THINGS HE KNOWS ABOUT HER NOW
The minute they walk through the door to his place he sees it through her eyes: bachelor central. He snatches the bath towel drying on the back of a chair, scoops up the three-days of newspaper that covers his coffee table. "Do you want a beer or something?" he calls back to her as he ferries the trash to the bin in the kitchen.
"I don't know. How long am I staying?"
He opens the fridge, which contains three left in the six-pack, plus a half-empty gallon of orange juice, a pint of milk for the coffee, and an untouched row of Cokes. He looks like he survives on beverages alone. He grabs two beers and wanders back to the living room, where McCall has unerringly found his small collection of framed snapshots. He sees her studying them for clues.
He tries to hand her a beer but she holds up a black and white shot from 1966. "Is this your mom?"
"Yup." His dad was dead by then but his mom's smile never wavered. If she'd ever cried, Ricky hadn't seen it.
"Thought so," she says with a pleased smile. "She's got the same dimples."
She puts down the picture and accepts his offering. It's a small gesture considering her association with him nearly got her killed. Arnold Morton could have blown them all to little bits, and he used McCall to set his plan in motion. Or, more specifically, Hunter's attachment to McCall. They'd been doing this partner thing for a few months now but Hunter hasn't considered it anything official. Morton and his camera lens saw the truth easily enough.
"So," she says after they have sipped in silence for a moment, standing there under the watchful gaze of his ancestors. "Do I get the grand tour or what?"
He looks around at the bare gray walls, the large TV and the sofa. "Bathroom's down that way. Kitchen's back there." He shrugs. "That's pretty much it."
"I see," she replies, plainly puzzled as to why he's asked her here. She forces a smile. "It's nice," she tells him, and he can't help his grin.
"You're such a crappy liar." He knows this about her already, that's how obvious it is. "How do you manage undercover work at all?"
She makes a face at him but her answer is surprisingly honest. "People see what they want to see."
He sets his can aside. "Yeah, and they can miss a whole lot too." He risks a look at her. "Are you okay?"
She blinks slowly in reply. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"That business with Arnold Morton. It was pretty intense."
"Yes." A pause. "Are you okay?" When he straightens up with a frown, she holds up her palm in defense. "He was targeting you, not me."
Hunter rolls his neck around to loosen it, tries to play it casual like a shrug. He still feels Morton's eyes on him, still scans the tree-line for any signs of cameras when he steps outside. The man had been following him for weeks and Hunter had no idea. "I'm fine," he says shortly.
She bites her lip. "I wanted to say sorry."
"Sorry for what? Nearly getting killed?" He goes to bed at night with the memory of fear in her eyes. McCall doesn't scare easy, so that's how he knew to be terrified.
"For not seeing him sooner." She breaks eye contact. "He had a target on you, and I never knew it. I'm supposed to be watching your back."
"Yeah, well, he grabbed you and I never saw it coming. I guess he fooled us both."
McCall shivers. "Good riddance to him then," she says, and Hunter takes his beer can to clink against hers.
"I'll drink to that." They both took a long swallow, after which the silence resumes and he catches her discreetly checking her watch. He clears his throat and digs into his right front pocket. "Here," he says, stretching his hand out to her.
She holds out her palm to accept whatever it is. He drops a key into her hand, and she gives him a questioning look. "What's this?"
"A key. My key. I mean, the key to this place." He nods to affirm the decision he's already made. "I figured you should have one. Just in case."
"In case of what?" she asks as she closes her fingers around it.
"Who knows? I think we've seen this week how quick the trouble can start. How maybe you don't see it coming. Seems smart to be prepared."
She ponders this a moment with a smile. "Okay," she says finally as she tucks the key away. "I just think we should establish some ground rules."
He puts one hand on his hip. "Like what?"
She gestures toward his front door. "Like maybe you put a sock on the knob or something when you're…entertaining."
"Just how often do you plan on dropping by?"
"I don't plan on anything," she says, and then hides a smile behind her beer can. "But you said it yourself, Hunter…you never know how fast trouble can start."
He can't argue with himself, so he doesn't try. "Well, it better not start for at least another half hour."
This time she's obvious when she checks her watch. "Why?"
"Because I'm ordering a pizza." Man does not live by beverage alone.
"A pizza? Is that your invitation to stay for dinner?"
