Author's Note: Okay, I goofed. The last chapter I wrote was huge, so I
split it in two. Here's Chapter 9. Chapter 10, which is still called "Two-
Step," is coming soon!
Warning --- major Doggett-Reyes U.S.T., otherwise known as T.E.A.S.I.N.G, ahead.
***
Chapter 9: "Luck And The Single Guy."
5:30 PM
Falls Church, VA
Doggett couldn't help it. He moaned. It was supposed to come out as an "ah," a sigh of relief. But instead he produced an "unnnhh," his eyes tilting up in his head like a Baroque saint in ecstasy.
Reyes was amused by this. They were both on her partner's bed, she sitting Indian-style, he laying down, in a t-shirt from his drawer. He'd had just enough energy to remove his skirt and heels. She'd taken off the jacket and shoes she was wearing, and then she'd started in on this little "project." Grinning, she clipped air with her scissors.
"Bet that felt good, huh?"
"Oh, yeah."
"Let me get the other side."
"Mmm."
She reached her scissors down and cut the elastic on the other side of the waist of his hose. He moaned again. All the pressure was gone. He just lay there, limp, as she got off the bed and stood at the edge. She reached forward, grabbed hold of the material, and dragged the now useless pantyhose down over his butt, thighs, calves, and feet. She made a big show of flinging the things across the room.
He lay there, now clad only in his underwear and a shirt, and felt . . . relaxed. Normally, he knew he would be really nervous about a woman seeing him in his underwear, particularly briefs, but with Reyes it was oddly comfortable.
He smiled at her, his blue eyes warm and clear as an August sky. She smiled back, her chocolate ones burrowing into him. He flexed his feet and wiggled his toes to show his appreciation. Amused, she spent a few seconds batting at them, but then she looked at his waist and frowned.
"The hose left a little red mark on you," she said. "Right . . . there."
She leaned forward and poked his waist gently. He squirmed, and since she was hovering over him, he poked her in the same place. She let out a little shriek and pulled away.
"Ticklish?" he asked.
"No," she answered, much too quickly.
He snorted. "Uh huh."
"How are your legs?" she asked, changing the subject.
"They're . . ." he struggled to pull his head up and look at them. "Shaved. Thanks for asking." His head flomped back onto the pillow.
She started laughing. "It grows back, John. And in case I haven't told you enough, I thought you made a 'killer chick' today."
"Gee, thanks. Just what a guy needs to hear. 'You look fantastic in a dress!'"
"Well, you did!" she said, giggling. "Do your legs still work, by the way?"
"I don't know. My calves are on fire, so I guess that means I still have sensation. But those heels? Man. I don't know how you do it. Day after day . . ." He trailed off.
"Aw, poor baby. Here, let me help."
She cracked her knuckles. This alarmed him a little bit. He propped himself up on his elbows to watch her, ready to yell "stop" at whatever she was about to do. This was one of the more interesting traits of Monica Reyes --- he rarely knew what to expect from her.
Finally, she held out her hands to him. He took them cautiously, but let her pull him into a sitting position, then watched as she clambered up on the edge of the bed, perching on her knees, his feet up against her thighs. She pulled toward herself gently, stretching his back. Doggett heard his spine make a few satisfying popping noises.
A few minutes later, he was standing on one leg, leaning on her for balance.
"That's it," she said. "Flex your foot. Now point your toes. Flex. Point."
She helped him stretch his calves and then let him lean on her again to stretch his thighs. He held onto her without reservation, but kept his eyes pointedly on the ground, so as not look at her, lose his grip, and fall over.
Their physical proximity was already screwing him up in the most delightful way. He was getting drunk from the soapy smell of her hair, and the intoxicating smell of her skin, a heady mixture of oregano and smoke. Her flesh was the color of bronze, the texture of velvet. And she was wearing one of his shirts.
He gulped.
But this was no time to lose control. He cleared his throat, planted both feet firmly on the ground, put on his most polite face, and smiled at her.
"Thanks a lot, Mon. That really helped. I'm gonna get changed. Where are we meeting them again?"
"The Supper Club," Reyes said, crossing her arms and unabashedly admiring the rear view as her partner padded into the adjoining bathroom. "It's that trendy new place downtown. And since I don't live here . . . I'll have to go back to my apartment to get ready."
