mine's bigger," he taunted with that arrogant sing-song in his voice that used to drive her bananas, but these days, tended to make her roll her eyes if she was in a bad mood or more often than not, simply grin and shake her head.

"That's only because you have those freakishly large hands," she shot back, allowing herself a sidelong glimpse of said hands. Not freakish, really. The palms themselves were proportionate to the rest of his build and while the fingers were ridiculously long, they were strong and graceful and gave a lovely elegance to his hands without rendering them in the least bit feminine.

Not that she'd devoted any time to thinking about this. Not at all. It was just a culmination of observations gleaned over the years. No surprise, really, that she knew her partner's hands almost as well as she knew her own.

"O'Hara, seriously—this isn't that hard."

"What, you've done it?"

As Carlton remained uncharacteristically quiet, she finally looked directly at him, the answer to her question written clearly across his face and in the fact that he wouldn't directly meet her gaze.

"I cannot believe you did it," she exclaimed.

"Only just once," he protested, raising his hands in surrender, the kitchen lights reflecting off the boning knife he held, the silver glints matching the silver scattered throughout his dark hair.

"Well, if you can do it, then I can, too." She turned back to the kitchen island and her nemesis.

"Isn't what I've been saying all along?"

"It's different now," she muttered, eyeing the chicken carcass resting on the maple cutting board. "Now it's personal."

The mocking tone returned to his voice as he drawled, "Would it make you feel better if we raced?"

Oh … She knew he was just being sarcastic, but his offhand challenge coupled with the fact that she now knew he'd practiced boning a chicken brought every competitive instinct she possessed to the fore.

Leaning an elbow on the granite surface, she studied her partner. "What're the stakes?"

Both eyebrows rose towards his hairline. "Are you serious?"

"Dead."

His eyes narrowed, the brilliant blue reduced to mere slits as he clearly began considering her challenge. "Loser buys morning coffee for a month?"

Juliet considered the offer, then nodded. "Agreed." As she crossed to the refrigerator to retrieve the second chicken they'd bought the day before, she heard Carlton behind her, opening a cabinet without hesitation and pulling out another cutting board, followed by the slide of the drawer where she kept the latex gloves, after three months nearly as comfortable in her own kitchen as she was.

A deeply comforting thought, especially considering that after all these months, she still had to remind Shawn where she kept the toilet paper and dreaded whenever he offered to "help" unload the dishwasher, knowing she'd never find anything in its proper place.

There was room for it, Jules and besides, don't you think it might have wanted a change of scenery? Make some new friends?

It's a stainless steel skillet, Shawn. And you put it in the pantry. Behind the flour.

Segregation, Jules? I'm shocked. And somewhat dismayed. But hey, since you've got the flour out, you think you might want to make some pineapple pancakes?

I don't have pineapple.

Yeah, you do. When I did the grocery shopping for you, I stocked up on some staples you were clearly lacking.

That would explain the Fruity Pebbles and GoGurts. But I didn't see any pineapple.

Well, the pantry was full, so I put it in that cabinet.

With the cleaning supplies and insect repellents? Shawn!

Annnnnd we're back to the whole segregation thing. Really, Jules, you have to be more open-minded. Is this rigid mindset what you really want your children growing up with? I'd expect it of Lassie's children, that is, if he ever gets to be with his woman without the benefit of bulletproof glass between them for long enough to procreate.

She still needed to fix the dent in the wall, she mused, recalling the conversation that had ended with her hurling the can of pineapple and his ducking, just in time. After he'd expressed predictable outrage and confusion, she'd gotten it through his thick skull that teasing Lassiter about his relationship with Marlowe, even in absentia, was cruel. And in a rare moment of Zen-like calm and sincerity for Shawn, he'd made the observation that ever since Marlowe and Lassiter had been together, he'd noticed the older man had been less hair-trigger and far slower to anger on the whole.

As Juliet had fought back an odd sensation that was most assuredly not jealousy, Shawn had gone on to add that it seemed in the last three months in particular, Lassiter's mood had been downright cheerful and that frankly, it was mildly disconcerting.

He'd then, in true Shawn fashion, followed it with some smart-ass comment about secret weddings and conjugal visits that Juliet only half-heard, still mulling Shawn's "last three months in particular," comment.

It could be coincidence, after all, that Shawn's observation coincided with the same period during which she and Carlton had been cooking together. Yeah, it probably was. It wasn't as if she and Carlton discussed his relationship with Marlowe, after all, and her relationship with Shawn only ever came up within the context of work-related situations. It was as if they'd made the tacit decision that their cooking time—which included their shopping time on Saturdays, which also now included spending time doing any prep work necessary for the next day's recipe, and sometimes extending into having coffee or wine afterward, depending on whether she'd made plans with Shawn or not—were reserved just for them and their cooking adventures and any of the various topics that tended to branch from there. Which were wildly varied, when she thought about it. The man she'd once known to have a very limited scope of interests had turned out to be genuinely curious about any and everything. Which had a way of making for lovely, long conversations over their meals. And while sometimes his opinions tended to make her want to smack him solidly upside the head, at the same time, they did force her to think, in order to refute them.