"It's a statement of fact. In half an hour, a pizza will arrive at my door. Whether you'll be here, too, I can't predict." So far, she's shown every sign of sticking around.
She looks thoughtful. "Guess we'll just have to see how it plays out then," she says, and he smiles as she takes a seat. He goes to the phone, mentally preparing a large order, because for a skinny woman, McCall can sure put away a pizza.
It's one of the things he knows about her now.
GOOD ENERGY
She opens the locks—both of them—at the sound of his brisk knock and finds him standing there in his shades and garish Hawaiian shirt. The color he got in Curaguay has not yet faded from his head and neck. The Captain wisely hasn't asked about their trip and Hunter won't volunteer a word. Let's just get back to normal, that's the pact the men have made with their silence. Dee Dee thinks that's all well and good, but she sends her unspoken apologies that she won't be joining them.
"I hope you're hungry," she says now to Hunter she leads him into the house. She has purchased three kinds of dumplings and a half-dozen entrees from their usual Chinese restaurant, and the spread takes up most of her dining room table. She ate so little after the rape that she lost nearly ten pounds. It wasn't a deliberate starvation; she ate enough to keep alive, to keep the hunger pangs away. She didn't want to feel empty. She didn't want to feel full. She wanted to feel exactly nothing, and so nothing was pretty much what she ate.
Now she is making up for lost time. All the food looks appetizing to her in the grocery—the colorful fruits, the juicy steaks, the fresh, thick noodle pasta, and of course the seventy-five different kinds of ice creams in the frozen food section. At this moment, though, her stomach is in knots. She is not sure she can force one bite into her mouth—not until she can get the words out of it first. She has been dreading telling him all week, but the sign goes up tomorrow and she can wait no longer.
Hunter takes off his shades and lets out a low whistle at her array of food. "Some spread you've got here, McCall. It looks like a last meal."
She looks at the floor as she admits the truth: "It is, in a way."
Hunter's gaze turns worried and she rushes to reassure him. "I'm fine, really. It's just…" She sucks back the words, knowing how disappointed he will be when she tells him.
"Just what?" he says impatiently, as if sensing trouble and wanting to get it over with as soon as possible,
She takes a steadying breath. "I'm moving. I'm putting the house on the market tomorrow." The house, not her house. It hasn't been hers in more than three months now.
"Oh." Hunter tucks the sunglasses into the V of his shirt. "Okay," he says, matter-of fact as he pulls out a chair to sit down.
She remains standing, hovering slightly behind him. "Okay?" Maybe if he's the one to say it, she can make herself believe. The idea of ceding ground to her rapist makes her red-hot angry and ashamed, to the point where she can't bring herself to look in any of the mirrors. But she can't stay here. She's tried. It doesn't matter that the living room wall has been patched and repainted—she can still see her blood on the other side.
"Sure." He's ladling out a generous helping of fried rice onto his plate. "A change of scenery's always good, right?"
She stares at the back of his head. Surely he knows that's not what this is. "Right," she says, and hesitates. "But…"
When she doesn't continue, he turns in his seat to look at her. She casts him an imploring glance.
"You don't think I'm letting him win?" she asks, her voice small. It took so much effort after the rape even to form words that she gave up talking almost entirely. Now she speaks again almost like a normal person, but it surprises her how much effort it takes every day just to pretend to be herself. She is exhausted at night but there's no way she can rest here, and this is why she has to leave.
Hunter takes her hand and looks directly into her eyes. He holds her gaze for a long time and then shakes his head. "No," he says, giving her a squeeze. "He didn't win. Not as long as you're still standing here with me and all this food."
He smiles at the last bit, and she tries to smile too. It's so simple for him, this calculation where survival counts for everything. Mariano is dead and she is not, so by Hunter's math, everything is fine again. Hunter gives her another squeeze and then returns to his food, so she forces herself to do the same.
"Where are you looking to move to?" he asks, just making conversation.
"I don't know yet." She hasn't gotten beyond "anywhere but here" in her imaginings. "I asked my agent to pull a list of condos in my price range starting in roughly this area. I figure the hunt begins in earnest this weekend."
"I'll help you look if you want."
"You will?"
"Sure. I know my bay windows from my belvederes."
