Chapter 12
Munching on the slice of bread she had snatched when Grissom froze in place for the third or so time that night, Sara regarded his face. That look . . . he looked like someone had just smacked him. She didn't think it was the food – he'd told her it tasted good. Could it be that he had felt that electric jolt when their hands touched, too? Or maybe he was shocked at her touch because he didn't like to touch her. That had to be it. She felt her face growing red. Oh god. What was she doing here, with him, trying to pretend she didn't have the world's biggest crush on him? She prayed her sudden mortification didn't show on her face. Ducking her head, she started shoveling in quiche like there was no tomorrow.
Grissom shook his head, trying to clear out the images of him and Sara that were dancing through his mind. Noticing her red face (after all, he was a trained investigator), he wondered what was going through her mind. He was pretty sure that Sara had, or at least had had when she moved to Vegas, what would have been called a "crush" in high school. Maybe her face was red because her mind was showing her the same sort of images as his was showing him. No, not likely – he didn't think women, generally speaking, had such, uh, explicit mental images. Which brought him back to the problem currently at hand: standing up would not be a good idea right now.
Momentarily discounting the party in his pants, Grissom wondered what he was going to do now. He had admitted to himself that he wanted to pursue a . . . a something with Sara. He thought that maybe she'd be amenable to the same. "Ok genius," said a voice in his head that sounded strangely like Sara's, "you think you've got a chance. Now whatcha gonna do about it?" He glanced up and was surprised by the sight of Sara, sitting perfectly still in front of an empty plate, staring at him.
"Are you ok, Grissom? You haven't spoken for, like, 10 minutes." She smiled tentatively, but he thought he detected her mentally withdrawing.
"Fine. Just fine." He struggled to keep a straight face as his mind and body both reminded him that was most definitely not fine at the moment. "Are you finished? I'll clean off the table . . . did you have a, um, dessert planned?" He could think of a few sweet things that – no no no no! Think of something, anything else. Time for those baseball scores again.
Sara's face brightened. "Yeah, actually, I do – but it's a surprise. Why don't you go take that shower you were talking about while I get it ready?" She would not, repeat NOT, spend the time imagining Grissom in the shower. It wasn't like she could act on her thoughts, anyway.
Her bathroom again. This could be dangerous, he decided, but anything was better than sitting at this table, afraid to stand up. Maybe he'd take a cold shower and plot some strategy. "Sounds like a plan, Sara. Where do you keep your towels?"
As she led him to the bathroom, Sara fought with herself. "Mmm, Grissom in shower," said one part of her brain. "No thinking about Grissom!" admonished another. "Soccer scores, Sara – soccer scores," suggested a third. This was getting a little out of hand. She needed to just get back to the kitchen and focus on her semi-famous "banilla" pudding.
Settling in at the counter, she grabbed the pudding – instant, thankfully – and soymilk. Whisking them together was actually quite therapeutic, she decided. Gave her a chance to take out some of her frustrations on the milk. Unfortunately, she could only whisk for so long; there came a time when it had to go into the refrigerator.
After placing the bowl of pudding there, Sara sank down on the couch with a sigh. Ten minutes until it was set and she could add the other ingredients. Grabbing a highlighter and the forensics journal Warrick had enjoyed so much the night before, she settled down to read.
Despite her best intentions, the highlighter soon fell from her fingers as her body realized she hadn't slept in almost 22 hours.
