Chapter 16

Grissom kissed her forehead.

No. no, no, no, Sara's mind screamed. If she'd ever seen a cop-out, that had been one. He hadn't kissed her.

He couldn't believe he'd just done that. He wished he could rewind time 5 seconds. He, Gil Grissom, a 46-year old man, had just chickened out on kissing a woman. This wasn't supposed to happen! His face was flaming.

She couldn't deal with this. Couldn't. How could this have happened? How could he have done this to her? How could this. . . he touched her hand. Wrapped his fingers around it.

"Sara. I'm sorry. That was . . . badly done of me," Grissom ventured. Sara looked down at their hands, saying nothing. He waved his free hand, encompassing the bed and the people on it. "I'm . . . not very good at this."

Sara was silent. What was she supposed to say? She had no idea what Grissom meant. He wasn't good at kissing women? He wasn't good at letting women down easy?

This was bad, Grissom knew. He'd screwed it up royally. Well, damn. How was he going to set things right – or at least back to normal? He'd just have to try to make her understand that the fact that he bollixed this up didn't mean that he wasn't interested. Normalcy . . . how to return to normalcy. He blurted out the first normal-sounding thing that came to mind:

"Uh, Sara . . . you said you made dessert?" Ok, that didn't sound so good. "Uh, I mean . . . um, we've got to get out of bed soon anyway and start thinking about work, so, uh, how 'bout I help you with this dessert of yours?" He tried to make the last part sound suggestive, but he wasn't so good at that either – it just came out sounding lecherous.

Sara blinked. Ok, this was just strange. She was pretty sure Grissom was trying to make peace, or apologize, or something . . . but if that was true, this was by far the weirdest way she'd ever been apologized to – "Hey baby, let's go have dessert." She couldn't help it, thinking of what he'd just said made her crack a smile. Maybe he was just a screw-up when it came to being romantic. . .

She extricated her hand from his grip and reached over to playfully tap the side of his head. "I don't know what's going on in that twisted mind of yours, Grissom, but hey, if you want dessert we'll have dessert. You're going to have to help me make it, though – think you can handle it this time?"

She was never going to let him live down his inability to bake bread, was she? Oh, well. There were worse things to be mocked for. Like not being able to kiss a beautiful woman. The good news was that she seemed to find this situation more humorous than painful – or at least she was acting like it. He smiled. Well he'd take what he could get!

He stood, and before Sara could get to her feet next to him, Grissom had grandly swept her into his arms. "O milady, allow me to ask a boon: that you not kill me," he exclaimed theatrically.

Sara laughed. "What the . . . put me down, Grissom! You're nuts!" He didn't obey, though, and she soon found herself in the kitchen, still being carried by a grinning Grissom who was making dramatic, pained noises about her weight. "C'mon, seriously – put me down," Sara giggled.

Grissom grinned evilly, and in the next moment Sara was unceremoniously deposited on the kitchen counter. "Oof! When I said to put me down, I meant gently! Some kind of knight errant YOU are!" She hopped down from the counter and poked Grissom in the chest. "You're gonna pay for that, bossman! You won't know when, you won't know how . . . but oh yes, you will pay."

Having driven the fear of god – or at least of Sara – into him, Sara opened the refrigerator and removed the bowl of pudding, which had been setting for rather longer than the 10 minutes Sara intended. "Where'd you put the rest of the groceries, Gris?"

He pointed to the bags on the floor. "Want me to get them? What do you need from the bag?"

"Um, grab the 'Nilla wafers . . . I think that's all I need that we just bought, actually. There're some bananas in the fridge, would you get those too?" Grissom nodded. "Great."

He retrieved the cookies and the fruit and plopped them onto the counter in front of her. "Ok, boss, give me a job to do," Grissom joked.

Sara snorted. "That's right, grovel. Now," she said as she pushed Grissom and the bananas over toward her knife block, "slice those, please. Thin. Can you handle that?" To her amusement, Grissom stuck his tongue out at her.

"I was a coroner, Sara – I think I know how to cut things up."

"I'll take that as a yes." Sara set herself to work breaking the cookies into halves, then mixing them into the pudding.

They worked in companionable silence for a few minutes, until Grissom announced, "Done! Your bananas, madame," and presented the cutting board to her with a flourish.

"Gee, thanks, just what I always wanted," Sara responded dryly. She took the cutting board and scraped the fruit into her bowl, stirring the pieces into the pudding/cookie mixture. "Almost done now – it just needs the finishing touch."

"Oh? And what might that be?"

"In the fridge – there should be a can of whipped cream in the door."

Grissom thought for a second. "Wait, whipped cream? I thought you didn't eat milk products."

Sara shrugged. "Every woman's got a weakness . . . mine happens to be canned whipped cream. Now, gimme." He handed her the can and eased himself right next to her, next to the wall. Sara upended the can over the bowl, looking rather proud of herself as she pressed the nozzle to the side.

What came out was not whipped cream. Instead, there came a wet hissing noise – "what the . . ." exclaimed Grissom – and then a series of pops. These noises were followed by bits of whipped cream squirting out everywhere but onto the pudding. Grissom caught the brunt of the explosion.

Sara tried not to laugh, she really did, but it was no use. The laughter bubbled out of her as she stuttered, "I . . . I guess that can's . . . hahaha . . .EMPTY!"

Grissom scowled. "I just took a shower, Sara!"

A doubled-over Sara managed to choke out, "Looks like you're going to have to take another one!" Grissom made a face at her, and she made a visible effort to calm herself. After a few minutes, she had herself back under control. "I'm sorry, I really am. I thought I had almost that whole can left. Luckily for us, I do keep another can in the back of the fridge – just in case I ever run out on a night when I need to binge – so we can use that. I'll even let you wield the can, if you're worried."

Grissom retrieved the second can from the refrigerator and brought it back to the counter where they had been working. "I don't trust you, Sara – I'll take advantage of your kind offer to let me apply this whipped cream." Sara harrumphed, but nodded, moving over so Grissom could stand in front of the dessert.

He smiled fondly at her as he removed the top from the can. "So you said I'm just supposed to push this nozzle here," he indicated the top of the can, "to the side?" Sara nodded. "Okay, then." Grissom turned the can down toward the pudding, put his finger on the nozzle . . . and quickly brought the can up to nail Sara with the first burst of whipped cream.