A/N: The Italian Village is the name of an actual, AMAZING restaurant in one of my favorite citiesChicago.
Brass was taken aback by Sara's appearance. Besides the fact that she looked good—damn good—he was shocked by how different she looked outside of work. It wasn't the jeans, the sandals, or even—oh, my—the button-down shirt left open right down to her cleavage. It was something else. The tiny, subtle lines that appeared in her face when she was really bothered by a case, the dead look in those eyes that had seen too much, the tension carried in knotted shoulders—all of those things were gone. She looked…relaxed. Her skin was smooth and supple, her eyes were clear and held a spark, and her body language indicated nothing but total ease. Brass made these observations in the split second it took for him to step forward to kiss her cheek after she opened the door to him.
"You ready?" he asked.
"Absolutely," came her reply.
As Sara stepped into the hallway and reached into her bag for her keys, she surreptitiously took him in. 'Wow,' she thought. She wasn't sure she'd ever seen him in anything other than his usual suit, so his attire came as a surprise. He was dressed casually but conservatively in khaki pants and a light blue button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He wore brown loafers on his feet, giving him every air of a guy about to play a casual round of golf with the guys.
She finished locking the door behind her and fell into step with Jim. "So where are we going?" she inquired.
"Little place called The Italian Village. Best-kept secret in Vegas. I discovered it when I first moved here and was jonesing for a little piece of Jersey. It's a tiny, out of the way little dive, but the food is excellent. It's run by an actual Italian family, believe it or not," he finished with a snort. "Most of the places back home were run by Italians who had been in the States for five generations. The people who own this place have only been here for about fifteen years. And yes," he added as an afterthought, "they do have a vegetarian menu. Sound okay to you?"
Sara stared at him. "You knew I was a vegetarian?"
Brass chuckled. "How could I not know, after the hell you gave Grissom last time he forgot?" At the mention of Grissom's name, her face clouded for an instant, and Brass immediately felt the smile fall from his face. "Ugh, sorry," he apologized sincerely. "That was a rather intelligent move, huh?"
Sara laughed at his self-deprecation, and the tension fell away.
-
The restaurant was exactly as Brass described it—a tiny dive at the end of a rundown strip mall lost in the outskirts of Vegas. It certainly had character enough on the inside, with intimate booths and classic red-and-white checkered tablecloths, but it was by no means elegant.
Brass led Sara inside, asked the hostess for a table for two, and motioned Sara ahead when the hostess replied, "Right this way." He fell into step next to her, and Sara managed to keep her surprise in check when Brass slipped his hand into hers. As they reached a secluded booth at the back of the small restaurant, Brass released her hand to take his seat across from her. The hostess placed menus on the table, ran down the nightly specials, and finished with, "Your server will be with you in a moment."
Their server turned out to be an Italian beauty of about 18. Brass deduced that she was most likely the owners' daughter and had spent most of her life in the States. When she asked if she could bring them some wine, Sara was surprised at Brass' enthusiastic nod. "The house table wine, please," he requested.
He looked up at Sara and caught her raised eyebrow. Responding to her unspoken question, he locked his eyes on hers. "It's under control?" he asked. Sara nodded silently. "Then I'm not worried about it," he said quietly, an air of finality about his voice. Sara wondered then if he knew about her near-DUI or if he was just referring to their conversation about more problems than answers being in the bottom of a bottle. She decided that this was not the opportune time to discuss it.
-
Brass might have been honest about the restaurant's unique…atmosphere, but he had certainly been less than truthful about the food quality. That is to say, "excellent" just didn't cut it. Every time Sara took a bite of her fettuccine alfredo, she was certain her mouth was having an orgasm. The entire meal had been much the same. The salad, with its tangy house-made Italian dressing, had been fresh, crisp, and satisfying. The homemade bread was perfect—neither too hard, nor too doughy. And the main course? Ah, it was heaven on a plate. Sara and Brass had both chosen the fettuccine alfredo, despite her repeated assurances that he was more than welcome to order something with meat in it. "No, really, the alfredo sauce is amazing," he had said.
The most surprising thing about dinner was not the food, however. It was the decided lack of tension in the conversation. Try as she might, Sara couldn't help letting her thoughts wander back to Grissom. If this had been dinner with him, she mused, it would have taken all of ten minutes of awkward, strained conversation before one or both of them crawled right back into their respective shells and shut down. That, or an offhand comment would have been taken the wrong way, leaving someone pissed off. But with Jim, it was different. They had a lighthearted, easy banter with no pressure and no tension. He seemed genuinely interested in her, Sara Sidle, not just getting her into bed. He wanted to know more about her background—how had she liked living in his native New England during college? How did she go from being a physics major to a criminalist? What did she like to do when she wasn't at work? In turn, she found out more about Jim Brass, the person, not just Jim Brass, the homicide detective. She was surprised at what she found out: he preferred comedies to dramas ("I get enough drama at work, thanks."), he had a weakness for chocolate ice cream, and he was a rabid sports fan ("The Nets, the Giants, and the Mets—I hate the damn Yankees," he grumbled.).
It was during dessert, when Brass was in the middle of a dissertation on the finer points of Monty Python, that Sara looked across the table and had one of the more shocking epiphanies of her life. She could actually see herself falling in love with this man.
-
The ride back to Sara's apartment was full of the same easy banter that had dominated their dinner conversation—until Brass pulled into Sara's parking lot. As he shut off the engine and unbuckled his seatbelt, the same thought descended on both of them simultaneously: What now? Rounding the front of the car, he placed his hand gently at Sara's back as she closed her car door behind her.
'What now, what now, what now?' she chanted in her head as she nervously twisted her purse strap. Brass picked up on her nervousness and made his decision. He would accompany her to her door, give her a good-night kiss on the cheek, thank her for a wonderful evening, and be on his way. He had waited a long time for tonight; he would gladly wait longer for the physical relationship, if any, to come. Pressure was not his style, at least not outside of the interrogation room.
They reached her front door and Sara fumbled for a moment with her keys. Finally managing to locate the correct one, she slipped it into the lock. As she did so, she turned back to Brass. Before she could speak, Brass took the initiative. Flashing a warm, genuine smile, he said, "Thank you for a wonderful evening, Sara. I really enjoyed it." With that, he leaned in to kiss her cheek, but at the last moment, Sara turned, giving him access to her lips. He paused slightly, giving her time to back out, before proceeding. The kiss, Sara was certain, was one of the warmest, gentlest kisses she had ever received. Their lips parted slightly, but no tongue was introduced. Brass lingered a moment before pulling away, eyes still closed. When he opened them, he found himself staring into Sara's big brown eyes. "That was…nice," he murmured appreciatively.
"Mmm," Sara agreed, before taking a deep breath and jumping in head-first. "Jim…would you like to come in?"
Brass searched her eyes. "You're sure?"
A nod. She was becoming more certain with each passing moment. "Yeah. I am."
Brass nodded back. "Okay, then. I think I'd like that very much."
TBC…