She fixes him with an appraising look. "Just when I thought there was nothing new to learn about you, Hunter."
"I am like the ocean, McCall. What you see here is just the sparkling surface—but I have layers of hidden depths."
She laughs. "You know what's deep down in the ocean? Creepy stuff like eyeless fish and sea snakes."
He holds up a finger. "But also hidden treasure. Speaking of…where is my cookie?" He searches around the table until he finds a plastic-wrapped fortune cookie.
"You're skipping ahead," she protests. "We haven't finished eating yet."
"Live dangerously, McCall," he says as he tears open the cookie. He scans the tiny paper and smirks. "Love is the greatest adventure. Ain't that the truth."
He tosses it down on the table and she picks the fortune up to verify its message. "I'm not sure your adventures can be called love," she informs him dryly as she fingers the edge of the paper.
"I'm Indiana Jones out there, McCall."
"Yes, well. I repeat to you then—be careful of the snakes."
They finish maybe a third of the food and then McCall spends another restless night half-dozing on her sofa. The wind rocks the palms outside, chasing shadows along her living room wall—the one where she is a shadow too. She draws the blanket up over her head and traces at the floral pattern on the couch instead. Maybe, at some point, she sleeps.
On Saturday, Hunter shows up bright and early in yet another gaudy Hawaiian shirt. "Ready to go?" he asks her.
She cups a hand behind her ear. "What's that? I couldn't hear you over the volume of your shirt."
They first tour a two-bedroom unit that has flat roofs and a 1960s vibe, complete with plastic orange furniture. "Groovy," Hunter remarks as he pushes his way through a curtain of hanging beads. The living room is spacious but the windows look out right into a street marked with concrete potholes. Dee Dee gives it a pass and suggests they move onto the next one.
Her agent has selected a pricey one-bedroom unit in a small complex that is ringed by a high fence. Hunter gives the gate a hard tug and the metal bars do not budge. "Good security," he remarks, not looking at her. She eyes the lock and knows she could have it open in under five minutes.
"Let's see the inside."
The condo has been completely remodeled with a fresh paint smell that makes prickles break out across the back of her neck. "The carpeting is all new," her agent tells them. Hunter flicks off his sandals to test out the carpet between his toes.
"Like a bath robe for your feet," he tells Dee Dee, and she smacks his arm.
"Put your shoes back on. For heaven's sake."
The kitchen is the show-stopper. It has a shiny electric stove, an enormous refrigerator, gleaming oak cabinets and a wide expanse of white-tile countertops. The agent is giving her the specs as Dee Dee looks at the view from the window—a private rose garden and a wooden bench. Hunter interrupts the agent droning on about the gourmet offerings. "All she needs is this baby," he says with a grin as he opens the door on the microwave.
Dee Dee makes a face at him. "It's nice enough," she allows. "But I'd like to see something else."
They tour a split-level unit with an open bedroom loft. Dee Dee likes the feel of it immediately, the idea of sleeping well off the ground. She can picture exactly where her bed and dresser would go. "As you can see, there is an en-suite," the agent says, flipping on the bathroom lights. She gives her broadest smile. "Dual sinks—one for each of you."
Dee Dee's face goes hot. "Oh, he's not—I mean, we don't live together." Hunter waggles his eyebrows at her behind the agent's back. Off duty, they get mistaken for a couple all the time, and it's always her who has to correct the assumption. Hunter either doesn't care or is just as happy to let people think he's conquered her, too.
He slips an arm around her and pulls her into his side. "She's just not convinced I'll pick up my socks."
Dee Dee maneuvers out from under him as the agent gives him a strange look. "That reminds me—let me show you the laundry room," the agent says as Dee Dee fixes Hunter with a glare. He grins, unfazed. She doesn't know why the assumption particularly bothers her this time. Maybe it's because they have lived together now for a time, and she doesn't want to admit she misses it.
They admire the laundry room and the kitchen with its swinging door. There's a private garage and a little patch of grass out back. "I'll leave you two to discuss for a few minutes," the agent says as she walks out the front door.
Hunter stands in the middle of the empty living room, his arms folded across his chest. "I like it," he says. "What do you think?"
She does a slow circle, smiling a bit as she stops to touch the stone fireplace—a real one. "I like it too," she says, glancing up at the high loft. "It has good energy."