Doggett poked his head out the door, a toothbrush in his mouth. "Ya need a lift?" he asked. It came out like, "Eed a litht?" Then he ducked back in.
"John, I came in my car. Remember?" she said, smiling.
Honestly, Sherlock Holmes, the man was not. She grabbed her purse from the bureau and emptied it out onto Doggett's bed. Much to her amusement, all that fell out was Doggett's wallet, his keys, and a fresh travel pack of Kleenex.
"It's not fair," she commented. "How in the hell can men pack so light?"
Doggett came out of the bathroom, toweling his face off. Apparently he hadn't heard her. "Listen, Monica, it's not a problem. I can just pull on a pair of pants and drive you."
"No, John, it's okay. Really. I've got my car. I just need to get changed."
"Okay, then," he said with a little shrug. "Just, uh, if you could, toss my suit in a bag whenever you get the time, and . . ."
"Take it to the dry cleaners?"
He laughed. "No! I don't wanna put you out. Just bring it back to my place, or I'll go to yours . . ." he sighed, halfway to the dresser.
And then he turned to her. The streetlamp outside caught all the right shadows on him, showing off a remarkably fit body under that t-shirt and briefs. His voice shifted from its usual tough guy rasp to pure Georgia smoke.
"Of course, if you spent more time *here,* we wouldn't have this problem."
Reyes looked at him for a moment. And then the Harlequin-esque scene was broken by laughter --- hers from disbelief, his from nervousness.
"John Doggett, you are the most ungraceful flirt I have ever seen," Reyes said, then walked over to him, narrowing her eyes and licking her lips. "I guess I'll just have to teach you how to do a better job."
"I guess you will," he said quietly, giving her a little grin. "Pick 'ya up?" he asked, brushing past her gently as he headed for the bathroom again.
"Sure. When?"
"I dunno. Quarter of seven? You don't live that far from Downtown," he replied, from behind the door.
"Sounds good," she said, grabbing her purse and starting off. "All right, well, I'm off."
"See you later!" he called, and she left.
***
Reyes decided not to ponder why she was so disappointed as she walked down the stairs, away from him. So that was John Doggett, really and truly off- duty. Funny, comfortable with himself, and obviously comfortable with her.
But that remark he made in the lamplight. . .
It wouldn't leave her alone. Now she understood Scully's dilemma with Mulder's famous innuendo. There was so much room for misinterpretation!
She didn't know whether push this with her partner or let it go, to head it off at the pass or run with it. Then again, there was no time for running of any kind right now, except to her uptown loft, where her clothes and make-up were. She stepped on the gas and sped away, picking out an outfit in her head and praying that what she came up with was actually clean and hanging in her closet.
***
Doggett concentrated on cleaning himself up, and tried really hard to hide the fact that he felt rejected. He couldn't even figure out why. He'd just seen that glazed look in her eyes and made a stupid joke to lighten things up.
"Oh, who am I kidding?" he muttered. "I didn't make a stupid joke. I made a pass at her. It was wrong, I know. She's my partner. She doesn't need that crap. I blame my Y-chromosome. But damned if she didn't respond!"
This pleasant thought buzzed through his head for some minutes, while he laid out a few different shirts, until it was obliterated by the terrifying "what if."
"What if . . . Oh, no. What if she only shot that back at me because she thought I was joking? What if she doesn't know . . . how I feel about her?"
He held up a few dress shirts to himself.
"It's third and eleven," he muttered, then started rambling. "Tight game tonight, folks! And here we go! John makes a pass at Monica. Monica catches, laughs, makes a pass back at John, who catches smoothly.
And he breaks away! The crowd's going nuts! He's charging his way up the field, the endzone in sight, when WHAM! Oooh, and he goes down like a brick! Tackled by his own self-doubt and fear! That's gotta hurt, Hank. Let's go to instant replay."
Finally, he decided on his dark blue polo shirt and brown slacks. He scratched his head, walking over to his dresser, and pulled out socks and a pair of boxers before getting his shirt off. He just hoped this was the sort of thing to wear to a trendy dining place, when he remembered the sweater. She'd given it to him a few years back --- it brought out his eyes, she said. It was deep green and looked good with the pants. He grabbed it from the closet, crouched, and hunted for his brown shoes like a man obsessed.
