A/N: Welcome to all my new readers! Wow, thank you all so much for the outpouring of comments and reviews and messages this week. I'm so thrilled that you are enjoying this story. I'm having so much fun writing it so much, and I can't tell you how much it means to me that people are having fun reading it. This chapter is one of my personal favorites, so I hope you enjoy!


"Dr. Grissom! So glad you could make it."

"Thanks, Judy," he said, standing to shake her hand.

Judy Brewer was a retired high school science teacher who now headed the Nevada Entomology Society, a non-profit organization that met quarterly and was composed of both science professionals and lay people with a healthy appreciation for nature and insects. Although each meeting featured lectures or presentations from academics or professionals working in the field, many of the members were hobbyists, including plenty of college students and retirees like Judy. Grissom had been a member for well over a decade, ever since moving to Nevada, and tried to attend as many of the meetings and events as possible given his unpredictable schedule.

"What did you think of the honey bee presentation?"

"Fascinating," he said honestly. "I hadn't read that paper yet on colony collapse. And it's nice to see some local beekeepers here. I was just about to check out their table and pick up some honey."

"I'll walk with you," she said brightly. Then she lowered her voice, glancing around as she spoke, as if she was worried about being overheard by another keeper. "I don't mind telling you, their honey is my favorite."

"Good to know," he said with a conspiratorial grin.

"I'm glad you came actually…." she said, and he could sense that she was gearing up to ask a favor. "I've been meaning to give you a call. A few members have reached out to me lately and mentioned how much they miss your guided hike. I know you've been too busy to offer it the past few years, but if you have the time, I can assure you that there is interest."

The issue had never been time. After ten years of leading a guided hike along one of the less strenuous trails of Mount Charleston each September, pointing out local insect specimens and habitats along the way, he had declined to lead one three years ago when his hearing had begun to fail. He had been worried at the time about his ability to field questions on the hike, and had begged off, claiming work was too busy. The following year, he had been recovering from his surgery and not yet ready to test his hearing, not to mention genuinely busy at work, still recovering from the fallout of the lab explosion. When the next September rolled around, Judy hadn't asked, and he had assumed interest in the hikes had waned. He was surprised by how pleased he felt that there was still interest after all this time.

"Actually, I'd love to lead another hike," he heard himself say, before he had even finished processing the thought. "Assuming no one blows up my lab, and the criminal element of the city doesn't suddenly go crazy."

She laughed at this, but looked genuinely delighted by his offer. "That's wonderful! Why don't you write something up and send me some dates, and I'll send out an email to the membership? I think you'll find the spaces fill up quickly. You'd be surprised how many people have asked me about your hikes."

They had reached the back of the room, where a local beekeeper had set up tables covered with honey, honeycomb, candles, and a variety of other products, including t-shirts with the "Brady's Bees" farm logo and various bee puns.

The woman behind the table, an attractive brunette in her early forties wearing a t-shirt with a British flag overlaid with the words "Let It Bee", perked up as they approached. "Did you say hike?"

Judy laughed. "What did I tell you?" she asked with a grin. Then she turned to the woman behind the table. "Dr. Grissom has just agreed to lead another of his hikes. Watch your email if you want to snag a spot."

"I'll do that," she said cheerfully, turning to Grissom and offering her hand. "Nice to meet you, Dr. Grissom. Kim Brady, Brady's Bees."

"You've got quite the spread," he said, perusing the items for sale. "Judy assures me your honey is the best, so I'm looking forward to trying it."

Kim smiled, clearly pleased with the compliment, and turned to chat with Judy while he continued to survey the tables. He added a bag of honey candies and a candle he thought Sara would like to his pile, and then spotted a stack of square cloths in a variety of sizes. The colorful squares featured a honeycomb print, but he couldn't work out the use for them, and was still puzzling over them when Kim turned her attention back to him.

"Have you seen these reusable wraps?" she asked.

When he shook his head, she pulled a bowl from under the table with one the wraps secured tightly around the top. She peeled it off and held it up to demonstrate. "It's organic cotton infused with beeswax. The heat of your hand makes it pliable, and it can be shaped to seal any container. It's perfect for storing leftovers."

She warmed the fabric in her hand for a moment, and then pressed it around the lid of the honey jar in front of him. Then she pulled it off, warmed it again, and wrapped it around a small packet of candies, folding over the ends and holding her hand over the seam to seal it tightly.

"Fantastic," he said, impressed with the versatility.

"Do you pack your lunch often?" she asked with a smile. "I used to go through a ton of disposable sandwich bags, and now I hardly use any."