It feels, she thinks, like nothing bad could ever happen here.
JEWELS
The bandage on his head has been downgraded to a Band-Aid but his arm is still in a sling, so McCall drives him home and uses her keys to open his door. He steps inside the ransacked house, his belongings reduced to rubble. Shaughnessy's goons even split open the cushions on his sofa.
McCall winces visibly as she watches him take in the chaos. "Sorry," she says. "I should have warned you that they did a number on the place."
He touches the tender spot on his skull. "Seeing this, I'm feeling better about the shape that I'm in," he says, blowing out a slow breath.
She rights a mostly intact cushion and nudges him to the chair. "You take it easy," she says. "I'll clean up."
"I think it might be quicker just to bring in a bull dozer and level the place."
"It's not that bad. You'll see."
He leans back in his seat and closes his eyes. He shouldn't take advantage, she's done more than enough for him already, but he's too tired to protest. He drifts as he listens to the sounds of her moving around his house, replacing everything where it belongs. Normally it would bother him to have someone else touching all his stuff, but this is McCall and he has no secrets from her. She is like his other self. His other half. Something like that. He tries to remember if he's thanked her for saving his life. Maybe they've done that for each other enough times that it doesn't matter anymore.
He doesn't realize he fell asleep until he jerks awake again to the feel of her shaking him lightly on his good arm. She is standing over him with a water glass and his pills. "Time for another round, Big Guy."
He can smell coffee from the kitchen. "I'd rather have what you're having," he says pointedly, nodding in the direction of the scent.
She hands him the medicine and water and then returns to the kitchen. When she emerges, she's got two mugs of coffee. She takes hers and curls up on one end of his miraculously healed sofa. Gingerly, he moves to sit on the other end. "What sort of wizardry is this?" he asks as he pats a cushion.
"Duct tape. Don't look on the underside."
He grins. "You're amazing. Thank you."
She smiles, pleased as she sips her coffee. "Yeah, well…you're welcome. Credit the County Coroner for some of the work. They hauled the bodies away."
He remembers then that she could have been one of the bodies, and he pushes that thought firmly out of his mind. He notices that there is a bouquet of sunflowers sitting on the end table near the door. It has a smiley face balloon on it and a sign that says GET WELL SOON. "You really have been busy," he tells her, indicating the flowers.
"Those aren't from me. Kitty O'Hearn had them delivered."
He grins. "That's right. Charlie told me that you'd met Kitty."
"Oh, yeah. We've met. She's, uh, something. Her approach is unorthodox, but you can't argue with her results. She's a good cop."
"That she is."
McCall eyes him. "She told me you had a thing with her."
He'd almost forgotten, it was so long ago. "She told you that?"
"Mmm-hmm." She sips some more coffee. "She wanted to know if I, too, had had a thing with you."
"She asked that? Really?"
"I got the feeling she expected an affirmative answer, too." She stretches out to put her mug on the table. "She seems to feel like you leave no stone unturned, so to speak."
Hunter is not so doped up that he can't feel the sudden change in the atmosphere. Maybe it was Kitty who'd asked the question, but McCall was the one who really wanted to know. Three years together now and he hasn't made a real move on her. Plenty of unreal moves, sure. That's all part of the fun. She is his favorite flirting partner and his favorite partner-partner and he would hate himself if he somehow screwed either of those parts of their relationship up. Because she is also the only person he wants sitting next to him when he's nursing two broken ribs, a sprained shoulder and a concussion.
He gropes for her hand with his good one and is reassured when she doesn't pull away. He laces their fingers together gently. "Kitty's nice," he says, "but there's a lot she doesn't know about me."
"Oh, yeah? Like what?"
He closes his eyes again with a smile. "Sometimes you don't need to turn over a stone to tell that it's a jewel."
"So you're a lapidary now? Give me a break," she says, but her tone is affectionate.
He yawns. "I can spot the good stuff." He gives her a squeeze and then carefully sits up to reach for the remote. "Speaking of, the People's Court comes on in two minutes. Judge Wapner is my idol."
They watch as a woman accuses a dry cleaner of ruining her wedding dress. The cleaner maintains that the dress came to him with a ragged hem and wine stains on it. Wapner, who must have been to many weddings in his day, finds for the defense. Hunter glances over at McCall to see what she makes of this decision, but she's asleep against one of his repaired couch cushions.
