A/N: Just wanted to leave a quick note about the rating for this chapter. It's strong T for a portion, but doesn't cross into M. Also, bunches of thanks for the feedback on this! I always fall behind with replying to everyone, but please understand how much I appreciate the comments and support. So glad you're enjoying the story! And now... on with chapter 11. :)

The garment bag Gillian had chosen was completely opaque and nearly as tall as she was. Which meant that despite Cal's best attempt to conjure up x-ray vision that pierced thick cloth, he couldn't see a sodding thing. Beautiful woman… beautiful smile… tiny little "hello" wave sent from her spot in the driveway to his spot at the window… but not even so much as a tiny little peek at her costume.

Sneaky, she was.

But truth be told, he wasn't any better. His kilt, shirt, and boots had been carefully placed in the back of his bedroom closet behind the Indiana Jones gear, just in case she got curious and started snooping around sometime between now and the unofficial "get ready" time. Which – thanks to the birth of Emily's latest bright idea – was happening at his house, not Gillian's. Lord give him strength.

In other words… on a day when his body was still enjoying its post-'Night of Five Times' high (complete with giddiness, dopey laughter, and heightened sensitivity to all things "Foster"), he was now set to spend a massive number of hours in Gillian's presence but without the ability to act on any of his long buried... instincts.

Meaning that she'd decorate while he cooked. He'd make jokes about their staff, while she perfected that coy, coquettish grin he loved so bloody much. And then – when Emily finally began to nag both of them to hurry up and get changed, lest the guests arrive early and catch them in 'everyday' gear – his lovely Gillian would likely lock herself in the en suite to get naked and soapy in his bathtub while he took a cold shower many rooms away. Frustrations would run high… hands would grow twitchy… and he'd turn red as a tomato when Gillian shyly reminded him that yes, they needed to wait until all the guests had gone home AND Emily had flown back to Berkley, and no, they really could not lock themselves in his walk-in closet for a quick shag, because they tended to be overly… you know… enthusiastic. Thin walls and ceilings be damned.

So.

Under those circumstances, the best Cal could hope for was that Emily would need to make a quick run to the store, or the mall, or the gas station, or anywhere that gave them a thirty minute window of "free" time, just so he could find an opportunity to kiss Gillian properly. Lots of tongue… a few nips along her throat, concentrated in that one little spot that drove her completely mad and made her sigh his name on a breathless moan… oh, he could hardly wait.

Now, if he'd been paying a bit more attention to his surroundings, and a little less attention to the woman who was slowly making her way towards the door, then he probably would've heard Emily the first time she called his name.

Or the second.

Or at the very least, the third.

But by the time Gillian had turned the corner and gone briefly out of sight, and the blood began to flow north of his waistline once again, Emily was on her fourth round of "Dad!" and looking for all the world like a parent who'd just caught their child with his or her hand in the cookie jar. Only in their case, the cookie jar was a daydream… Cal's hand wasn't anywhere near its preferred target… and Emily was practically in tears trying to choke back her laughter, as she watched the entire scene unfold and kept her jokes to herself.

Thank heavens for small favors.

True to form, though, Emily couldn't reign in the commentary for very long. Her silence lasted two minutes, at best, and just as he grasped the doorknob… just as he moved to greet Gillian, but before she'd actually come within earshot… Emily couldn't help but make a few last-minute cracks at his total lack of subtlety.

(Color him completely unsurprised.)

"For whatever it's worth," she started. "I just saw a lifetime's worth of TMI flash across your face, there. So unless you want everyone at this party to 'out' your feelings for Gillian before you get a chance to tell her yourself, then trust me dad. Trust me. Stop being a chicken, and start speaking with your words. You love her, and you need to tell her. Today. But please, for the love of all that is holy in this world… as long as I'm still standing in the same zip code with the both of you, then quit it with X-rated daydreams. Or else I'll be in therapy until I'm thirty-five. Deal?"

Forty-five minutes.

That's how long Emily had lasted, before the decorating and cooking and general flirting that filled the first floor of Casa de Lightman was enough to make her invent the world's stupidest excuse ('I… uh… just ran out of clean clothes this morning, and I'm… uh… going to go buy some new ones'), snag the keys to Cal's Prius, and hightail it out the front door faster than anyone could've said "tidbitting."