He had to figure out what the hell had just gone on between the two of them.
***
ALSO 5:30 PM
Alexandria, VA
Mulder was sighing. He was still dressed from the day, from jacket to skirt, and splayed on his couch. Scully was pillowing his feet in her lap. His shoes were gone and his eyes were closed. Scully was smiling to herself as she massaged his arches, remembering the many times Mulder had done the same for her.
"Scully, I don't know if I've ever told you this, but I commend you for walking in heels," he said.
She started to laugh. "Well, I commend you for managing yourself so well today. You did a good job on the paperwork, for once."
"It wasn't a big deal. Hey, look, I'm sorry about always dumping it on you. I know it's a pain in the ass. I probably ought to do more of it."
"Yep," she said.
There was a pause. Her hands stilled.
"I didn't say you could stop rubbing," he said.
Scully put on her famous, dour, "You're a dead man," look.
Then she tickled his feet. He shrieked like a small child and swung his legs away, and she laughed. In response, he moved quickly and defiantly into her personal space, and kissed her. She sighed under his lips. But then she grabbed his neck and kept it going for a little while.
"Mmmmrrr?" she asked, finally.
"Uh?"
"Weemnop."
He broke away, laughing. "What?"
"We have to stop," she repeated, giggling and wiping her lips. "I have to get changed, and you REALLY have to get changed."
He moaned and sat up properly. "What time are we meeting them?"
"Seven, for dinner," she replied, getting up. "And I'm hungry already!"
"Oh, I got what you want right here," Mulder said, teasing her.
"Ha ha." She grabbed her coat by the door. "Are you picking me up?"
"I'll be there at six forty. How's that?"
"Perfect. I'll see you then."
She started to walk away, then stopped, annoyed. She turned around to see her partner sitting on the couch, staring at her.
"Mulder? Are you staring at my rear end again?"
He thought for a second. "Yes."
Scully smiled. "Good boy."
She turned back around and left, closing the door behind her. Mulder got up with a grin, shed his clothes, and headed for the shower.
They were going to have some fun tonight.
***
9 PM
Marty's Bistro
Table 4
Luke Pendrell, when not in make-up and a dress, was considered a decently good-looking guy by most of the women in the Bureau. He took no notice of this, since he didn't consider himself particularly handsome. But he was "spoken for" nonetheless. The last three years had been very good to him. And tonight, he was going to make everything official. He hoped. Sitting here at a table in a small bistro on the waterfront, alone for the moment, he ran through his little speech in his head one more time. This would be his only opportunity to calm down and "rehearse," because his date was in the bathroom.
He sighed, ran his fingers through his wavy red hair, cut not too short and not too long, and glanced at himself in the window. The darkness outside gave him a nice reflection. His light blue dress shirt was neat and hugged his well-formed shoulders. Below the level of the table, he smoothed his tan slacks and straightened the leather belt around his trim waist. He anxiously looked in the window again. His eyes, big and blue, stood out against the pale peach of his freckly skin. He fingered his narrow nose and wondered for the thousandth time how he'd gotten so . . . lucky.
"Fer chrissake, I'm just a short little Irish computer nerd. What on earth is she doing with me?" he muttered.
Then suddenly, it hit him. It didn't matter 'what on earth.' It simply was. And there was no room for doubt anymore. No time for second- guessing. Because here she was at the table again, sitting down primly, and looking at him with her large brown eyes.
"Dinner was great," she said, and picked up her wine glass. "This is such a nice place."
"Yeah," he said, still lost in thought.
"Lucky? You okay, honey?" she asked, and took a sip. "You look a little nervous."
"No, I'm fine," he replied, fingering the box in his pants pocket.
It was now or never. He was about to ask the most difficult question of his life. And he was about to ask it of Holly Baker.
"Holly, listen," he said. "I've been putting this off all night, and I . . ." His vocal chords failed him.
"Lucky?" Holly asked, concerned.