He takes the afghan in his lap and shifts it over so it covers both of them. He looks around at all the items she has returned to their original places—the tidal clock, the plastic fern, his pictures, books and souvenir painted bowl from Mexico. He thinks about everything he could have lost.
UNFORGETTABLE
Hunter is naked in her bed and so is she but she isn't feeling one bit guilty about that, not yet, not when her body is still tingling in all the best places. She'd forgotten how much fun this can be when it's someone she's sure about, someone she genuinely adores. It's the closest thing she's had to married sex since Steven died and she's not ready to give that feeling up just yet. Her plane is leaving soon enough.
As if reading her thoughts, Hunter complains. "I can't believe you're really ditching me in favor of the FBI," he says as he plays with the ends of her hair.
She smiles against his ribcage. "It's just for six weeks."
"They all wear the same gray suit and government shoes."
"I'm not going out there for fashion advice."
"Six weeks," he says. "Think of all the trouble I could get into in that amount of time."
"I'm trying not to think about it." She lays her palm on his chest and rests her chin atop it. "You could ask Charlie for a temporary transfer to the Records Department. That would keep you well out of any danger."
He shudders. "I'd die of boredom after two days. You'd come home to find my desiccated corpse propped up in a corner against some dusty filing cabinet. Joe McKinley would just slap some color-coded sticker on me and keep right on going."
She laughs because it's almost true what he says about McKinley. "Speaking of paperwork, don't think you can just let it pile up on my desk while I'm gone."
He rolls her over into the pillow and looks right into her eyes. "How else are you going to know I missed you?"
She traces his chin with one fingertip. It occurs to her that in almost four years together, they haven't been apart longer than a week's vacation. She smiles at him a little sadly. "I will miss you," she says, and he leans down to kiss her. It's a sleepy kiss, warm and affectionate. She wants to curl up inside it and live forever.
He rests his forehead against hers and she hums her approval, her hand lazily caressing his naked back. "Are you okay?" he murmurs near her ear, and she blinks alert again.
"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" She searches his face for clues. Maybe he is the one with regrets.
"Well, the timing…I hope I didn't take advantage here." He looks guilty, not regretful, so she smiles and pulls him back in close.
"I could've said no. I didn't want to."
He relaxes again as he nuzzles her temple. "I didn't want you to," he confesses in a whisper. "But it would've been totally okay if you had."
Her throat thickens and she blinks back sudden tears. He's found the crux of what's so different here, and why he's been so wonderful. It's a scary dance, intimacy. She would never go to bed with a man she suspected might hurt her, but she's guessed wrong about a man's intentions at least once before, with disastrous results. It's not them she doesn't trust, it's herself. She knows she can say no and she has. But the word does change things for a lot of guys, and some of them walk away. Their loss, she tells herself, even when it stings.
With Hunter, she knew from the moment he kissed her that it would be her choice. That he would love her either way. She wraps her arms around him tight, grateful for this gift. He rubs her back and kisses the top of her head.
"You'll remember to feed my fish?" she asks. Hunter has a key and can come and go as he pleases. He's promised to keep an eye on her place, and she knows it's in good hands.
"Fresh flakes once per day," he says. "Got it."
"You know, they say fish have terrible memories. They'll probably have forgotten me after a week."
"I'll show 'em your picture," he says, poking her. She can feel his grin against her shoulder.
"As long as you don't forget me," she replies.
His toes find her leg under the sheet. "Nah. You're unforgettable."
STILL LOOKING
"Well? What do you think of the place?" He has McCall over to check out his possible new beach rental. His agent, a guy named Dave who is rocking a blond surfer cut, is happy to show them both around. He can smell the finder's fee lingering in the salty air.
"It's nice," she says. "Very modern."
"There are dimmer switches in every room," Dave pipes in. "Central vac, too."
McCall ignores Dave and peers out the window in what would be the living room. "I thought you lived close to the beach in your last place," she tells Hunter. "Here you're about ready to move right into the ocean."
There's a low sea wall protecting the rows of condos, but they do look directly out onto the Pacific. It's glinting like it's covered in diamonds, shimmering under the high sun. The wooden floors creak under their footsteps as they walk the length of the apartment. The AC is off and the windows are closed, so it feels a bit stuffy. Hunter flips the switch on the ceiling fan.