"I don't," he said slowly, "but my girlfriend does. She refuses to buy the plastic bags. Says they wind up in the ocean and are terrible for the sealife. She would love these."

"She's right," Kim said. "About the ocean."

He grinned. "She's right about most things."

He paid for his purchases and waited as Kim packaged them up, buzzing a little from the conversation. His girlfriend. He had never referred to Sara that way outloud. It was so critical that they keep their relationship a secret from everyone they knew, that he never had the luxury of mentioning her casually, and it was a surprisingly heady experience.

The buzz stayed with him as he mingled briefly with other members in the lobby of the UNLV conference hall where the meeting had been held and then trekked across town to his quiet townhouse.

He was off work for the night, but he glanced automatically at his watch anyway, calculating the time until their shift began. Just over an hour. He wondered idly if Sara was already at the lab, or if she was still at her apartment.

When his alarm had gone at five, so he could get ready for his meeting, he had kissed her and told her to stay in bed. There was no reason for her to get up so early, and he secretly loved the image of her asleep in his bed, puttering around his house while he was out. But when he emerged from the shower, he had found her dressed and stuffing dirty clothes into a duffle bag. He tried futilely to convince her to go back to bed, but she insisted she was up and might as well go back to her apartment and grab some clean clothes.

At least she planned to pack more clothes and come back after work, he told himself as he turned on the television and flipped through the channels looking for a baseball game. And at least she had started using her key to let herself in and stopped flinching every time he walked in the front door. He understood her discomfort had nothing to do with him and was just a natural result of a lifetime of feeling like an interloper in other people's homes. But he hated watching her struggle; hated to see her leave to give him his space when he wanted her there so badly.

The night dragged on without her, quiet and boring. He watched some television, caught up on chores, read, and even attempted a nap, but couldn't seem to settle without her there. It was ridiculous, he told himself. He had lived alone – intentionally – for twenty five years. It was preposterous that after a matter of months, his home could feel so empty without her.

Still, when his phone rang around two, he leapt for it, hoping it was her. But it was only Catherine asking where he'd put the new shipment of collection jars. He asked how the shift was going, hoping they were swamped and he would have a good reason to come in, but she assured him she had everything in hand and it was a quiet night.

He was finally able to immerse himself in a book, but when his phone rang again, he snapped to attention. A glance at the clock told him it was just after seven, and he grinned when he saw her name on his caller ID.

"Grissom," he answered automatically, in case she was still at work and he was on speakerphone.

"Tell me what you want for breakfast, and I'll pick it up on the way," she said, and his heart thrilled at the sound of her voice.

"Anything I want?" he asked, teasing.

"Anything within my power," she agreed amiably.

"You," he said.

"Gil!" she said, and he could practically hear her blushing.

"Forget the food," he said. "Just get over here."

She laughed, and his heart soared.

When he thought he was losing his hearing forever, he had cataloged the sounds he would miss, from chirping crickets to soaring arias. But it was her laughter that hurt too much to bear, too much even to add it to the list. He was more thankful now than ever that his surgery had been successful. He didn't want to imagine a life where he had never heard her say his first name, where he had never heard the quiet whimper of pleasure she made when he kissed her neck.

"As tempting as that is, I'm starving," she said, and he smiled at the self-satisfied lilt in her voice as she argued with him. "So choose: bagel sandwiches or breakfast burritos."

"Bagels," he said, though the tone of voice made it clear this was a consolation prize.

"Thirty minutes," she promised. "I'm on my way. How was your meeting."

"Really good. I'll tell you about it when you get here. What did you do while I was gone?"

"Ran some errands. I got new pots and more potting soil for the spider plants."

For weeks she had been nudging the plants back to life: soaking them to loosen their root balls and repotting them in temporary pots so they could stretch and grow. He loved watching her work her magic, his own heart unfurling like the stifled roots of the plants, brought back to life in her gentle hands.

"Good," he said simply.

They got off the phone, and he sat back on the couch, purportedly reading but really just listening for her car. When he heard her pull up, he put down his book and went out to help her carry in her purchases.

He found her just stepping out of her car, sunglasses on, hair whipping in the wind. She smiled at him, clearly pleased he was so eager to see her, and he was seized with a sudden, overwhelming desire for her. He trotted down the steps and took hold of her door. She stepped out of the way, their breakfast in her hands, and waited as he shut the door for her.

"Take these, and I'll get the garden stuff out of the trunk," she said, offering him two white paper bags.

He gave her a disapproving look and shook his head. "Pop the trunk. I'll get the garden stuff."

She rolled her eyes, but did as he asked. "You know," she said, her voice full of humor. "I seem to recall someone making me carry twenty boxes of evidence from the truck to the evidence locker yesterday."

