A/N: This is a lighter chapter than before, and entirely Rick-centric, but fair warning for Rick/Gina flirting. Before anyone gets upset, this is an ultimately Castle/Beckett story – I just like having every complication imaginable along the way!

Rick looked in the mirror one more time and straightened his tie. He was glad that no one could see him, in retrospect, as he shot himself a wink in the mirror and couldn't contain the finger guns, shooting what he hoped was a James Bond-style pose.

Then he shook his head - when did he grow up enough to tut at himself? - and headed out into the living room.

"Wow, look who cleans up nice!" Kate wolf-whistled from the couch, where she was cuddled up with Alexis. They paused their Robin Hood video, and Alexis finally looked up. She saw her dad in his Going Out clothes, and jumped up off the sofa, throwing herself around his legs.

"Hey!" he couldn't keep the sappy, doting smile off his face, and he shared a look with Kate. Her smile mirrored his, before she obviously felt it and wiped it off, rolling her eyes and looking away.

"You're going out?" Alexis looked up, eyes wide.

"Yup, sorry kiddo." he leaned down and scooped her up into his arms, unable to stop himself from hugging her close, breathing in the smell strawberry kiddie's shampoo. He could never believe how much he loved this little girl.

The feeling didn't fade when he glanced at Kate again. The tone of it changed, obviously, because there was only one person in the world allowed to see Kate Beckett as a little girl and Rick Castle wasn't him - he wasn't going to let himself notice how beautiful she looked in her comfy clothes, hair tied back, nestled on his couch and looking completely at home there - but the fierce protectiveness, the need to hold on and never let go, stayed the same.

He knew that he found her attractive. He knew that she needed a friend, and that he was it.

But it was the sheer depth of feeling, which only hit him when he wasn't looking, that scared him. He knew the whole fear of commitment thing was a cliché, but he reckoned that after the emotional meat-grinder Kyra put him through, and the wonderful but empty madness of his whole marriage to Meredith, he'd earned the right to use that cliché.

Even if every writerly bone in his body protested against it.

But he didn't let it show, even when their eyes met and he felt like he'd almost burst and wanted to run into the next state. He just smiled, and deposited Alexis back down next Kate. She snuggled back into her and Kate's arm wrapped around her shoulder.

"Where're you going?"

"Just out. Meeting a friend."

"Ooh," Kate grinned, teasing, "What friend?"

"My editor quit on me," he sighed, "I mean, I suppose being sixty-eight with ten grandchildren is an okay reason to retire, but he quit on me!"

"Yes, we know." Kate rolled her eyes again, "And it was a great betrayal."

"It was, wasn't it?" he shook his head, "Anyway, they've finally set me up with a new one; I'm meeting her tonight."

"Her?"

"Yup. A Miss Gina Cowell. Sounded like a bit of a tight-ass on the phone."

"Great." her eyes turned back to the screen, and her smiled tightened a little although Rick might have imagined it, "So will you be late or very late?"

"Who knows, maybe I'll get lucky." he teased. She wasn't impressed, so his stupid mouth decided to keep going, "You've already left enough of your stuff around here, so you don't even need to go home if you don't want to. It shouldn't be past midnight."

"Okay, fine. Have fun!" she waved him off, and he left smiling.

The restaurant Gina'd chosen was upscale and a little pretentious, all soft white lighting and quiet ambiance. She kept him waiting, and showed up in a completely stunning dress that would have knocked most men on their asses.

Rick had seen a lot of stunning dresses; he still felt a little tremor down his spine at the sight of her.

Petite, blonde, very attractive in a polished, coifed kind of way. She looked like the sort of woman who rolled out of bed with her hair styled and make-up flawless.

"Richard Castle?" she strode right up to him, which was how he knew who she was. She was at a distinct advantage: she most likely had the celebrity equivalent of his FBI file, while he only had her name.

"Gina!" he grinned, going for boyishly handsome.

"Well," she looked him up and down, openly sizing him up, "Your pictures do you justice."

"Thank you… I think…" he frowned, but kept smiling.

She laughed and placed a hand on his arm, "It's a compliment: most of the book jacket photos I see have been airbrushed or posed to the point where they don't even resemble the author themselves. You obviously didn't need it."

He couldn't help but preen a little as he turned to face the restaurant doors.

They were settled into an intimate corner of the restaurant before either of them mentioned more than the humidity – screwing with her hair – the restaurant – one of her favourites – or the niceness of the waitress – who looked a little like Kate, if he squinted a bit.

"I read your books, Mr Castle." Gina's eyes didn't leave the menu in front of her, her voice light and casual.

"Oh, really? Which ones?" He asked, as if he didn't care. He did, of course he did: he knew that his books weren't exactly high literature, but that didn't mean he didn't want people to like them. Martha, former queen of the mediocre review before she'd hit the almost-big time, had counselled that it would take three or four more bestsellers at least before he was egocentric enough to not care when someone turned around and insulted his writing.