"The master bedroom is extremely spacious," Dave says to McCall. "The second bedroom is smaller but perfect for a nursery if that's something you would want."
McCall's eyes widen in horror. "No. It's not. I mean we're not having kids." She stops and corrects herself again. "We're not together."
"We're just friends," Hunter clarifies when she can't seem to find the word.
Dave forces an embarrassed smile and holds up his palms. "My mistake. Sorry!"
McCall carries on her inspection, opening and closing the closet doors. Hunter's been through the place already so he hangs back and watches her. He's said they're friends and that's true enough, although he hasn't seen much of her lately. She has been wrapped up with Jason Leffler, the man she's maybe going to marry.
Hunter's been trying to give her space to figure it out. He stays on his side of the line. He doesn't touch her now, doesn't make cracks about how they should be sleeping together. Jason wouldn't like it, Hunter feels sure of this much. He doesn't know what McCall thinks or whether she's even noticed a change. He's taken so many steps back that sometimes it feels like he has to squint to see her.
McCall comes out of the bathroom wiping her hands on her jeans. "The shower runs fine. The toilet works. I think the place checks out, Hunter."
He knew all of this before he invited her here. He wants to know what she thinks of the place. He wants to know if she can see him here. "Yeah," he says with a trace of impatience. "But do you like it?"
She wrinkles her brow at him. "Does it matter? I'm not the one who's going to be living here. What do you think?"
She's standing on the other side of the empty room, which is just as large as Dave had promised. You could fit a whole lifetime's worth of furniture in between them. She checks her watch and he turns around to look out the big windows. He has a date tonight himself, a woman he's seen three times now. She's a veterinary assistant and her name is Shannon. Normally, McCall would know all about her but he hasn't even breathed her name.
"Well?" she asks from behind him, as far away as ever. "Can you see yourself here?"
He scans the horizon. "I don't know yet. I guess I'm still looking."
MOVING DAY
He's been watching the pieces of her come down all day. The sheets of music, the family photos, the pots that were hanging in the kitchen—they've been boxing them up either for storage or for shipping overseas. He turned his back when she had to make the decision about the frame picture of the two of them, telling himself that he didn't want to make her feel awkward one way or the other, but the truth was he didn't really want to know her choice.
"As bachelorette parties go, I gotta say this ranks near the bottom," he says, cracking open a beer. They are hot and dirty. She'd pinned her hair up that morning but it had come loose throughout the day in a mess of curling tendrils. There is a smudge of dirt on her cheek.
"And of course you're speaking from your great wealth of experience at bachelorette parties," she replies as she opens her own beer.
"I've been to one," he says, and lets her wonder about the details.
The doorbell rings and she hops off her stool. "That will be the pizza." While she's gone, he looks around at the bare walls and thinks about how his landscape is changing. He's spent years sitting among her stuff and now it's all disappearing inside of a few days. She's cleared out her desk at work. It sits clean and empty and silent across from him. A dozen times a day, he looks up with words on his lips, expecting to be able to run an idea by her, only to find her gone.
She returns smiling with the pizza. She smiles a lot these days so he keeps any doubts he has to himself. Alex seems like a good guy. Hell, he's a man of medicine, trying to cure the world of all its ills. So maybe he's a little pushy, a little possessive. Hunter's been that way with her too, from time to time. He's hardly an unbiased bystander.
"That's your half," she says, turning the box so that the vegetables are on his side. Hers has two kinds of meat and extra cheese.
"Do they even have pizza in England?" he asks as he helps himself to a slice. It is saucy and delicious.
"They must." She pauses, looking disconcerted. "Right?"
He gives an exaggerated shrug. "The British aren't known for their cuisine, is my understanding."
"Yeah, but France and Italy aren't far away." The smile is firmly back in place, so he doesn't argue. She eats three bites before the phone rings. She wipes her hands on a paper napkin and wends her way around the stack of boxes to get to the phone. He can tell right away it's Alex. "Oh, nothing much," she says. "Just getting some packing done." She stretches the cord out around the corner into the other room so he can't hear their conversation. He gets the gist, though, from the happy murmuring and giggles.
"And how is Alex?" he asks when she finally returns.