She couldn't remember the last person she'd so enjoyed arguing with.

"So, O'Hara, you going to keep staring at that bird as if you expect it to debone itself or are you chickening out?"

Rolling her eyes, she plopped Carlton's chicken on the cutting board in front of him. "Chickening out, really?"

"If the wing fits—"

"Dear God, stop, please," she begged, even as giggles threatened to erupt. "Not fair, Carlton."

"All's fair in love and war, O'Hara." He smiled that full-out, cheeky, completely delighted smile that had only ever made the rare appearance at work but that in the last three months, had become increasingly frequent—at least on Wednesdays, Sundays, and many Saturdays. And that had started making her catch her breath whenever it crossed his face. In surprise, she told herself, simply because it was still so new.

"Oh, you are so on, Lassiter," she retorted and if her voice was a little more higher pitched than normal, then she could put it down to adrenaline. Her hand poised over the kitchen timer, she glanced at him standing alongside her, knife at the ready. "Go!"

The timer's ticking acted like the bell for Pavlov's dog, sending her into the same zone she went into when assembling and disassembling her weapon. With a sure stroke, she cut along the chicken's backbone, pulling the meat away with swift, short cuts and her fingers, recalling in her mind's eye, the illustrations from the book and Julia's concise directions. Completely unaware of Carlton's progress, yet utterly aware of his presence beside her, she worked steadily, disengaging first one breast, then the other, removing the skin, and even flattening them with the side of her blade at Julia's urging, creating the perfect supremes to be used in the De Volaille Aux Champignons that was on tap for today's dinner.

"Done!" Her knife hit the board with a triumphant smack as she looked over at Carlton, still in the process of removing the skin from the second breast. Juliet waited for him to finish, same as she had, by flattening the breasts, placing his knife down on the board, and stripping the latex gloves off.

"I concede the battle, madam," he admitted with yet another version of that beautiful smile, the one that made tiny lines fan from the corners of his remarkable eyes.

"You concede?" she repeated, definitely wanting to hear him say it again. Just to make sure she hadn't imagined it. Maybe with another smile.

He granted her silent wish, smiling again as he said, "Yes, O'Hara, I concede. You won, fair and square, not that I had any doubt whatsoever."

She launched herself at him, chanting, "I won, I won, I won!" between gasping, triumphant laughs.

Propping himself on a nearby stool, Carlton caught her as he laughed along with her. "Yes, I believe we covered this already, O'Hara. You won."

"I won." Breathless, she leaned in to kiss his cheek, her mouth glancing against the corner of his as she lost her balance.

They both froze—Carlton's hands tightening on her waist to steady her—Juliet's hands curled into the fabric of his shirt, not so much for balance, but out of sheer surprise. From finding her mouth pressed even incidentally against her partner's. And even more so, at the pure intensity of the desire that gripped her—the knowledge that incidental was the least of what she wanted.

For long moments they remained still, her lips half on his cheek, half on his mouth, the both of them breathing shallowly and slowly as his hold changed, loosened, but only just enough for her to pull away if she wanted.

She wasn't pulling away.

And neither was he.

However, he was also clearly leaving whatever happened next up to her.

Slowly, tentatively, she moved her head in the smallest increments, feeling the texture beneath her lips shift from beard-roughened to firm, maybe slightly chapped, but soft for all that. Like a puzzle piece, her mouth slid into place, seamlessly finding a comfortable fit against his For long moments she remained there, exploring the sharp, defined bow of the upper lip and the full, surprisingly sensual curve of the lower, simply through touch. Only when she felt the tremor in his hands did she allow herself to lean forward more completely, increasing the pressure of her lips to his as her hands traveled from chest to shoulders, finally finding purchase in his hair. Molding herself to him and silently communicating that it was now his turn—he could explore.

Juliet, had she ever given it a thought before this moment, might have imagined that giving a man like Carlton Lassiter free rein would be an invitation for his natural aggression and impatience to take over. But he surprised her yet again, moving every bit as slowly as she had, angling his head to one side, deepening their connection, the very tip of his tongue emerging and doing nothing more than tracing the outline and seam of her lips, begging only the slightest of entrances.

Even when one hand left her back and rose to pull her hair free of her ponytail, he remained utterly gentle and completely in control, though the tension in his thighs where they held her steady and the trembling of the hand still on her back communicated that it wasn't without effort. And still he moved slowly, combing his fingers through her hair, sparking a heated tingling along her scalp before delicately tracing the shell of her ear, a sensation that would be ticklish under any other circumstances but almost unbearably erotic in this one.

I would do anything he asked right now.

