Chapter 50
Grissom leaned against the doorway of his townhouse, watching Sara walking up the drive toward him. "Good to see you haven't wrapped yourself around a tree yet," he told her by way of greeting.
Reaching the door, Sara poked him in the chest. "And a good morning to you too, Mister Sunshine." Leaning against the other side of the doorway, she mirrored his position. "And I'll have you know I'm a very good driver. I've been driving the way I do for fifteen years I haven't had an accident yet."
"Nothing to say it won't still happen, Sara. You ought to take some care."
Sara pushed off the doorjamb, leaning closer to Grissom. Staring him in the face she said very clearly, "I am a good driver, Grissom. I won't kill myself, I won't kill anyone else. Now, can we go inside? It's getting hot out here." She flapped the front of her shirt, trying to let some air in.
Grissom stepped back into the house, allowing her to enter. "I'm not belittling your driving skills, Sara. I'm just worried – being a good driver doesn't always mean you can avoid accidents."
"Oh, shut up." Slinging an arm around his neck, she gave him a kiss. "Besides, you don't get to complain today, you're still in trouble for snapping my bra."
Grissom muffled a laugh. "What would you rather have had me do? Keep my hand in your shirt while we conversed with Catherine?" She scowled at him. "Ok, ok, I'm sorry. We'll, uh, put some ice on it or something, how's that?" He couldn't disguise the mirth on his face at the thought of icing down Sara's chest.
Sara harrumphed. "Well you didn't have to yank your hand out like it was going to get bitten. Catherine got a very clear idea of what we were doing, anyway." Sighing, she added, "And you should just see my body right now. Between lounging on the hard bathroom floor, banging my elbows on the shower walls," she gave him a dirty look when he stifled a laugh, " – that one was YOUR fault - that slap on the back someone gave me, and your little bra trick, I'm covered with bruises and welts!"
"Poor baby. Well don't worry, I'm here to, uh . . . help."
Sara laughed. "I'll just bet you are. Anyway, I'm going to go put on some shorts, cause these pants are killing me. I suggest you spend the time I'm gone thinking about ways to not add more bruises to my collection." She turned and headed for the bedroom.
"I'd rather not spend all the time thinking of that, thanks all the same. You want some breakfast?" he asked, following her a few feet into the hallway.
Sara's head popped out of the open bedroom doorway. "No, I'm good. Nick bought me a late lunch. Now go entertain yourself," she told him, and shut the door.
When he heard the door open again a few minutes later, Grissom called to her, a little tightly, "Bought you lunch, did he?" Oh for heaven's sake, he told himself, this was Nick they were talking about, not some guy who was going to steal Sara away.
Reappearing in front of him, Sara enjoyed the look on his face as he registered what she was wearing. She'd commandeered another pair of his shorts and an undershirt; the shorts were rolled down at the waistband and the undershirt was knotted at the small of her back, exposing a few inches of skin. "Yeah, bought me lunch. To apologize for yesterday. Something wrong with that?"
He shook his head sheepishly. "No, no, it's just . . ."
"That it makes you jealous?" She grinned. "I'm not dumb, Gil. You have a possessive look in your eyes whenever you come near me lately."
Oops. He had thought he was hiding it well. "Um, well . . . I don't mean to. I mean, obviously you can have lunch with whoever you want to."
"Yep, I can. Besides, he only offered it after I couldn't corner you to eat with. Trust me, Grissom, Nick's not going to be stealing my heart. Well, at least not that way." At his alarmed look, she tried to clarify. "We're the closest in age of anyone at CSI, it's natural that we'd hang out and become good friends."
"Yeah . . . close in age." Well that was depressing, he mused. Sure, Sara and Nick were only a few weeks apart in age. But Sara and Grissom? A few weeks between their birthdays. . . and fifteen years more.
Her sharp voice interrupted her thoughts. "Stop worrying!" She waved a hand in front of his face, trying to get his eyes to focus on her. "Let's review, here – who have I spent the past week sharing a bed with? Not Nick. Who's the only person in Las Vegas besides my doctor who's seen me in less clothing than this?" She waved a hand at herself, indicating the brief shirt and shorts. "Not Nick. Not Warrick. You."
He sighed. "I know, Sara. I just . . . worry that you might come to your senses and decide I'm too old for you."
"Helloooo," she said indignantly, "how many times have I told you that you're not old? You won't be old until you can't carry my drunk ass home. And by that time, my ass won't be getting drunk very much anyway. Got it?"
Without waiting for an answer, she gave a satisfied nod and changed topics. "Now, what was that about icing my back? Because just LOOK at this baby!" Pulling up the back of her shirt, Sara revealed a perfect hand-shaped bruise. "I'm going to make everyone compare their hands to it tomorrow so I know who to hit back."
Grissom had to smile at that one. "Wasn't me. But how exactly do you plan to get everyone to compare their hands to it without taking off your shirt for each of them?"
She furrowed her brow. "Hmm, good point. Well I can always get you to take a scaled photo." When he opened his mouth to protest, she grinned. "Just kidding, Grissom. Maybe I'll just make you tell me who it was."
"Catherine," he responded without hesitation.
Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Well," Sara said reflectively, "I've got you well-trained, don't I." Grissom spluttered a response. "Kidding, kidding," she assured him, patting his hand. "Don't give that old heart of yours an attack."
"Sara! You said . . ."
"I know. You're not old. But it's just so easy to push your buttons by making jokes about it!" She shrugged. "Now, that ice pack?" She reached into her bag, pulling out a tattered Stephen King novel. "I brought something to occupy myself while I recuperate."
Grissom laughed. "Recuperate?" he asked as he headed for the kitchen freezer, "You make it sound like you got shot in the back, not smacked."
"What, do you think this is some angsty piece of fiction or something? This is real life; I don't plan on getting shot anytime soon. Even if it would make you declare your undying love for me," she grinned.