Lucky got down on one knee. Holly gasped and nearly spilled her drink. The few customers still in the restaurant started to stare. A few waiters had been watching Lucky all evening. They peeked out from the kitchen doors, waiting to see what would happen. The restaurant was growing quiet.
Lucky felt his palms start to sweat. He was about to open his mouth, tell her that in spite of his nickname he never felt lucky at all, and then he met her, blah blah blah.
He looked at her. Her cute, round face was properly shadowed in the dim light. Her great brown eyes gazed at him gently. And she smiled, a sweet grin that nobody at the office ever saw. Her eyes were twinkling, brimming with emotion. She knew what was coming. She knew her answer. She blushed furiously and cupped her hands over her face, just tickled to death.
He grinned at her, his heart hammering and stomach churning. And then he realized, bowing his head in panic, that the sight of this woman had made him forget what he wanted to say. He couldn't even look up at her, until he felt the feathery touch of fingers under his chin. They were drawing his face up and up, towards her. He looked into her eyes.
"Lucky," she said. "Say it."
And his nervousness dissolved into laughing and shaking his head at this whole crazy thing. It would all be okay. He could tell from the way she looked at him. So he blew out a breath, and took his chance.
"Holly, I love you," he said simply. "Will you marry me?" he asked, and showed her the ring.
She didn't even look at it, just made herself at home in his eyes, and whispered "Yes" with a big smile. Tears were tracing their way down her cheeks. She glowed.
Lucky's hands were shaking like hell, so she put the ring on herself as he fumbled for the table's edge. He stood up, only to stumble back when she got up and threw her arms around him, whispering "Yes, Yes, Yes," over and over in his ear.
They kissed, only breaking apart when they realized that the tiny crowd watching them was whooping it up and congratulating them. Lucky gave the crowd an embarrassed, goofy smile, which made Holly laugh. A few of the waiters kicked up a tune and everyone in the place started to dance.
Holly dried her tears against Lucky's chest, Lucky tested his lungs by breathing in Holly's hair, and they both found their legs and took to the floor, happy and full of love.
***
So Lucky got lucky, and Holly got her man. Yay! But what's become of our favorite Feds? Find out in Chapter 10 (and this really is the last chapter, I promise): "Two-Step."
Warning --- major Doggett-Reyes U.S.T., otherwise known as T.E.A.S.I.N.G, ahead.
***
Chapter 9: "Luck And The Single Guy."
5:30 PM
Falls Church, VA
Doggett couldn't help it. He moaned. It was supposed to come out as an "ah," a sigh of relief. But instead he produced an "unnnhh," his eyes tilting up in his head like a Baroque saint in ecstasy.
Reyes was amused by this. They were both on her partner's bed, she sitting Indian-style, he laying down, in a t-shirt from his drawer. He'd had just enough energy to remove his skirt and heels. She'd taken off the jacket and shoes she was wearing, and then she'd started in on this little "project." Grinning, she clipped air with her scissors.
"Bet that felt good, huh?"
"Oh, yeah."
"Let me get the other side."
"Mmm."
She reached her scissors down and cut the elastic on the other side of the waist of his hose. He moaned again. All the pressure was gone. He just lay there, limp, as she got off the bed and stood at the edge. She reached forward, grabbed hold of the material, and dragged the now useless pantyhose down over his butt, thighs, calves, and feet. She made a big show of flinging the things across the room.
He lay there, now clad only in his underwear and a shirt, and felt . . . relaxed. Normally, he knew he would be really nervous about a woman seeing him in his underwear, particularly briefs, but with Reyes it was oddly comfortable.
He smiled at her, his blue eyes warm and clear as an August sky. She smiled back, her chocolate ones burrowing into him. He flexed his feet and wiggled his toes to show his appreciation. Amused, she spent a few seconds batting at them, but then she looked at his waist and frowned.
"The hose left a little red mark on you," she said. "Right . . . there."
She leaned forward and poked his waist gently. He squirmed, and since she was hovering over him, he poked her in the same place. She let out a little shriek and pulled away.
"Ticklish?" he asked.
"No," she answered, much too quickly.
He snorted. "Uh huh."
"How are your legs?" she asked, changing the subject.