"We're not at work, Sara," he intoned in the sing-song way that always made her smile.

It was a common refrain, his standard parry to this brand of her teasing. It made both of them laugh, but there was a kernel of truth that was more serious. Like all couples who worked together, they tried hard to separate the two whenever possible, refraining from flirting or talking about personal plans at work and avoiding deep discussions of cases at home. But in addition to that, he was acutely aware that at work he was her supervisor, her boss, and there was a power dynamic that he absolutely did not want echoed at home. At home, she was every bit his equal, his partner, and he never wanted her to question that parity.

He grabbed two matching blue ceramic pots and a ten pound bag of potting soil, and used his elbow to close the trunk. Sara hit the button on the remote to lock the car, and waited for him to return to her side before turning back toward the townhouse.

"How was work?" he asked.

She shrugged comfortably. "Fine. Nothing exciting. Tell me about your meeting."

Before he could answer, the door to Ben's townhouse swung open, and he paused, expecting a tirade about the Braves' brutal loss to the Mets the previous evening. Instead, Ben's daughter stepped out, keys in hand. Grissom had met her a handful of times over the year, but she had just been to visit a few months before, and it was unusual for her to visit more than once a year.

She finished locking the door and turned, waving when she caught sight of him. "Dr. Grissom!" she called.

"Hello, Patricia!" he called. "This is a surprise. I just talked to your dad the other day, and he didn't say anything about your visit."

Her face fell as she descended the steps, and he felt the anticipation of bad news. The smile slid from his face.

"Is he okay?" he asked, before she could say anything else.

She took a deep breath and shrugged. "It was a stroke. He's stable. But…it was a bad one."

"When did it happen?" he asked, trying to remember the last time he talked to Ben.

"Two days ago. It was touch and go for a while. I got the first flight out. He's out of the woods now, but…he's got a long road ahead of him. I'm looking at long-term care facilities in Atlanta."

"Oh, I hate to hear that," he said honestly.

"Let us know if there's something we can do to help," Sara said from beside him.

"Thank you," Patricia said. "I'm just trying to move fast. I can only afford to take a few days off work. I've got a real estate agent coming this afternoon and then movers coming to pack up personal stuff tomorrow. I'll take it back to Atlanta with me and leave the furniture. The real estate agent can sell it furnished or we can put a clause in the contract to cover the removal."

"Are the kids here?" he asked. Patricia's own children were grown, but she had custody of her two oldest grandkids, a pair of boys in their early teens.

She shook her head. "They're with my sister. They can't miss school."

"Tell Ben we're thinking of him. If he's up for visitors, let me know and I'll drop in," he said.

"He'd love that, I'm sure," she said. "I'm on my way to see him now."

They said their goodbyes and went inside. He left the planting supplies on the counter, and he and Sara took their breakfast to the couch.

"Ugh, I hate this for Ben," Sara said as she picked at her sandwich. "He's so independent."

Grissom nodded, fully in agreement. "I'm glad he has Patricia to take care of him, but it won't be the same around here without him."

They ate quietly for a few minutes, contemplating this news. Finally, they shook it off as best as possible, and he filled her in on the meeting, going into detail about the colony collapse disorder theory that had fascinated him. Sara listened eagerly, asking the kind of thought-provoking questions that were her signature.

When he was finished answering her questions, he told her about the hike, and she smiled as he described past hikes and told her how enthusiastic everyone had been about resuming the activity.

"I was thinking," he said. "It's been years since I did that hike. I need to do a trial run: make sure I remember the trail, see how long it takes, scope out some potential spots to stop and talk. You want to come with me? We could go after work tomorrow?"

She was sitting up straighter, nodding, before he even finished asking. Her enthusiasm was one of his favorite things about her, the way she was always open to new experiences, always wanting to learn new things, and suddenly, he couldn't wait to explore the mountain with her tomorrow.

Less than twenty-four hours later, they were in his car turning off the interstate onto the state route that would take them to the mountain. She was in the passenger seat, wearing a black tank top with a short sleeved black and white shirt unbuttoned over it and tiny khaki shorts that managed to make her long legs look even longer.

"Eyes on the road," she said, laughing, as she smoothed her hair into a ponytail.

"I can't help it if you're over there tempting me," he teased.

"Tempting you? I'm doing no such thing. I'm just sitting here."

"Sitting there in those shorts," he shot back immediately.

She laughed again. "You have seen me naked a hundred times, and you expect me to believe you're that distracted by the sight of me in shorts?"

"Well, now I'm even more distracted," he said, raising one eyebrow. "Picturing what's under the shorts."