Ridiculous, it was. Both in theory, and in practice. She'd flown in for the weekend – as in, a mere two short days – with a giant, overstuffed suitcase that no doubt doubled her weight, and held (he assumed) somewhere near thirty-six different outfits, eight pairs of shoes, three different Halloween costumes, enough accessories to open her own boutique, and at least two different bathrobes: one warm and fuzzy, in case her childhood bedroom was too cold, and one cute and trendy, in case any of her hometown friends opted to tag along as a 'Plus One.'

A light packer, Emily was not. Never had been, never would be, case closed.

The real truth – which neither Cal nor Gillian had any trouble reading – was that she found it next to bloody impossible to stay in the same building with them and not blow her father's cover.

Or rather…

She found it next to bloody impossible to stay in the same building with them and not blow what she still assumed to be her father's cover.

Astute though she often was, it seemed that Emily had grown so accustomed to pushing him toward a relationship with Gillian that she completely missed those little nuances that would've told her – if only she'd seen them – that they'd already leapfrogged past silly chicken-based rituals and all things "first base," and landed smack in the middle of the full blown, head-over-heels sort of happiness that was almost impossible to contain.

Hence, the pre-lunchtime Prius hijacking. The girl needed to do something to save her sanity, right? Because obviously… whatever unspoken "thing" that was building between Cal and Gillian in daylight hours was only going to get worse as the party approached. And it wasn't as though they were trying to behave like teenagers, mind you. It's just that a decade's worth of sexual tension didn't resolve itself completely in a matter of days, no matter how many rounds of… practice… they'd gotten to experience on night number one. The number could've been fifty rather than five, and Cal still would've wanted her. Badly. The only question was…

Which one of them would cave first?

As luck would have it, the Prius had barely gotten out of sight when Cal got his answer. Gillian approached casually, walking in stops and starts throughout the living room as she pretended to keep her entire focus on the decorating and away from his apron-clad frame. But he knew better. Her body language practically shouted her true intentions, and when she finally strolled into the kitchen – with orange and black streamers still in her hands – he wasn't even a bit surprised.

They stayed silent for just a moment, testing the waters with proximity rather than spoken word. But when Cal finally turned to face her fully, Gillian tossed him a mischievous grin – the kind that lit up her entire face in a microsecond, and made him all-too aware of how much time they'd wasted – he was gone. Her expression was a seamless mix of simplicity and romance and spontaneity and love, and all he wanted to do was find a way to make it permanent.

As in, 'till death do us part' permanent.

That particular thought was completely unbidden, though, and the weight of it turned his throat dry and scratchy as he fumbled for something to say. He wanted to touch her, but his hands were covered in a half-dozen messy ingredients, and she'd already ditched the decorations in order to unbutton her sweater, and all he could focus on was the fact that she smelled incredible. The scent was sweet and sugary – like vanilla and blackberries, with just the tiniest hint of honey in the background, and it made him want to lick –

Just then, as that very specific word ("lick") wafted through his subconscious, Cal watched Gillian's grin turn smug – almost as though she'd just seen, or heard, or read something that he hadn't intended to reveal. And in hindsight, maybe he should have wondered what triggered it. The feel of her fingertips landing on his chest stopped those thoughts, though, and in their place came the stupid realization that she didn't seem to care to care whether or not his hands were coated in bread crumbs. Or egg yolk. Or raw meat. She simply crooked a single finger under his chin… deliberately turned his face so her lips were aimed straight toward his ear… and then descended on it with painstaking patience.

Her breath grazed the shell, as the tip of her tongue flicked out to trail a warm, wet path along its curve. And trust him… if it wouldn't have broken every health code in the entire DC area and risked giving both of them salmonella, Cal would've had her pressed up against the center island and out of her pants in a matter of seconds. He truly was that aroused.

Trust Gillian to know it, too – and to use it to her advantage. Because as luck would have it… she was as good at this game as he was.

(Possibly even better.)

"Aye, aye," she said softly. And flirtatiously. As if the use of one of his traditional phrases gave her this tiny little sexual thrill. Which in turn gave him a thrill, just because it was Gillian, yeah? And she was… brilliant.