"They're . . ." he struggled to pull his head up and look at them. "Shaved. Thanks for asking." His head flomped back onto the pillow.
She started laughing. "It grows back, John. And in case I haven't told you enough, I thought you made a 'killer chick' today."
"Gee, thanks. Just what a guy needs to hear. 'You look fantastic in a dress!'"
"Well, you did!" she said, giggling. "Do your legs still work, by the way?"
"I don't know. My calves are on fire, so I guess that means I still have sensation. But those heels? Man. I don't know how you do it. Day after day . . ." He trailed off.
"Aw, poor baby. Here, let me help."
She cracked her knuckles. This alarmed him a little bit. He propped himself up on his elbows to watch her, ready to yell "stop" at whatever she was about to do. This was one of the more interesting traits of Monica Reyes --- he rarely knew what to expect from her.
Finally, she held out her hands to him. He took them cautiously, but let her pull him into a sitting position, then watched as she clambered up on the edge of the bed, perching on her knees, his feet up against her thighs. She pulled toward herself gently, stretching his back. Doggett heard his spine make a few satisfying popping noises.
A few minutes later, he was standing on one leg, leaning on her for balance.
"That's it," she said. "Flex your foot. Now point your toes. Flex. Point."
She helped him stretch his calves and then let him lean on her again to stretch his thighs. He held onto her without reservation, but kept his eyes pointedly on the ground, so as not look at her, lose his grip, and fall over.
Their physical proximity was already screwing him up in the most delightful way. He was getting drunk from the soapy smell of her hair, and the intoxicating smell of her skin, a heady mixture of oregano and smoke. Her flesh was the color of bronze, the texture of velvet. And she was wearing one of his shirts.
He gulped.
But this was no time to lose control. He cleared his throat, planted both feet firmly on the ground, put on his most polite face, and smiled at her.
"Thanks a lot, Mon. That really helped. I'm gonna get changed. Where are we meeting them again?"
"The Supper Club," Reyes said, crossing her arms and unabashedly admiring the rear view as her partner padded into the adjoining bathroom. "It's that trendy new place downtown. And since I don't live here . . . I'll have to go back to my apartment to get ready."
Doggett poked his head out the door, a toothbrush in his mouth. "Ya need a lift?" he asked. It came out like, "Eed a litht?" Then he ducked back in.
"John, I came in my car. Remember?" she said, smiling.
Honestly, Sherlock Holmes, the man was not. She grabbed her purse from the bureau and emptied it out onto Doggett's bed. Much to her amusement, all that fell out was Doggett's wallet, his keys, and a fresh travel pack of Kleenex.
"It's not fair," she commented. "How in the hell can men pack so light?"
Doggett came out of the bathroom, toweling his face off. Apparently he hadn't heard her. "Listen, Monica, it's not a problem. I can just pull on a pair of pants and drive you."
"No, John, it's okay. Really. I've got my car. I just need to get changed."
"Okay, then," he said with a little shrug. "Just, uh, if you could, toss my suit in a bag whenever you get the time, and . . ."
"Take it to the dry cleaners?"
He laughed. "No! I don't wanna put you out. Just bring it back to my place, or I'll go to yours . . ." he sighed, halfway to the dresser.
And then he turned to her. The streetlamp outside caught all the right shadows on him, showing off a remarkably fit body under that t-shirt and briefs. His voice shifted from its usual tough guy rasp to pure Georgia smoke.
"Of course, if you spent more time *here,* we wouldn't have this problem."
Reyes looked at him for a moment. And then the Harlequin-esque scene was broken by laughter --- hers from disbelief, his from nervousness.
"John Doggett, you are the most ungraceful flirt I have ever seen," Reyes said, then walked over to him, narrowing her eyes and licking her lips. "I guess I'll just have to teach you how to do a better job."
"I guess you will," he said quietly, giving her a little grin. "Pick 'ya up?" he asked, brushing past her gently as he headed for the bathroom again.
"Sure. When?"
"I dunno. Quarter of seven? You don't live that far from Downtown," he replied, from behind the door.
"Sounds good," she said, grabbing her purse and starting off. "All right, well, I'm off."
"See you later!" he called, and she left.
