Earlier this year I read an interview with JE, where she seemed pretty happy to get rid of the number centered book naming thing. It made me wonder about coming up with 27 number themed titles, and then pairing up story ideas with them. In the end, I came up with 31 story ideas (more, if you count the multiple ideas for several of the numbers), and The Number Series was born. Some stories are longer one-shots, some are short, and some developed into multi-chapter offerings. All have the title somewhere in the story. I have no set posting schedule for them.

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All recognizable characters belong to Janet Evanovich, I'm just playing.

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A/N: Includes the Janet Evanovich Fan Fiction January writing prompt.

-is a new beginnings story

-includes the dialogue prompts "you can literally feel when it's time to move onto your life's next chapter" and "it's easy to hate the idea of someone, harder to hate them face-to-face."

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Twenty-Nine and Holding
Chapter 1

RPOV

The lights of downtown Atlanta wink in the dusky sunset as I guide the 911 through the streets. The yearly audit for Rangeman Atlanta went well; profits are up, turnover is low, and the men seem to perform as a cohesive unit. The only downside is that Bear, the general manager, is looking to step aside and spend more time with his family. He's going to be a hard man to replace; his service record is impeccable, but it's his people skills that really shine. I've known very few men that can connect with people the way he can.

I head back to Miami in a couple days but if I need to be scouting for Bear's replacement, they're not going to be the low-key days I had planned. With that in mind, I'm taking the night off to unwind. I asked around for a good restaurant recommendation and a couple of the guys mentioned Southey's in one of the newer boutique hotels on Peachtree.

Turning the Porsche over to the valet, I give the area an assessing once-over before heading into the hotel. The area is well maintained with landscaping that doesn't present a security threat. No shrubs near the front doors, no areas shrouded in shadows for a potential robber to hide. Noticing security gaps is second nature, not something I can turn off. Heading inside, I follow signs to the elevators, heading to the 8th floor for the restaurant.

Taking a seat in the bar area while waiting for my table, I use the time waiting for my beer to scan the room. Most of the tables are filled with couples or small groups. A few families dot the room, most notably one with a rambunctious boy causing a small fuss at a table in the corner. Solitary meals have been a way of life for so long that it hits me out of the blue that tonight it might be nice to sit across from someone and share a meal and not have it be about work. My social life has been lacking for a while, but I've been too busy to really notice until now.

On a second scan of the room, my eyes settle on a woman standing at a high-top table at the edge of the bar. Her back is to me, and I wonder if the front view is as good as the back. Lush, brown curls with golden highlights cascade down her back, causing me to flash back on another head of brown curls. I don't often let myself dwell on what I left behind, but sometimes your head and your heart just don't do what you want them to do.

Trenton was never supposed to be more than a steppingstone. I had a plan, and I worked the plan. Rangeman started as an idea, something to plan for on long nights of patrol, something to work toward that would all the sacrifices and shitty nights worth it. It all began in a crappy little office in Trenton before I earned enough bank to move it to Haywood and really hang a shingle out. Opening another location in Miami that family could help run happened soon after. And then Atlanta and Boston got added, but never saw much of my attention, not after Connie Rossolli at Vinnie's called in a favor and asked me to give some tips to a fledgling new bounty hunter.

My lips quirk into a smile at the memory of first meeting Stephanie Plum in a crappy diner. She was all sass and attitude, and, in the beginning, she gave the bounty hunting gig a fair go. As time went on, she got involved with Morelli and her heart was torn between what she wanted to do and what she was always told she had to do. I get it. I grew up in a similar neighborhood with rigid expectations and quick judgement. I got out. She didn't.

The longer I helped her, the more I liked her, and it became a problem. At first, it was just one unforgettable night and then we went back to our separate corners for a long time. Until Vordo. I take a drink of my beer to hide the smile that the memory brings. I've never been a big believer of spells and shit, but I definitely benefitted from Steph's belief that the cop's crazy grandmother cursed her.

After that, it was just a lot of back and forth when she was off and on with Morelli. I thought maybe, just maybe things had changed, for the both of us, when she was on that treasure quest while trying to protect her grandmother from a bunch of old mob guys. Most of the time, her going back to the cop suited me. Most of the time, but not all the time, and I never spoke up, not even when I left.

My life has been a carefully crafted path to redemption, and I've tried to live it with as few regrets as possible. In hindsight, a good portion of the ones I do have are tied to a curly haired bounty hunter that I walked away from.

The woman whose curls started me down this road of memories and misses hasn't moved. Her posture indicates that she's looking at something in her hands, probably her phone. Another workaholic like me, I'd guess. She's not dressed the part, though; a cobalt blue blouse that looks silky to the touch, tight, designer jeans that showcase a world class ass, and leopard print stiletto heels complete a stylish picture.

I'm busy watching her but keeping an eye on the dining room. One of the families is gathering their items to leave, but I know that won't be my table. Too many things happen all at once. While the mother is gathering up electronics and toys, the same little boy from earlier takes off toward us in the bar. The woman I've been watching starts to take a step back while pulling out an earbud. They're on a collision course, and she doesn't even know it. I leap forward and get to within two feet of her when he runs into her leg, sending her off-kilter.

I catch her as she starts to fall, but the electric tingle that runs through my body nearly makes me drop her. She turns her head toward me, and for the first time in ten years I'm staring into the confused blue eyes of Stephanie Plum.

