I do not own Blue Bloods

This is a story that follows Joe Hill/ Joe Reagan and an OC

My mother always said, "the best way to a man's heart is through his stomach". I supposed that every mother said it, or at least every mother in an old rom-com. I didn't believe it and I found it to be a bit sexist. However, it hadn't stopped me from trying every baked good recipe I had in my vintage recipe box on Joe Hill.

Joe Hill was my hot neighbor. I wasn't sure if he was hot because he was so mysterious, or if it just added to the whole persona. I knew he was a detective so he sometimes kept strange hours and sometimes was even gone for weeks at a time. He was tall, athletic, with storm blue eyes. Maybe the leather jacket he wore had something to do with it, or the east coast accent I still found so charming.

I was from Arkansas and when I moved to New York two years ago I had nearly peed my pants when everyone spoke. I had an accent too of course and sometimes I could see my customer's lips turn up in a smile at some words that my Arkansas accent caused me to lilt. It wasn't strong enough that people assumed I was from the south, but I did say things like worth Instead of wash. It gave New Yorkers no end of amusement, which was fine by me.

It was a warm enough evening and I enjoyed the sounds the city made. It all bubbled together in a symphony of dysfunction. The horns, the yelling, even distant sirens, and if I wasn't mistaken a train of some sort. It had taken me a while to get used to it but now I wasn't sure I would be able to sleep without the continuous cacophony.

I locked my shop up and pulled the gates across the glass windows and locked those as well. What there was to steal in a bakery I didn't know, as I took the money home every night and it wasn't even that much money. But once I had come to work in the morning and found my window smashed to bits and all the old pastries from the day before, taken out of the display cases. I would have thrown the pastries out and the insurance covered the window, so it hadn't been that terrible.

New York was a daunting place. It was bigger than I had ever imagined, there was substantially more crime and it was busy. Coming from my small town in Arkansas I was completely shocked upon my arrival. My illusion of running a pastry shop on bustling streets of New York from the movies had shattered.

Sure, I had opened a small bakery but it wasn't as grand or as popular as I had imagined. At least, I consoled myself, it was within walking distance of the apartment I rented from my uncle. I made enough money to cover rent at the shop and the apartment and I was never without food. My life wasn't terrible and recently had even started being pleasant.

I had said yes to a date today with a man named Tony who came in every other day for a cinnamon roll. He was not Joe Hill but he was tall and handsome and he called my love, not in a creepy way. Yes, I thought I would enjoy my date with Tony and he had promised to make it fun and relaxed; I was looking forward to it.

"Come on Clementine, you'll just make a guy fall in love with you with these pastries and leave him hangin'?" I remembered the line from that day and smiled to myself.

The fleeting warmth of the memory faded as I heard a commotion in the alleyway that I was passing. I slowed knowing I should just mind my own business. No good could be found in the alley of New York at night. I was a five-foot-three out of towner who had no business slowing down, yet I stopped and peered into the space beyond.

I stared in horror, as a man held a gun to another man's head clear as day as he begged for his life. Yelling about his wife and kids.

I was frozen to the sidewalk a scream lodged in my throat. Panic consumed me as I thought of the best way to help. If I should help. Should I call the cops? Would they be here in time? All of this streamed through my mind when the shot rang out and TI hotel off the narrow brick walls. I watched the man's body jolt from the impact of the bullet and he collapsed to the ground. The scream that had been held in was released and the man with the gun looked up quickly as surprise filled his eyes. He raised turned and started to point the gun in my direction.

My feet decided they were going to work and I sprinted away as two more shots rang out behind me. I wasn't a runner, but that didn't seem to matter as adrenaline rushed through me carrying me forward. I didn't look back to see if I was being pursued. I didn't stop to say hello to George our building's homeless man as I raced inside and ascended the five flights of stairs up to my apartment.

I rushed to the door across my mine my heart hammering so hard I thought it might break through my chest. I banged loudly on the door not stopping even as it opened and I nearly tripped inside and closed it behind me splaying myself against the back of it. I closed my eyes and took a couple of deep breaths as I felt tears slip down my face. Maybe I hadn't been made for New York. Maybe it wanted me gone.

"Clemintine, are you alright? What's happened?" Joe questioned. I was in his apartment after all.

I opened my eyes to see an inquisitive look on his face. He was wearing joggers with no shirt and his brown hair was mussed.

Focus Clementine, focus. You moon-eyed mountain goat.

"Joe...I, Joe..." I was trembling as the adrenaline wore off and the man's body reacting to the impact of the shot replayed in my mind.

"Here come sit down," He said kindly, but also as if it were a request but a demand.

So I say on a couch as he crouched next to me and waited patiently for me to come to my senses.

His apartment was tidy but somewhat plain. As if he couldn't be bothered with silly things like decorating. There were very few things on the walls. And I had noticed some pictures on a bookshelf but hadn't wanted to stare at them to offer him a little privacy after barging into his home.

"Joe, I just watched someone get murdered."