The thought broke through the sensual fog, resonating with the clarity of the mission's bells of a Sunday morning. She should've felt alarmed. Should've drawn back, appalled that something that had started out as an innocent gesture of friendship had evolved into something decidedly not innocent yet still as pure as anything she'd ever experienced. Yet instead of pulling away in horror or shame, however, she found herself leaning more fully into Carlton, one hand leaving his hair to snake around his back and hold him more closely. Because superseding even the intense desire driving her to do anything he asked, was the desire to not let go.

Judging by how his arms tightened around her, he felt the same.

And she couldn't bring herself to feel anything but relief and a renewed sense of yes.

There was no telling how long they stood there, wrapped in and around each other, content to do nothing more than kiss despite the desire roiling just below the surface. Finally, however, he eased back, his hands—those graceful, strong hands—framing her face. Silently, he gazed down at her, his eyes the exact color of the perfect winter's day—the kind where the skies were endless and the weather just crisp enough to make a body want to stay inside, curled up by a fire.

"I've wondered for the longest time what that would be like."

His voice was low, an unfamiliar husky quality coloring the words as his thumb traced her still-tingling lips, soothing the heated, abraded skin surrounding them.

"I think I have, too," she replied, not surprised to hear the same quality in her own voice.

"You understand I've wondered about more, right?"

She nodded, not interested in playing coy or disingenuous.

With a sigh, he pulled her close once more, his cheek resting on her hair.

"I think what we need to do now, though, is finish making our dinner. Treat this like every other Sunday dinner we've enjoyed for the last three months."

"But Carlton," she began, her voice muffled against the fine cotton of his shirt, then stopped, savoring the warmth of his skin through the fabric and the rapid, steady beating of his heart beneath her cheek. Carefully, she spread the fingers of one hand across his chest, as if trying to capture and hold just that little bit of him. Because she knew—he was drawing away. He was going to be all honorable and decent and act as if none of this had ever happened.

A cold shard of fear pierced her chest at the thought.

"Juliet—I'm not going anywhere." His hand rose to cover hers on his chest. "I promise. I just need us to revert to something more normal before I do something really stupid."

She tried to pull away, but he only let her go far enough for their gazes to meet. "Making love to me would be stupid?" Because there was no point in beating around the bush. They both knew it.

"Not for me," he admitted with that endearing half-grin that took years off him. "Making love to you would probably be the smartest thing I've ever done. But it would be stupid for you. Not to mention, unfair, given the circumstances. And we both know it."

"You could let me make up my own mind, you know," she grumbled even as she relaxed into his embrace.

"And what would your mind say? Really?"

Damn him for knowing her almost better than she knew herself.

"That we should make dinner." She sighed as she pulled away and this time, he let her go, though not without considerable regret reflected in his eyes.

Damn. Him.

Part of her wished he would be that guy—the one who would reach out and take exactly what he wanted without a second thought for anyone or anything else. Thing was though, that guy would let go just as readily as he took. Go on to the next thing. The bigger part of her understood she wanted Carlton Lassiter just as he was—the guy who, when he took, would take for keeps and never, ever let go.

Given all that had happened, the rest of their evening nevertheless went surprisingly smoothly. They easily fell into their usual rhythms and patterns, preparing and consuming their meal, enjoying their conversation, and if there was maybe a little more awareness—an indefinable electric charge—then it just made the evening that much more interesting. Infused everything they did with an air of mystery that only made Juliet want more.

But she couldn't have more. Not yet.

They lingered at the door, temptation weaving between them in teasing, quicksilver bursts as they discussed the next day's weather and softball practice and her upcoming weapons recertification. Anything but what they both really wanted to talk about. It wasn't until he looked down at her and asked, "So for tomorrow, a redeye with extra cream and sugar?" that all of the evening's emotion finally overwhelmed her. She leaned forward into his arms, certain without a doubt that he would be there to hold her up. After resting her forehead against his chest long enough to absorb the feel of his heartbeat, knowing that she'd use the memory of it to lull her to sleep tonight, she lifted her head and pressed her mouth to his in a kiss that was as much sweet and comforting as it was loaded with sensuality and promise.

"I'll talk to Shawn soon," she whispered.

He nodded as he drew back and cupped her cheek in his hand, his thumb once more tracing her lips. "Okay."

When he didn't say anything more, she swallowed hard. "And what about Marlowe?"

The porch light glinted off the silver in his hair and turned his eyes an opaque, unreadable blue.

"I ended it with her a month ago." He leaned forward and gave her one last, fleeting kiss. "Sleep well. I'll see you tomorrow morning."

Sleep well? Fingers digging into the wood of the doorjamb, she stared at the taillights of his car as they disappeared down the street.

Sleep well?

Was he freaking kidding?

Not only was she coming to grips with the fact that by all indications she'd broken her biggest rule and had in all likelihood fallen in love with her partner, but now he was telling her he'd broken up with his girlfriend and oh, by the way, sleep well?

That's it. She was going to have to kill him.

After he brought her coffee tomorrow.