Nearly six weeks later Briar Rose wondered which would come before the other—their first kiss or first fight. The season was well into October now, and while alternate Saturdays were more often the norm, she and Frank were in an odd holding pattern of gentle routine. She enjoyed what time they had, certainly, but with it came some limitations and Briar Rose wasn't sure how she felt about that.
She understood he was a public figure, and that carried a price. They'd already been spotted a few times by a few on-duty police officers and seeing Frank salute and nod was a little startling. He always looked a little sour about it, and Briar Rose took that to mean he wasn't particularly happy about being recognized, which seemed reasonable. The job was already thanklessly long as it was.
Briar Rose didn't touch him. At least in public view. Since the 5k she'd made it a point to keep her hands to herself when they were outside, feeling that would tamp some of the public's curiosity down. Once they returned to her house though, she let herself pat his shoulder or squeeze his forearm as they worked in the kitchen together, prepping what they'd bought from the Farmer's Market. Frank seemed happiest when peeling potatoes or watching her roll out pie crust, patting George under the big worktable table, or just sipping coffee.
"After Greta . . . I couldn't handle the guilt," he admitted one Saturday. "Losing a partner is hard; even more so when their faith in you was their complete world. I . . . let her down."
"And she would have grieved you if you'd been the one killed," Briar Rose pointed out, and by the startled look she could tell Frank hadn't thought of that. "It goes both ways."
"Maybe," he conceded, dandling one of George's ears. "Still . . . I didn't want to go through it again."
Briar Rose nodded, wondering if this conversation was strictly limited to dogs or not. She dropped the rolled crust into the pie plate and began to pat it down, fingers expertly molding the sides to an even thickness all the way around, humming a little.
"Pass me the fork, please," Briar Rose requested. Frank did, watching her press the tines along the edges.
"Briar Rose," he began, and this time his tone was different. She forced herself to stay calm and keep her focus on the crust. "We need to talk."
God, the last four words she wanted to hear.
Briar Rose refused to meet his gaze. "Do we?"
That seemed to throw him for a loop; out of the corner of her eye she watched him glance down at the table for a second. When Frank looked up again, his gaze was soulful.
"I'm not sure how to begin," he admitted. "But the longer I hold off, the harder it is to have a choice. I'm not . . ."
Briar Rose took a deep breath. "You're not sure where this is going; you're not sure you're ready; you're not going to see me again—which is it, Frank? Just spit the words out already."
And there it was, blooming across his slightly weathered face . . . a blush. She'd never seen it on a man but the ruddy tinge was there all right, highlighting his cheekbones.
"I . . ." he stalled, staring at her.
Briar Rose pursed her mouth. "And that's where it stops being a discussion. I get it. You're in a very public, highly dangerous job with long hours and you don't want to hurt me so you think it would be best if we didn't see each other again. I thought this was coming."
"Briar Rose—" he rumbled, brows coming down now.
She held up a floury hand. "No, you don't need to drag it out. I'm a grown woman. No need to explain anything."
"Wait a minute," Frank managed to protest. "That's not . . . that's not how this is supposed to go."
"Frank!" She chuffed, finally pushing the pie dish aside as she turned to face him. "We're not kids. We don't have to get into a shouting match, or, or get all teary about this." Of course the minute she said it, Briar Rose felt her own eyes well up and she blinked hard. "After all, it's not as if . . . as if we had any sort of . . . thing . . . between us . . ."
"That," he growled, "is exactly it! A . . ." he gestured vaguely. "Thing. Relationship. Whatever."
He rose up, taking the two steps around the table to loom over her and Briar Rose felt herself tense up. Not defensively though; something inside her shuddered as he pinned her with his gaze. "Damn it. Briar Rose I'm not good at this. Comes from dealing with a lot more of the negative side of life but it goes like this: I like you. I like this. And you're right—I have an overwhelming job under the unforgiving eye of the citizens of this city. You . . . make life a little less bleak. You and Saturday mornings ease the load."
"Okay," she whispered. It was unexpectedly sweet of him to tell her that, especially since she felt the same way. "Thank you."
"Not done," he warned her. "The problem is I'm just greedy enough to want to take this a little further, and honorable enough to remember it's not all about me."
Briar Rose tried to decipher that, but the very nearness of the man was completely distracting any ability to do so. "Wait, do you want me to break things off with you? Are you putting this on me?"
"No!" he roared, and immediately dropped his tone. "What I'm trying to say . . . ask . . . is, if . . . you are willing . . ." Frank's courage seemed to fail him, and he trailed off, looking perplexed, mustache bristling as he pursed his lips.
"Oh for Pete's sake!" Briar Rose reached up, cupping her hands around his cheeks and pulled his face to hers. The prickly stab of his mustache startled her, but the unexpected heat of his mouth countered it instantly in a clumsy, desperate, amazing kiss. She moaned, felt Frank's groan against her own lips and then she was tugged, hard, into his embrace.