***
Reyes decided not to ponder why she was so disappointed as she walked down the stairs, away from him. So that was John Doggett, really and truly off- duty. Funny, comfortable with himself, and obviously comfortable with her.
But that remark he made in the lamplight. . .
It wouldn't leave her alone. Now she understood Scully's dilemma with Mulder's famous innuendo. There was so much room for misinterpretation!
She didn't know whether push this with her partner or let it go, to head it off at the pass or run with it. Then again, there was no time for running of any kind right now, except to her uptown loft, where her clothes and make-up were. She stepped on the gas and sped away, picking out an outfit in her head and praying that what she came up with was actually clean and hanging in her closet.
***
Doggett concentrated on cleaning himself up, and tried really hard to hide the fact that he felt rejected. He couldn't even figure out why. He'd just seen that glazed look in her eyes and made a stupid joke to lighten things up.
"Oh, who am I kidding?" he muttered. "I didn't make a stupid joke. I made a pass at her. It was wrong, I know. She's my partner. She doesn't need that crap. I blame my Y-chromosome. But damned if she didn't respond!"
This pleasant thought buzzed through his head for some minutes, while he laid out a few different shirts, until it was obliterated by the terrifying "what if."
"What if . . . Oh, no. What if she only shot that back at me because she thought I was joking? What if she doesn't know . . . how I feel about her?"
He held up a few dress shirts to himself.
"It's third and eleven," he muttered, then started rambling. "Tight game tonight, folks! And here we go! John makes a pass at Monica. Monica catches, laughs, makes a pass back at John, who catches smoothly.
And he breaks away! The crowd's going nuts! He's charging his way up the field, the endzone in sight, when WHAM! Oooh, and he goes down like a brick! Tackled by his own self-doubt and fear! That's gotta hurt, Hank. Let's go to instant replay."
Finally, he decided on his dark blue polo shirt and brown slacks. He scratched his head, walking over to his dresser, and pulled out socks and a pair of boxers before getting his shirt off. He just hoped this was the sort of thing to wear to a trendy dining place, when he remembered the sweater. She'd given it to him a few years back --- it brought out his eyes, she said. It was deep green and looked good with the pants. He grabbed it from the closet, crouched, and hunted for his brown shoes like a man obsessed.
He had to figure out what the hell had just gone on between the two of them.
***
ALSO 5:30 PM
Alexandria, VA
Mulder was sighing. He was still dressed from the day, from jacket to skirt, and splayed on his couch. Scully was pillowing his feet in her lap. His shoes were gone and his eyes were closed. Scully was smiling to herself as she massaged his arches, remembering the many times Mulder had done the same for her.
"Scully, I don't know if I've ever told you this, but I commend you for walking in heels," he said.
She started to laugh. "Well, I commend you for managing yourself so well today. You did a good job on the paperwork, for once."
"It wasn't a big deal. Hey, look, I'm sorry about always dumping it on you. I know it's a pain in the ass. I probably ought to do more of it."
"Yep," she said.
There was a pause. Her hands stilled.
"I didn't say you could stop rubbing," he said.
Scully put on her famous, dour, "You're a dead man," look.
Then she tickled his feet. He shrieked like a small child and swung his legs away, and she laughed. In response, he moved quickly and defiantly into her personal space, and kissed her. She sighed under his lips. But then she grabbed his neck and kept it going for a little while.
"Mmmmrrr?" she asked, finally.
"Uh?"
"Weemnop."
He broke away, laughing. "What?"
"We have to stop," she repeated, giggling and wiping her lips. "I have to get changed, and you REALLY have to get changed."
He moaned and sat up properly. "What time are we meeting them?"
"Seven, for dinner," she replied, getting up. "And I'm hungry already!"
"Oh, I got what you want right here," Mulder said, teasing her.
"Ha ha." She grabbed her coat by the door. "Are you picking me up?"
"I'll be there at six forty. How's that?"
"Perfect. I'll see you then."
She started to walk away, then stopped, annoyed. She turned around to see her partner sitting on the couch, staring at her.
"Mulder? Are you staring at my rear end again?"
He thought for a second. "Yes."
Scully smiled. "Good boy."
She turned back around and left, closing the door behind her. Mulder got up with a grin, shed his clothes, and headed for the shower.