"He's good. He says he's found us a place—a cottage on the outskirts of town. It's like four centuries old, but he swears it has indoor plumbing. The garden has actual lavender growing in it, and apparently it smells amazing."
"That's nice. Sounds like everything is falling into place."
"I guess so." She looks around with skepticism. "This place looks like a bomb hit it right now."
"I've seen it look worse," he tells her with a smirk, and she smacks him playfully.
"You'd be the one to know."
It's one week now until her wedding, and then she's leaving right away for England. He feels the countdown clock in his head and wonder if she's got one too. "Charlie had me in to talk about a new partner," he says, and watches as her smile fades. This is the one place he's still got her.
"Oh, yeah?" She sets aside her food. "Does he have someone in mind?"
He can't resist twisting the knife a little. "No one specific yet, but he's thinking they might pair me up with a woman."
"A woman. Why?"
He shrugs like it's no big deal. "You know. Some guys are assholes when it comes to women with a badge. The brass already knows I'll play nice."
"Is that what you were doing with me? Playing nice?" Her eyes are searching, wounded, but he's not sorry. He can still make her feel something toward him, even if it's painful. He shouldn't be the only one to bleed over this.
"Of course not. But you have to admit it makes a certain amount of sense." He'd rather have no one, to be honest. He's been on the job now close to twenty years. He's harder to mate than a panda.
"Sure, I guess," she says reluctantly, flicking at her napkin. "I just hadn't really thought about it before. Of course they're going to find you someone new."
She's gone so quiet and sad that he starts to regret his words. "Hey, anyone but Henderson, right? The man leaves a trail of crumbs wherever he goes."
She smiles a little. "And he wears that same shirt every single day. How often do you think he washes that thing?"
"From the smell, I'd say quarterly." He smiles back at her and holds up his beer bottle. "To new unions," he says, forcing himself to mean it. She hesitates a moment.
"And old ones," she adds softly, and touches her bottle to his. They watch each other as they drink.
"You want any more of this?" he asks. She's barely touched her food.
"No, I'm not as hungry as I thought. I'll just stick the rest in the fridge for later. What I mainly want is an hour-long shower." She rolls her shoulders.
"I'll get going then." He clears the paper plates, adds them to the overflowing trash. She walks him slowly to the front door and he stands on the threshold, looking out at the shadows on his car.
"Rick…"
"Hmm?" He turns around immediately in anticipation. He's being called back. There is still time left on the clock.
"I need your keys," she finishes lamely. She peeks up at him with apology. "The landlord wants them back."
"Oh. Right." He fishes out his key ring and she stands there as he removes the spare key to her front door. He removes the one to the back patio as well. "Here you go." He tries to drop them into her palm without touching, but her fingers close around him fast.
"Thanks," she says with emotion. "For everything."
He nods, not trusting himself to speak. "Call me tomorrow," he says, "if you need more help."
He leaves and she closes the door behind him, as she has a thousand times. His Dodge is parked on the street across from her place. He climbs inside but doesn't start the engine. Instead he sits there in the dark and watches as the lights go out in her home, one by one.
WE'LL TAKE IT
Years go by and he moves two more times. He sends her a Christmas card with his new address, and she dutifully replies with a note to his new domicile. He tries to picture her in her new surroundings sometimes—an old stone house covered in moss—but he has no idea what she actually does with her days anymore. Occasionally his job brings him into her old neighborhood. Once he parked outside her loft house for a while, staring at it as though it might reveal some secret if he waited long enough. How can the building look exactly the same when everything else has changed?
At first he felt her loss acutely. Every street corner, every low-rent dinner, every trip to the vending machine where he didn't bring back an extra candy bar seemed to conjure up some memory of her. Eventually he gets used to hearing his name called out without hers following it, although the ones that come later never quite sound right to his ears. He gets promoted to Lieutenant and makes it official once and for all: he no longer has a partner.
He catches plenty of bad guys and fills out all his own paperwork. The job is satisfying but it's somehow not as sweet. He didn't realize that part of the reward was having someone else there who knew how hard you'd worked to bust this particular punk, who knew how easily it could have gone the other way. You can be a paper hero to anyone but your partner knows the truth. When Hunter finally nailed the Chicken Bandit—a jerkwad who'd hit eleven California banks to the tune of half a million dollars, always dressed in that stupid rubber chicken mask—he'd actually picked up the phone to call her. But it was past midnight there, and while the Chicken Bandit had made the local news for ten weeks running, he'd be nothing overseas.
