He was still there when she sent her last report at 6:30. He'd busied himself with talking to Giles for awhile, and then he'd moved on to talk to a couple of the sales people and the program director from the AM station on the second floor of the Cinnamon Tree building. He was waiting on the bench in the ground floor lobby when she swung open the door from the stairwell.
"Have dinner with me," he said, standing to meet her.
Buffy heard the word "no" screaming in her head, but as soon as she opened her mouth she heard herself tell him okay.
"Do you live nearby?" Spike asked, escorting her through the lobby and holding the door open for her.
"Um, north of here a bit," she told him, unable to form a coherent thought. "And East... on Revello Drive."
"You live in a house?" he asked, now curious.
"I'm actually subletting an apartment in the top floor of an old house."
"Subletting," he repeated, following her into the parking area. "As in I'd better not commit in case this separation really is just trial?"
She dug her nails into her palms and let her lips form another lie.
"Yep," she nodded. "You never know."
She stopped in front of a beige Beetle convertible.
"Shall I drive?" She asked, wishing nothing more than to change the subject.
"Why don't I follow you," he told her. "And then we'll take my truck from there."
"From where?"
"Your place," he replied as if she were daft. "When I take a woman to dinner, I pick her up and I drop her off and if she's lucky, I kiss her so thoroughly that she's babbling my name for days."
Buffy felt the warmth creeping up her neck. She dug her keys out of her purse and then looked back up to see him leaning over the top of her car.
"You know this isn't a date, right?" she challenged him.
"I think this should definitely be a date, Pet," he responded with a grin. "And I think your other half should catch wind of it. Maybe a little jealousy would do him good. Or maybe you might just find out that you don't care what your other half thinks any more."
She sighed and shook her head. He was boyishly handsome with eyes that saw right into her soul. She watched as he walked across the lot to a black Explorer Sport Trac.
"Don't drive too fast," he warned her before getting into his truck. "Wouldn't want me to think you were trying to lose me."
He followed her at a safe distance, taking in all of the little things that were Sunnydale. He caught sight of a few small shops and a neighborhood bar called the Bronze that made him picture Buffy in something girly that showed lots of skin writhing in time to a pulsing beat. When they approached the corner of Revello and Whiteoak, she turned on her blinker and made a left. He followed. They passed by a row of Craftsman style houses before she turned on her blinker at a large Victorian-style home.
He parked in the guest spot next to her and shut off the truck. He sat for a moment, watching her as she walked toward her building. She stopped and stared at him, trying to appear annoyed, until he got out of the truck and followed her.
"Like I said," she told him as she slid the key into the deadbolt. "I'm subletting. So, most of the stuff in here does not belong to me. It was just a quick easy way for me to get a place to live until I figure out what I'm going to do."
"About the estranged husband?" he asked, as she held open the door for him.
"About my life in general," she sighed.
She flipped on a light switch just inside the doorway and shut the door behind them. The apartment smelled like her; a rare combination of vanilla and honeysuckle all wrapped up with a little bow of honeyed silk. He followed her into the living room where she offered him a seat and a drink. She certainly needed one.
He watched her through the breakfast bar as she poured a small can of pineapple juice into an ice-filled metal shaker. She added a hefty shot of bright green liqeur and another of coconut rum. She shook the concoction vigorously and then divided it into two cocktail glasses. Finally, she poured in a few drops of grenadine.
She crossed the living room and handed him a glass. He raised an eyebrow in question as to just what he was getting ready to drink and she smiled impishly.
"Gotham Sunrise," she told him, raising her glass to his. "To the ratings."
He clinked her glass and smiled back.
"To the ratings."
She disappeared into her bedroom to run a brush through her hair and freshen her make-up. He sat on the borrowed Santa Fe-inspired couch and took in the intricasies of her borrowed home. The Southwestern theme clearly wasn't her doing. He pictured her curled up on something plush and nubby in a deep shade of chocolate, her hair pulled back in a ponytail as she read a worn paperback romance novel. His eyes scanned the room and rested on a photograph, sitting on the end table, of her and a dark-haired man who was all forehead. They made an interesting looking couple, but he could tell from the photograph which one of them was really in love. She was looking up at him with a soft smile and her emotions pouring from her eyes. He was looking at the camera, leaning slightly away from her, with an amused look on his face.
"That's Angel," he heard her say. "My husband."
He nodded, wondering why she felt the compunction to constantly remind him that she was married. Her finger was still bare and it spoke volumes. He thought of pursuing the subject, but was afraid she'd quail and call off their dinner date. Not a date, he reminded himself.
"So," he said, standing.
He looked her over leisurely, taking in her freshly fluffed hair and the slightly darker eye make-up she had applied. To his ravenous eyes, she looked more like dessert than she did someone going to dinner.
"So," she echoed, reaching out a hand for his empty glass. "Good drink?"
She felt like a flustered teenager, cursing herself silently as she took his glass to the kitchen and placed it in the sink.
"Yeah," he said. "Different. Something you just made up?"
"Pretty much, yeah," she smiled. "During a stint as a bartender when I was in New York."
"New York, huh?"
"Yep. New York. Like anyone can live on just two salaries there!"