She shook her head, clearly trying to hold back her laughter. "I'll tell you what. Play your cards right on this hike, and I'll let you take the shorts off when we get home."

He winked at her and smirked, more than happy to take her up on that offer, but mostly, secretly, pleased to hear her refer to his house as home.

He lifted his right hand from the steering wheel and rested it on her thigh, his thumb rubbing gently over her silky soft skin. She cut her eyes to his, clearly ready to meet his flirtatious look with one of her own, but her smile turned softer and sweeter when her eyes met his. He wanted, again, in that moment to tell her what he felt for her, to make her understand, but the words caught in his throat. He turned his eyes back to the road, squeezing her leg gently instead, his heart heavy and aching. And then her hand covered his, stroking sweetly, and he told himself that she knew; she heard his unspoken words.

They parked at the trailhead, climbing out of the car and retrieving their supplies from the trunk. He had packed a single backpack for them with water, a few protein bars, and a basic first aid kit, and he swung it onto his back, leaving Sara free to focus only on her camera.

The beginning of September had brought with it a break in the sweltering summer temperatures, and though he knew it was only temporary and they were certain to have another heat wave or two before summer lost its grip on the city, he was grateful for the temporary reprieve.

They followed the signs to the green trail, a four mile loop with minimal elevation, and strolled along in companionable silence. He stopped a few times, noting an ant hill and a nest of paper wasps, and Sara, who had fitted her camera with a macro lens, stopped repeatedly to take close up photos of leaves, pine cones, and mushrooms, along with any insects he pointed out.

He loved watching her photograph, just as he loved looking through her photos after she edited them. Seeing the world through her eyes never ceased to amaze him. She found beauty in the smallest things.

When he found a quarter-sized hole in the earth nestled beside a large rock with two dead cicadas laying nearby, he smiled and called Sara over for a closer look. She examined the dead cicadas carefully, photographing their gossamer wings, then looked up at him, her eyes full of questions.

"Did they come out of the hole and die? What happened to them?"

"Just wait and see," he said. "Be patient."

She smiled slyly. "I can be patient," she said.

"I know you can," he said with a wry laugh. "More patient than I deserve."

Before she could respond, he put a hand on her arm, silencing her and nodding toward the hole. As they watched, a large yellow and black insect emerged, hovering just off the ground for a moment before taking flight.

Sara flinched as it zipped past them, stepping closer to him automatically. "What the hell was that?" she asked. "It looks like a hornet on steroids. Is it dangerous?"

He smiled and placed a hand on the small of her back reassuringly. "It's not dangerous. They look scary, but unless you're a cicada, they aren't interested in you."

Sure enough, another giant buzzed back by them with a paralyzed cicada in its grasp. It landed just outside the hole, and Sara gasped.

She took a step forward, hands already on her camera, then stopped and looked back at him.

"Go ahead," he said with a smile. "They won't bother you."

She crept forward, kneeling near the hole, snapping a series of photos as the insect wiggled and shoved, retreating and then trying again multiple times, before finally pulling the cicada into its burrow.

Once it disappeared, she hopped up and looked at him wide eyed. "That was awesome. I would never have imagined it could carry something so much larger than itself. And it knew exactly how to maneuver it to get it in the hole."

He smiled at her enthusiasm. "The ones on the ground are too large to fit through the opening. After a while, the cicada killer will give up trying to make it fit and abandon it, and go find another instead. The best way to find a cicada killer nest is to look for a pile of dead and discarded cicadas."

"Wait, is that really its name?" she asked with a laugh. "Cicada killer?"

"Cicada killer or cicada hawk," he said, nodding. "Sphecius speciosus."

"Are the cicadas dead?"

"Paralyzed," he said. They watched another cicada killer emerge from the nest. "These are the females. They paralyze the cicadas and carry them back to the nest. Inside there is an elaborate burrow structure with whole rooms for storing cicadas."

"How do they fly so fast carrying them? Aren't they heavy?"

"About twice their weight. It can be a struggle for them to take off, but once they get going, they can build up some speed. Sometimes they actually fly up high into the trees carrying their prey, and then dive bomb down to build up speed."

"Where are the males?" she asked

"In the nest. They're a lot smaller. And they don't even have stingers. The females have stingers for the cicadas, but they won't sting a human unless they're handled roughly. Unless you try to close one up in your hand or step on it accidentally. They aren't aggressive at all. They just look scary because they're so big and they fly so fast. Sometimes it looks like they're swarming, but they aren't. It's just the females working in rotation."