"All of them." She looked him in the eye over her menu, dark eyes sharp, "You are a prospective client, after all."

"Prospective? I thought you already had the job."

"I haven't decided yet – they're pushing because of how suddenly Paul left, and you're a 'three books a year' type, so a new editor is kind of a priority. But it's not decided yet."

"Are you saying I need to be on my best behaviour?" he flashed his woman-melting smile, the one that worked on every debutant he'd ever met, and he saw her smile spread, flirtatiously.

"Exactly."

The waitress came back, and they ordered. Once she'd scurried away, with Gina's precise requirements for the cooking of her steak, they were back to staring at each other.

She really was extraordinarily attractive, in a petite, blonde, Germanic kind of way. She was smiling, all sultry and inviting, but her eyes were steely and businesslike. "So, where do you see your books going?"

"I'm sorry?" He hated questions about the future of his writing: that required planning and thought where Rick's whole writing process relied on quick, inspired bursts of creativity. True, for that last one he'd done a kind of murder-board thing, like he'd seen on TV, but that was a one-off maverick experiment for him.

"I mean are you looking at more standalone novels, or were you planning to serialise sometime soon?"

"I hadn't really thought about it," he admitted, "Paul and I discussed a new story set in the theatre, a Phantom of the Opera kind of thing, but set in the present, but I haven't gotten far in planning."

"Hm, interesting..." she leaned back in her chair, and pursed her lips, "It's just, and don't take this the wrong way, Rick, because I wouldn't be sat here if you didn't have some serious potential, I'm afraid of how much research that would entail."

"Research? I spend more hours in the Library than anyone, I know procedure inside out."

"But that's exactly my point," she said, "Your writing doesn't feel... lively, you know? It feels like something someone read in a book and added together and twisted a little to fit the plot. It doesn't feel like the front lines, like the real world with real consequences. And that was fine for the first few books, because your voice was fresh on the scene and the wit could keep it going..."

Wit? He had to smile at that, even as he felt his ego take a solid hit.

"…But now, well," she smiled and leaned back, fingers interlaced and legs crossed, as confident and smug as could be. Her dress rode up her legs just a little, exposing a sliver more of her shiny, tanned skin. He didn't think it was an accident. "Now you need to get into the big leagues."

"Do I?" he leaned forwards, smile still firmly in place. This wasn't a woman who would respond to worry or childish petulance. She wanted confidence: a man who was completely sure of himself, and he had a feeling that she'd walk all over him or, worse, lose interest entirely if that wasn't what she saw. "And how, exactly, am I supposed to do that?"

"Start a series. Create a character with some meat, some depth, and follow them through a series of books, following their personal journey. You need to get the audience invested, now, since you already have their attention."

"And what would you suggest? I mean, aside from committing to a multiple book deal and then having to stick to it?" he kept his voice light, making it a joke, masking the panic that always came with deadlines.

"You need to meet with some cops. I mean a five-minute interview, maybe a ride-along if you can swing it. Get in however you can, and see how it really works."

"Because police precincts are just open houses for things like that."

"Just a suggestion, that's all. The other option would be to focus on character, and let plot fade into the background just a little bit. Have character with real emotional issues and zoom in on that – that might be easier to research."

"Because all humans have emotions, even shallow authors who spend too much time researching from books." He couldn't hide a slightly sharp, bitter tone in his voice.

"Listen," she leaned forward, softening, elbows on the table and cleavage on full display. Even as he tried not to gawp, Rick could see he was being played like a harp, "I understand: you're young, recently divorced, single father, life isn't uncomplicated. And that on its own can inform your writing, if you let it: break down that emotional wall between you and the reader. Even without all of that, you've got that playboy author thing going for you-"

"Playboy?" He nearly choked on his drink. For the few months between Kyra and Meredith he'd not exactly been a monk – and with Alexis to look after and Kate to… well, that was a harder verb to define, but she was definitely an important factor - but playboy?

"Well, playboy potential. Your daughter'll be in school soon, your mom's a legend in some circles…" she giggled, "Well, come on Rick, you're gorgeous and available – all you need is a minor criminal record and a few wild stories and you've got yourself a reputation."

"So I should be writing a series and knuckling down at the same time as getting wasted with celebutants and stealing cop cars?"

"I think you could pull it off. Mad, bad and dangerous to read?"

He laughed, and her smile widened, "Wow, that was awful!"

"Not my best, but then I'm not a writer."

"And the world makes sense once more."

"Oh! I felt that one!" she clutched her heart, mock-horror on her face. Then she relaxed into her smile again, "I'm serious, though. If you want my expertise, and believe me, you do, you need to commit to a series. Create a relatable character and draw in a dedicated audience – both on and off the page."