They were going to have some fun tonight.
***
9 PM
Marty's Bistro
Table 4
Luke Pendrell, when not in make-up and a dress, was considered a decently good-looking guy by most of the women in the Bureau. He took no notice of this, since he didn't consider himself particularly handsome. But he was "spoken for" nonetheless. The last three years had been very good to him. And tonight, he was going to make everything official. He hoped. Sitting here at a table in a small bistro on the waterfront, alone for the moment, he ran through his little speech in his head one more time. This would be his only opportunity to calm down and "rehearse," because his date was in the bathroom.
He sighed, ran his fingers through his wavy red hair, cut not too short and not too long, and glanced at himself in the window. The darkness outside gave him a nice reflection. His light blue dress shirt was neat and hugged his well-formed shoulders. Below the level of the table, he smoothed his tan slacks and straightened the leather belt around his trim waist. He anxiously looked in the window again. His eyes, big and blue, stood out against the pale peach of his freckly skin. He fingered his narrow nose and wondered for the thousandth time how he'd gotten so . . . lucky.
"Fer chrissake, I'm just a short little Irish computer nerd. What on earth is she doing with me?" he muttered.
Then suddenly, it hit him. It didn't matter 'what on earth.' It simply was. And there was no room for doubt anymore. No time for second- guessing. Because here she was at the table again, sitting down primly, and looking at him with her large brown eyes.
"Dinner was great," she said, and picked up her wine glass. "This is such a nice place."
"Yeah," he said, still lost in thought.
"Lucky? You okay, honey?" she asked, and took a sip. "You look a little nervous."
"No, I'm fine," he replied, fingering the box in his pants pocket.
It was now or never. He was about to ask the most difficult question of his life. And he was about to ask it of Holly Baker.
"Holly, listen," he said. "I've been putting this off all night, and I . . ." His vocal chords failed him.
"Lucky?" Holly asked, concerned.
Lucky got down on one knee. Holly gasped and nearly spilled her drink. The few customers still in the restaurant started to stare. A few waiters had been watching Lucky all evening. They peeked out from the kitchen doors, waiting to see what would happen. The restaurant was growing quiet.
Lucky felt his palms start to sweat. He was about to open his mouth, tell her that in spite of his nickname he never felt lucky at all, and then he met her, blah blah blah.
He looked at her. Her cute, round face was properly shadowed in the dim light. Her great brown eyes gazed at him gently. And she smiled, a sweet grin that nobody at the office ever saw. Her eyes were twinkling, brimming with emotion. She knew what was coming. She knew her answer. She blushed furiously and cupped her hands over her face, just tickled to death.
He grinned at her, his heart hammering and stomach churning. And then he realized, bowing his head in panic, that the sight of this woman had made him forget what he wanted to say. He couldn't even look up at her, until he felt the feathery touch of fingers under his chin. They were drawing his face up and up, towards her. He looked into her eyes.
"Lucky," she said. "Say it."
And his nervousness dissolved into laughing and shaking his head at this whole crazy thing. It would all be okay. He could tell from the way she looked at him. So he blew out a breath, and took his chance.
"Holly, I love you," he said simply. "Will you marry me?" he asked, and showed her the ring.
She didn't even look at it, just made herself at home in his eyes, and whispered "Yes" with a big smile. Tears were tracing their way down her cheeks. She glowed.
Lucky's hands were shaking like hell, so she put the ring on herself as he fumbled for the table's edge. He stood up, only to stumble back when she got up and threw her arms around him, whispering "Yes, Yes, Yes," over and over in his ear.
They kissed, only breaking apart when they realized that the tiny crowd watching them was whooping it up and congratulating them. Lucky gave the crowd an embarrassed, goofy smile, which made Holly laugh. A few of the waiters kicked up a tune and everyone in the place started to dance.
Holly dried her tears against Lucky's chest, Lucky tested his lungs by breathing in Holly's hair, and they both found their legs and took to the floor, happy and full of love.
***
So Lucky got lucky, and Holly got her man. Yay! But what's become of our favorite Feds? Find out in Chapter 10 (and this really is the last chapter, I promise): "Two-Step."