Soon she's been gone six years, as long as they were together. She's as much Alex's now as she ever was Hunter's, maybe more so, since they had a ceremony and a license and rings and stuff. But it turns out these trappings aren't as binding as they seem, because one day she comes back. She has to call him at work with the news because she doesn't have his current phone number. The marriage didn't work out, she says, so she's coming home.
He is embarrassed to admit it but for that first dinner with her he tells Jake from the station beep him after one hour, just in case. He's barely spoken ten words to her in years and he is utter rubbish at small talk, to borrow a phrase from her Brits. She is pretty as always, her hair long and loose, the only signs of the intervening years a few fine wrinkles around her eyes. He can see from the way she clutches her purse she's as nervous as he is.
They each order a big glass of wine. Fifty-five minutes to go. "Sorry I was a little late," he says. "I had a meeting with Captain Randazzo that ran a little long."
Her eyebrows knit together. "Randy Randazzo?"
"The very same."
"He's a Captain now? I seem to recall a New Year's Eve party where he made out with a mop."
Hunter grins because he'd forgotten this little detail. "Hey, that's right. He did. That's the same party where we moved Ed Green's yellow Pinto around the corner and then he reported it stolen because he was too hammered to find it."
"That's right! You were so terrible," she says, smiling at him.
"Me? You're the one who helped him type up the report!"
She giggles, a familiar sound that melts away all the years. "I'd forgotten all about that. He was afraid his wife was going to kick him out."
"She finally did three years ago."
"About time," she says, raising her glass. They consume the wine and two giant plates of pasta. When his beeper goes off right on time, Hunter fishes it out to squint at it. She looks disappointed. "Do you have to go?"
"Nah, it's not important." He punches in 1234, the code for all clear. "Why don't we order dessert?" They are still talking three hours later when the restaurant shuts down.
They have other dinners, with lunches mixed in for variety. No breakfasts. He's seeing more of her than any woman he's dated in the past few months but they are careful not to touch one another. He is afraid if he starts that he won't know when to stop.
She calls him up one morning. "The short-term lease is up on this place and I need a place to live," she says, and for a second, he wonders if she's hinting to move in. "Want to help me look?"
"I will cancel my scheduled pedicure."
They look at a bungalow surrounded by Areca palms. It has warm paint colors and nice patio outback, but she doesn't like the boxy rooms or the pink-orange tile in the bathroom. He likes the modern condo in a new building. It has high white walls, dark hardwood floors, and most importantly, a state-of-the-art alarm system. She says it's too cold and the balcony is tiny.
The last house of the day is an end unit in an older development. It's been recently renovated, though, with hardwood floors and new appliances in the kitchen. She likes the window seat by the back garden and the rounded arches in the hall. "This reminds me of your old place," he says, pushing at the swinging door to the kitchen.
She smiles. "It does, kind of. We logged a lot of hours in that kitchen, didn't we?"
"Yep, sure did." He leans on the counter. She leans on the other side. "You cooked up some of the finest take-out in all the land."
"Hey. I baked you a birthday cake once."
"Oh, I remember. So does the fire department."
He grins as she makes a face at him. "Did you go home hungry? No, you did not." He has to admit this is true. She'd punted the cake idea and they'd made ice cream sundaes instead, which they'd eaten in her backyard because it was still far too smoky inside.
He palms the island counter top, which is smooth and cold. He has another memory from that kitchen, one that involves him setting her on a counter much like this one as he slid his hands up under her dress. She watches him stroke the tiles and he wonders if she is remembering the same thing. They are staring at each other when the showing agent pops her head in the door. "Do you have any questions about the property?" she asks, all perky and blonde. Hunter barely sees her. "I want to make sure you two noticed the his-and-her closets upstairs in the master suite."
McCall is still staring at him. Here it comes, he thinks, readying himself for the correction she always makes.
She gives him a smile that is half speculative, half mischief. "Thanks," she says to Agent Blondie without breaking his gaze. "We'll take it."
XXX
Notes: I have zero recollection of writing this, but since I found it in my files, I must have. I was holding my breath and hoping for a happy ending, lol.