Their food came, and Rick took a forkful of his pasta, "Woah! You come here often, then?" he said around his food, suddenly slowing down and savouring it. He looked up, and saw her watching him, laughing silently.

"Yes. Any chance I get, for obvious reasons."

"I'll say, I don't think I ever want to leave!" he took another mouthful, and really relished it this time, "You live nearby, I'm guessing?"

She laughed again, and shook her head, "Used to. I'm a short cab ride away, now, closer to work, but just after college it was only a few blocks."

"This is a swanky neighbourhood for a recent graduate."

"I could say the same about the Upper East Side, but your success is pretty self-explanatory."

"Okay, but you're not a writer. Modelling?"

"Turning on the charm now, huh?"

"Well, it was worth a try, I guess."

"Don't do yourself down," she glanced up from under her eyelashes, and their eyes met "Your charm is fairly formidable."

"Oh, really?" they smiled at each other, the atmosphere suddenly intimate, and for the first time that night Rick thought he glanced something genuine in her eyes. Something speculative, sizing him up, more calculating but far more real than her wide, appealing smile.

And all of a sudden, he was intrigued. How could he not be, when she suddenly seemed so mysterious? He had a weakness for femme fatales, so sue him.

"Does it work on her?"

He was a little startled by the sudden change of subject, but he covered it with a sip of his wine. "Who?"

"The tall brunette, the one you were seen with a good six or seven times last month."

"How do you know she's not my nanny? Or a housekeeper who just hangs around me sometimes when cameras are around?"

"I didn't." she leaned back again, having finished her meal, "But now I do." She cocked her head to one side, "Is there something I need to know?"

"She's a friend. I don't see how my friends have anything to do with my possible editor."

"Wow, sudden defensiveness, okay: a girlfriend, then? If there's some reason why you're reluctant to amp up your public image, then I'd like to know."

"Yes, there is a reason. She's two years old and adorable, and relies on me for everything." Suddenly she was annoying the hell out of him, and all he wanted to do was wrap this up and hurry home to his daughter and… close friend.

"Yes, I understand that." She was moving back, her hands high in supplication, "I didn't mean to imply anything less. I just need to know what I'm working with."

And the annoyance left as quickly as it had come, "I know, I'm sorry. I want to work with you, I do." He leaned forward and stretched out a hand to cover hers, "But I'm at a weird point right now to be making decisions like this."

"Hey, no pressure. Well, not on the playboy-author thing. I do need to know that you'll seriously consider launching a recurring main character with a series sometime in the near future."

"I… I don't know. I'll think about it and get back to you, okay?"

"Sure." She grinned, and something changed in her demeanour, "Okay, business over."

"Really?"

"Sure. You have a babysitter?"

"Yeah, she's staying over."

"Great, then let's go try out that wilder lifestyle, see how it fits."

He arrived back at one am, not entirely sober and stumbling a little. "Rick?" he switched on the lights to see Kate, bleary-eyed in her pyjamas, staring at him from the top of the stairs.

"Hey."

"Good meeting?"

"You could say that." His speech was a little slurred, and he felt he needed to get into bed soon before he tripped and damaged something.

She came downstairs and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, "Are you drunk?"

"There's a definite chance."

"Wow, there's a first time for everything I suppose." She sounded trapped between amusement and anger, the result coming out blank and detached.

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing."

"I can have fun. I party. I was a wild man pre-kid."

"I'm sure."

"And what's it to you, anyway?"

"Gee, I don't know. Alcoholic father in therapy and home on a Friday looking after your daughter, and you come home wasted and reeking of Chanel. I know I have no right, but it pisses me off a bit."

"No, you don't have a right." He had a growing headache, and an even stronger feeling that this was not a conversation to have while drunk. "We can talk in the morning, I have to sleep now."

"Yeah, great." She sounded utterly pissed, but she still helped him upstairs and into his room, and laid his pyjamas out for him on the bed.

"You're too nice, you know that?" he muttered, as she left.

"I'm repaying an eternal favour, never forget that. My natural urge is to let you pass out on your own and wake up hung-over and miserable, but I can't let that happen."

"Cause of your dad?"

"Well, kinda; but mostly because I owe you my life and his, and haven't worked out a proper repayment plan yet. I'm beholden to you, Rick, which means gritting my teeth and being nice even when you're being an idiot. Even when I kind of hate you for it."

"Sounds like marriage."

The room went silent, and Rick was thankful for his drunken state. He didn't have to worry about the awkward: the shame gland was the first to shut off when he drank.

He came out of the bathroom scrubbed up and sleepy five minutes later to find a sandwich and three big glasses of water by his bed.

Kate was nowhere to be seen.