A cicada killer emerged from the burrow, and took off into the trees, and he watched Sara follow it with her eyes, tracking its progress. They didn't have to wait long for another female to return with another cicada, the iridescent green of its exoskeleton shimmering in the morning sunshine. Sara smiled at him, and then crouched back down to photograph again.

"Is this what you do on your hike?" she asked as she looked through the viewfinder.

"This is the kind of thing I point out. Yes," he said. "I usually have twenty or so hikers though, so we don't have time for everyone to stop and photograph like this. I just identify anything we see along the hike and give a little background information. Most of the hikers are lay people without much science background. Nature enthusiasts."

She stood and smiled at him. "That sounds really fun for them. I'm glad you're doing it again. You're such a good teacher."

He warmed at her compliment. "It's fun for me too. I don't get to do much teaching these days. All my students seem to have become masters themselves."

She rolled her eyes at him, but she blushed and he knew she appreciated the compliment. "You still have Greg," she teased.

It was his turn to roll his eyes. "We both know he prefers your tutelage," he said drily.

She laughed, but then turned more serious. "He idolizes, you know," she said softly. "He just gets flustered around you because he's nervous, and then he tries to cover it up with his goofiness. You should spend some time with him one on one. It would mean a lot to him."

She lifted her gaze to his hesitantly, unsure how he would receive this advice, clearly aware it was a violation of their separation of home and work policy. He reached out and took her hand, squeezing gently. "That's a good idea," he said softly. "I will."

She squeezed back and they watched the cicada killers quietly for a few more minutes before continuing along the trail. He thought back over her questions about the hike, and something occurred to him suddenly.

"Sara, do you want to come on the hike?"

He saw her alert — her eyes widening and body stiffening the way it always did when she was surprised and excited about something. And then he watched her retreat.

"Oh, no, that's okay," she said. "It's for your group."

He looked at her quizzically. "Sara, it's my hike. I can invite anyone I want. You don't have to be a member. It'll be a little basic for you, but you could assist if you want."

"No," she said quickly, and he wondered for a moment if he had misread her interest. Surely she had better things to do with her limited free time than tag along on a hike listening to him talk about bugs. Then she went on, filling the silence with a tumble of words. "You don't need my help. That's your thing. I don't want to intrude."

His brows knit in confusion. "You're not intruding. You're never intruding. It will be more fun for me if you're there."

She glanced sideways at him, her face hopeful but hesitant, and he was hit with a sudden wave of guilt for all the times he had pushed her away, all the times he had held her arms length when he desperately wanted to be with her. Of course she was hesitant. Of course she was scared to assume she was welcome in his home, in his life.

"Honey," he said softly, searching for the words. "I want you to come. I always want you to come. Everything's better when you're there."

The stab of guilt he felt at the surprise in her eyes was quickly softened by the joy in her smile. "Yeah?" she asked, as if confirming both his feelings and the invitation.

"Yes, Sara. You want to come be my assistant? You can keep me on task and on schedule."

"Oh, if I'd known I was going to get to boss you around, I'd have said yes immediately," she teased, clearly attempting to lighten the mood, and he laughed and allowed the topic to drop.

Beside them, a flash of orange alighted on the trunk of a towering oak tree, and he nodded toward it.

"That's not a monarch," she said immediately, though the bright coloring was the same.

He nodded in agreement. "See the spots? It's an American Copper. One of the most common butterflies in North America. In this part of the country, they like elevation, He's probably headed up the mountain."

The butterfly flitted away, and they continued down the trail. Halfway around the four-mile loop, he leaned back against a tree and sipped from his bottle of water while he watched her lay on her belly and photograph a canyon tree frog wedged in the crevice of a rock outcropping, its body almost perfectly camouflaged against the tan stone.

She stopped a few times, checking her shots, and once she was satisfied with what she had captured, she stood and brushed herself off. When she looked up and saw him leaned against the tree waiting for her, she cringed and gave him an apologetic smile.

"Sorry, I got distracted again. We're supposed to be hiking."

"I have met with one or two persons in the course of my life who understand the art of Walking," he said in reply, and he watched her face soften and warm as she tried to puzzle out what was obviously a quote.

"Thoreau," he said. "He spoke of people who had a genius for sauntering, a word he said derived from those wandering the countryside going "a la Sainte Terre" – to the Holy Land."

She tilted her head, listening, but still waiting for him to make his point.

"Fifty years later, John Muir said he hated hiking — the word and action. Now these mountains are our Holy Land, and we ought to saunter through them reverently, not 'hike' through them."

He straightened and offered her his water bottle, while he swung the bag onto his back. She took a sip and returned the bottle to him. And then he waved an arm at the trail ahead of them in invitation. "Saunter away, my dear."