"Wh-what are you doing?" she asked dimly aware of how stupid the question sounded. The problem was that all the sensible parts of her brain had sizzled out, and her body was now throttling every sensation up at light-speed. "This . . . is not . . . how to break up w-with me!"
The only answer from Frank was another growl, this one as that damned mustache scraped along the side of her throat. Instantly Briar Rose's hips wriggled in helpless response grinding against him in a way that made it clear her body was zooming up to eleven. She clutched his shoulders.
"Not. Breaking. Up." He managed in quick grunts as they backed against the table, rattling the pie dish. Briar Rose turned her head to kiss him again, swept up in another magnificent liplock that somehow un-locked into something much more sensual, bristles be damned.
When she pulled back breathlessly, a flicker of colored lights through her kitchen window brought Briar Rose back to hard reality as a police car rolled to a stop in the street outside. She tugged herself out of Frank's grip, fishing frantically for the dishtowel at her waist, wiping her powdery handprints from the sides of his face. "Frank!" came her desperate warning.
He'd seen the patrol car though and was quickly mopping his face and running a hand over his mouth even as he shot her a gaze. "Out of all the Saturdays," Frank groused. To her he added, "They wouldn't be here unless it was urgent. We are not done."
"I don't even know what we are," she shot back, trying not to laugh. She headed down to the front door, catching George and opening it just as the bell rang.
The young patrolman looked startled. "Excuse me, ma'am, but—"
Frank lumbered up behind Briar Rose, settling his ball cap on, not looking at her. "Killigan?"
"Sorry to bust your RDO sir, but that scheduled protest at Foley Park is getting out of hand," the patrolmen in a low voice.
After a few instructions Briar Rose couldn't hear, Frank waved the patrol car off and turned to her, his expression back into professional mode. If it wasn't for the slightest trace of flour on the very edge of his mustache she might have been able to keep a straight face As it was, the hint of burn along the side of her throat was probably going to raise a welt later, she knew.
"Um . . . go. Stay safe," Rose murmured, not sure whether to hug him or just stand there stiffly.
Frank solved the problem for her by brushing a thumb along her cheek. "Not done," he murmured, and added, "Succotash."
She stared as he climbed into his SUV and drove off.
"Succotash?"
-oo00oo-
/FYI. Sunday. There were complaints about no pie./ came the text a few nights later. /MANY complaints./
Briar Rose leaned tiredly against the hallway wall, feeling the sorrowful ache down to her bones. Six hours in surgery. Four units of whole blood.
It was nearly eleven PM.
/Stock up on ice cream as a back-up./
She rubbed her eyes, pushing herself off the wall, trying to decide whether to shower or head home.
/Freezer already full./
/Of what?/
/Not pie./
Suddenly Briar Rose didn't want to do this, not right now. Not when two floors up, Sandra Cortez was in post-op, sedated, her hopes for a normal pregnancy gone. She started to tap something blunt but stopped, staring at the screen.
He didn't know. It wasn't his fault.
/Sorry. V. Bad night./ she managed. /Didn't win this time. Talk to you tomorrow./
Briar Rose climbed out of her scrubs and into her clothes, gathered her purse and headed home. The clear night was frosty, and some of the houses she passed already had pumpkins on their porches. By the time she turned off of Fourth to Eighty-Fifth, she was blinking hard, eyes damp.
And a familiar SUV was there. She pulled up into her driveway, climbing out at the same time he did, moving on stiff legs over to him.
"I said I'd see you tomorrow," Briar Rose tried to chide, but her voice was clumsy with fatigue. Frank reached for her and she let him pull her into his arms.
And she cried. It was easy to do against the front of his jacket, wrapped in his warm embrace with the sad story of Ms Cortez and her double tragedy tumbling out of her between sobs.
He kept holding her, resting his chin on the top of her head, listening. Not saying anything, but tightening his grip when she needed it, loosening it again when she didn't. Briar Rose buried her face in the sweet Frank-scented darkness and took the offered comfort.
When she was ready, she lifted her face, trying to smile, but she knew it was crooked. "It . . . just hit hard. I can be professional most of the time, but sometimes certain situations just get to you."
Frank nodded. "I know."
He followed her up to the porch, making sure she had her keys, and that she turned on a light before he stepped back. Briar Rose turned to look at him in the pale gleam. He reached out to touch her cheek.
"No kiss goodnight?" she wavered, trying to tease but not making hitting the mark.
"There's a time for those sorts of kisses and . . . it's not right now," he rumbled, but he bent forward and pressed a slow tickly benediction on her forehead. "Go get some sleep. Let go as best you can. Text me."
Briar Rose nodded, rubbing her cheek with the heel of one hand. "Okay."
He was halfway down the steps, his broad back to her when she said it.
"Succotash."
Frank paused, looking over his shoulder. He smiled.