"It's kind of amazing to see how far we've come in less than forty-eight hours," she continued, breathing lightly into his ear and using the low tones in her voice to emphasize one very specific word. Come. Jesus, even in an innocent connotation, she made it sound… naughty. And promising. And he could hardly wait until nightfall.

"You and I hadn't even shared a real kiss as of two days ago, and now look at us: standing in your kitchen, up to our elbows in hors d'oeuvres and decorations… and within the first ten minutes we're alone together, you start throwing around words like "lick." So tell me, Cal: should I take that as a challenge?"

Completely and totally puzzled – and so aroused he could barely stand upright – Cal tipped his head and studied Gillian from a sideways perspective. He liked a challenge just as much as the next guy (especially when it involved sexual undertones), but trust him, he had no bloody idea where she'd ever gotten the idea that he said…

Oh.

Scratch that.

Trust him to flip the inner monologue switch to "full volume" rather than "silent," and verbally broadcast his thoughts about vanilla, and honey, and all the places he wanted to… taste. Kind of like an X-rated version of 'I've got a secret,' except that it wasn't really a secret at all, anymore.

Thank God.

So, rather than cave under the pressure and give Gillian what she wanted – which, he assumed, was a repeat performance of just how enthusiastically his tongue could behave – Cal played to his other strengths: stubbornness, smartassery, and sexual innuendo.

Challenge accepted.

He stepped away from his work area and washed his hands… he crossed to the window, and drew the curtains closed… and lastly, he double checked the locks on the rear door, just to ensure they wouldn't have any unexpected visitors. And all the while, the heat of Gillian's stare pierced through his skin and into his groin, and he actually began to ache inside.

(… cue thickened accent in t-minus three…two… one…)

"A challenge, love?" he started, parroting her words, just because he knew it would up the ante. "Sounded more like a promise to me, yeah? That is… unless you want to make it a challenge."

Just as Gillian had done moments earlier, Cal allowed his voice to linger over certain words as he expertly studied what effect, if any, their sounds had on her… enthusiasm. And a beat later – when her hands squeezed against his hips, and she pulled him against her pelvis, hard and fast – Cal knew she was battling an ache of her own.

She groaned. He smiled.

She kissed his neck. He fought for breath, and fisted his fingers against her upper thighs.

And somewhere in the background – as his hands frantically tugged her shirt up and off, while hers worked his trousers with purpose and desperation – a common goal began to make itself known: satisfaction.

Cal dropped gentle kisses along the column of her throat, then pulled back long enough to study her eyes. "Do you have any idea how much I love you?" he asked. "Or how glad I am that one of us was finally brave enough to make that first move?"

And really, he wasn't looking to have a full conversation. Not there. In the kitchen. When her back had just collided with the wall, and his hands were sliding down her thighs, eagerly awaiting the moment when he'd lift them up around his waist, and drive every last ounce of himself into her welcoming heat.

He wasn't thinking, he was feeling. Everything. And the very last thing he expected in that moment was for Gillian to say anything beyond 'I love you,' or 'I want you.'

But she did. She most definitely did.

She said…

(…wait for it…)

"Do you have any idea how glad I am that you didn't take Wallowski up on her offer last month?"

Momentarily stunned, Cal took a deep breath. Then another. And then a third, just for good measure. He tried to ignore the oppressively comical sound of crickets that were chirping in the background, as he stood with his hands under Gillian's thighs, and his pants halfway to the ground, and his face contorting into a handful of different emotions – from confusion, to dumbfounded humor, to suspicion, and back to confusion again – as he tried to find his mental footing.

Wallowski.

No, he could not have been more "lost" if Gillian had suddenly gone fluent in Mandarin Chinese, and opted to speak to him in that language, rather than in English.

Question Number One: Why had that name entered their conversation at all, let alone when they were mere moments away from making love against the kitchen wall?

And Question Number Two: What had Gillian meant by the phrase "take Wallowski up on her offer last month?" Unless he'd entered some sort insane loophole or Twilight Zone episode, then trust him; there had been no offer of any kind – either spoken or implied. And besides, he hadn't seen, phoned, texted, emailed, thought about, or interacted with Sharon Wallowski in any way at all for a full six months.

Which meant that either Gillian had gotten the cosmic signals very, very crossed, or… someone had intentionally misinformed her.