SPOV

"Babe?"

Words clog my throat as anger and confusion swirl in my mind. It's been so long since I've heard that endearment that it somehow feels wrong. Blinking helps regain my equilibrium and I shake loose the hold he has on my arms. Taking a step back from him, I give him a once-over just to verify that I'm not imagining him being here in front of me.

"What are you doing here, Stephanie?"

Right now, I'm wondering if I'm on Candid Camera, but he looks as shocked as I feel. "Southey's serves the best fettucine alfredo."

That half smile I always loved ticks up on his face and a traitorous spark gleans in my stomach. Twenty seconds. That's all it takes to know that the attraction is still there, if muted. A woman would have to be dead to not be attracted to Ranger. All the conflicting feelings I've felt for him over the years are jumbled up in my stomach; love, respect, anger, sadness, resignation and their associated events flash through me like a painful mini movie that only I can see. Time has blunted the pain of his abandonment, but it hovers there on the edge, an ever-present companion since he walked out of my life without so much as a goodbye or a fuck you.

His voice startles me out of my revere. "In Atlanta."

"Work. You?"

My answer seems to confuse him. He looks around, for what, I'm not sure. We stand there, unsure of what to say. Or at least I'm unsure. He still looks confident and in command. It's obvious that he's taken care of himself; the black slacks and tailored sweater do nothing to hide the well-toned body that I used to know so well.

"Yearly review for the office." His gaze is compelling, his presence nearly overwhelming. To avoid it, I remove the other earbud and put them in their case before dropping it and my phone in my purse. When there's nothing else to focus on, I chance another look at him. He's still watching me, assessing. His gaze strays to my left hand and he frowns. "You live here? In Atlanta?"

I shake my head no. "Last night in town. Just wanted to get some dinner and Southey's is a favorite." Stop talking, idiot! He doesn't need to know anything about you. He hasn't wanted to know anything about you in a long time.

An awkward silence settles around us. We're blocking traffic through the bar, but still neither one of us moves. "Babe, I—"

"Excuse me, sir, ma'am, your tables are ready. If you'll follow me."

Thank God for the hostess interrupting. With a nod toward Ranger, I turn to follow her, but he grabs my hand. "Have dinner with me." He tacks on, "Please," when I don't move.

"Why?"

That seems to startle him. A decade ago, he went from a friend that would tell me he loved me to completely ghosting me. His confusion confuses me. "Babe, I'd like to catch up, find out what you've been up to."

There's that Babe again. Him using it is still making me angry and I pull my hand back. I think about walking away and ignoring him for all of thirty seconds. For years I've wanted to know what the hell happened, and the universe just dropped the opportunity for answers in my lap. Giving him a small nod, I turn to catch up to the hostess, trying not to flinch when he settles a hand on the small of my back.

We have a choice of two tables, and of course he picks the one that will allow him to have his back to a wall. Settling in, I order a glass of house white and after a moment's pause, Ranger does the same. It's weird, sitting here like this, like we're still friends. Once upon a time, I'd have given anything to be his center of attention, but a lot has happened in the decade since we've seen each other. I'm not the same person, and I doubt he is, either. The server leaves us with the menus and even though I already know what I've having, I open one just to have an excuse to not make eye contact with him.

My first impression holds. He looks good. There's a smidge of grey at his temples, and maybe a few lines around his eyes, but forty-five looks good on him. He still has that quiet, feline grace and gives the impression of restrained power. I drop my eyes back to the menu, embarrassed when he catches me looking.

"What's good here, besides the fettucine alfredo?"

I shrug. "Don't know. I tried it the first time I was here and haven't felt compelled to stray away from it." Pausing, I tack on, "I'm told that both the beef Wellington and the Moroccan chicken are also good." The chili lime grilled salmon, too, but I don't share that, unwilling to sit across from someone else eating the meal guaranteed to bring up memories for me. There are other fish and seafood options, and I send up a prayer that he chooses a different one.

The silence continues as he mulls the menu. The server finally returns with the wine and takes our order. I breathe a sigh of relief when Ranger orders the sea scallops, even as I admit that it's foolish to be upset over the possibility of him ordering the salmon. Seeing him again is throwing me off, and my heart is trying to send me down too many rabbit holes.

Ranger waits for me to set my drink down before he asks, "What kind of work do you do?"

"Investigations." He raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to tell him more. I grab the wine glass again, and it's comforting in my hand while I play with the stem, debating how much to tell him. He's always known so much more about me than I ever knew about him, and it's a blow to know that he really did cut me completely from his life. "People hire me to find information. Background checks, research for projects, the occasional cold case review. Basically, me being nosy pays the bills."

He smiles at that. My nosiness was legendary in Trenton and got me in over my head more often than not. I notice him working his hand open and closed. He glances at it, too. "Broke my wrist during a takedown last year. Been bothering me ever since. It's the shits getting old."

I smirk. "Speak for yourself. I'm twenty-nine and holding!"

The bark of laugh he lets loose startles me, even as nostalgia surrounds me. This man was important to me, probably one of the most important people in my life. I thought he felt the same way about me. It's hard to say who's more shocked when I blurt out, "Why did you leave without ever saying goodbye to me?"