So, Cal took a fourth deep breath and gently disentangled himself from Gillian's thighs. And then he temporarily shelved all thoughts of sex in favor of something entirely different: conversation. Trouble was, he was so utterly and completely thrown by what she said, that the only word (singular) coming out of his mouth was broken and bumbling, and the pitiful sound of it made him feel like a fool.

"Wh… what?" he stuttered. Loudly. No fewer than three consecutive times, just because it seemed like the best place to start.

Leave it to Gillian, though, to be totally composed in the face of his idiocy. She wasn't stuttering at all. Instead, she was bloody smiling at him, in the way that made him want to rip the rest of her clothing off and take her, right there against the wall… or on the table… or hell, even under the table, so long as they got to do it soon. And it was as though a tiny little war was being fought in his head – with the need for physical contact on one front, battling the need for clarification on the other. But in the end, Cal knew that the giant can of worms labeled 'Sharon Wallowski' had the potential to eat away at the foundation they'd just begun to build, and he most definitely did not want that to happen.

"Forgive me if this sounds like a really stupid question love," he tried again, "but it's the only one I can think to ask, thanks to all the buzzing in my ears right now, yeah? So. Here goes. Why in the world would anyone – let alone you – ever think that Wallowski…"

But he only got as far as the name before Gillian's expression turned from playful flirtation to sheepish embarrassment. She blushed and shrugged, and then focused intently on the band of ink around his bicep, rather than look upward to meet his gaze. She looked almost shy.

(A rather odd turn of events, considering they were both still half naked.)

Gillian sighed as she anchored her left hand against his hip. "I promised her I wouldn't say anything," she softly explained. And even though he fully expected to hear more details… none came.

Never let it be said that Cal Lightman struggled with his libido. Because he didn't. Ever. Things being what they currently were, however, the only legitimate option he saw was to awkwardly stoop down and haul his pants back up, lest they have this particular conversation looking like half-naked fools. And besides… now that he'd fully embraced his feelings for Gillian, hearing the name "Sharon Wallowski" spoken by anyone was a bit of a mood killer. Especially when it was flanked by the words "take" and "offer."

And so while Gillian continued with the shy routine, Cal fastened his belt and frowned. "You promised who, love? Shazzer?"

Almost instantly, she rolled her eyes. She'd always hated his use of that nickname with the detective, but the term wafted into his head and out of his mouth automatically, before his better judgment could stop it. Whoops.

"No," Gillian corrected. She quickly straightened her own clothing as she gave him an unreadable expression that he'd never seen her wear before. "No, it wasn't her. I'm talking about Emily. She told me in everything in confidence. And she said she didn't want me to think she was trying to push us together, but that… well… she thought I should know you had… options."

Say what, now?

Slowly but surely, Cal felt the entire room grow still. He couldn't speak. He couldn't think. He could barely even breathe. Because Gillian had just packed far too much information into those four tiny sentences, and he had no idea what bits of it to focus on first: the part about Emily going behind his back to begin with, or the part where she'd deliberately told Gillian that there were other "options" and then – then! – given her a specific (and false) name to go along with the whole scheme. It was deceitful, and insane, and ridiculously sneaky, and…

Wait a minute.

With his brows drawn tightly together, Cal raised his hand to his temples and began to massage away the insta-headache that had just sprouted behind his right eye. All of this sounded a little too familiar for his liking (Tom or Tony Wanker came to mind immediately), but before he had the chance to actually verbalize his suspicion, Gillian's hands landed on either side of his hips, and she threaded her fingers into his belt loops. Nervous tension, he assumed.

(Lord knows he had some to spare, too.)

"Don't be angry, Cal," she started. "Emily meant well - honestly, she did. She just wanted me to know that since it had already been so long since our divorces and since Claire's funeral, and neither one of us had grown enough nerve to make a move, there were, unfortunately, other women in your life who'd decided to make a few moves of their own. Namely Sharon."

Oh. Bloody. Hell.

Up until forty-five seconds earlier, Cal wouldn't have thought it possible to feel like the world's biggest idiot and the world's most suspicious father simultaneously, but clearly… he'd underestimated the evil genius of his daughter. Somehow young Ms. Emily Lightman ranked as a 'black belt' on the cosmic scale of puppet mastery, and he'd never seen it coming at all.

In other words… from chicken tidbitting to Gillian's potential love interests, every 'nudge' Emily had given him was, apparently, only part of the equation. And while a very real part of him wanted to be angry with her… an even bigger part of him wanted to shake her hand. Because it was rather brilliant, actually – in a totally twisted, socially underhanded, untrustworthy-yet-loving sort of way.

But back to the epicenter of their current problem: those aforementioned "options." The ones that didn't even exist. Best to let her know that, yeah?

Moving swiftly – just to drive home the point that he was very bloody serious – Cal stepped back into Gillian's space and framed her jaw with his palms. Then he tipped her face upwards ever so slightly, until their gazes locked and she could see and hear and feel the truth behind what he was about to tell her. Which was… drumroll please…

"The only real option my heart has ever known is you, Gill. Only you. Every other woman on the planet pales in comparison. And despite what my well-intentioned evil genius of a daughter has already told you, Sharon Wallowski did not make any sort of offer at all. Not verbally. Not by text, or snail mail, or carrier pigeon, or singing telegram. And even if she had, I would've turned her down a million times over, because… see… I'm completely in love with you."

Point made, Cal gave a sigh of relief and leaned in close enough to rest his forehead against Gillian's. His fingertips swept from her jaw, to her neck, and then finally to her arms, where he grasped both of her hands in his and gently squeezed. And even though there were easily a thousand and one more things he wanted to tell her, he opted for silence instead.

(At least temporarily.)

Gillian, for her part, looked positively stunned. And even though they were already standing chest to chest with barely a sliver of space between them, she pulled herself even tighter against his body. Her eyes were wide and dark, and her cheeks were tinged with just the slightest shade of pink, as if some part of what he'd just told her sounded different in the daylight than it had sounded in her bed.

Finally, just as Cal moved to kiss her lips… Gillian spoke. "So then," she breathed. "Emily lied? She just… invented the whole story, like some kind of crazy little puppet master?"

And though there was definitely room for her to have held a bit of a grudge as far as the deceit went, the predominant emotion in Gillian's voice was curiosity. Not anger. She just wanted to be sure to get the facts straight, before moving on to the next phase of their afternoon.

Dropping light kisses along her cheeks and forehead, Cal grunted in agreement. "That title rather suits her, I'd say. But don't feel bad, love. She did the same thing to me. Invented a story about this tosser named Tom or Tony who'd already made a play for you, just so I'd understand that you had options of your own. And that if I didn't get off my pathetically slow arse and tell you how I felt, then I was likely to lose you to someone else. Honestly… I'm not sure whether we should thank her, or come up with some sort of embarrassing revenge-based spectacle to show her that we are not, in fact, chickens, and that we do know what we're doing. So I'll leave the ball in your court as far as that decision goes, love: embarrassment, sincerity, or a bit of both. It's entirely your call."

Three… two… one…

While Cal had no way to have accurately predicted the reaction his short speech would cause, the very last thing he expected to hear was laughter. As in, the full on, stomach clenching, tears-in-your-eyes sort of laughter that caused a person's breath to catch in their throat, and their face to turn tomato red, and their nose to make crazy barnyard noises. But. That type of laughter is exactly what Gillian gave him.

Color him entirely baffled, yeah?

Granted, she did look pretty cute when she laughed – he loved the way her eyes sparkled when she was happy – but still. Feeling like he was standing on the outside of an inside joke was a pretty lonely experience, to say the least.

Luckily, he didn't have to wait long for an explanation. It was maybe two minutes, at most, before she finally regained enough composure to make a simple, five word statement: "Funny you should mention chickens," she quipped.

Oh, for the love of every feathered barnyard bird who'd ever danced a mating ritual since the dawn of time… she hadn't.

Had she?

Heaven help him, there was only one way to find out.

With an exasperated sigh and a belly laugh of his own, Cal shook his head ever so slightly and formed the words for a question he never thought he'd ask: "Tell me, Gill. Are you familiar with the word "tidbitting?"

A/N: Might be a bit longer than normal before the next update, because my muse is going to turn her attention to "Take the Long Way Home." I promise, though... in chapter 12, Gillian's costume gets revealed. Trust me: you'll like it. :)