A/N—This chapter got a bit long, so I broke it into two, meaning that this is now Part 2 of 3. Plus I feel it works better as a three parter. Also, still WAY off-canon.

Season 1 Non-Canon

Multi-perspective

Flowers for your Confusion Part 2 of 3

Rick listens as Beckett recounts the story of their success in the escape room. She is walking at his side, and he feels positively elated at how much happier she seems. She may not have wanted to have fun, but he's managed to show her a good time. He thought she was interesting when they met, but each passing moment only seems to prove it. He is pretty certain that a lifetime of research would not unravel the mystery of her, but he can only imagine how fun it would be to try. The thing is, as much as he is attracted to her, he's already entirely convinced that she isn't a one night type of woman, at least not for him. There is no way he could learn everything he wants to learn about her in a single night. No, Beckett isn't the type of woman you quickly get out of your system.

Halfway through dinner earlier that night, he realized he needed to do something special, hence the escape room. And then, halfway through the escape room, he decided the desired outcome of his time with her wasn't a night or two of passion. He wasn't, and still isn't, sure exactly what he wants, but he definitely wants…more. For now, that's all he really needs to know.

Remembering his plan, he nudges her with his shoulder toward the ice cream shop, and she pauses and stares at him. "You alright, Castle? You're quiet all of a sudden. You didn't get hurt in that fall, hit your head, did ya?" When he doesn't answer immediately, she grabs his face in her hands, angles him toward the light, and checks his eyes for signs of concussion.

"I'm fine," he chuckles, taking her wrists in his hands and pulling them away from his face. "I was listening to you."

She extracts her hands quickly, but she's still smiling at him. She doesn't appear nearly as defensive as she used to, and it's making him absolutely wild that he can't kiss that little smirk on her lips. For a moment he weighs the risk. It's not the potential for physical harm he fears, although he knows without a doubt that she can kick his ass in a heartbeat. He fears losing the progress he's gained with her. He reaches past her to get the door, and she quickly yanks it open and steps through, propping it with her foot so he could follow.

He watches her eyes skitter over the large menu posted on the wall behind the counter. "Lots of options," he notes.

"Too many," she replies. "I'm not sure what to—"

"Rick!" a woman shouts as she swoops into the freezer and quickly produces two top-heavy scoops of ice cream on a homemade waffle cone and delivers it to the waiting customer.

"Hey Nancy," he replies. "Bringing you another victim."

"Victim?" Beckett asks.

"Rick says everyone he brings in here gets hooked," Nancy answers as she fills another order. She hands off the cone to the customer and asks Rick, "Just a cone tonight…or the special?"

"The special?" Kate asks, elbowing him.

He turns to her, knowing he's incredibly intense, but ice cream is serious business. "It's so worth it, but too big for me. Usually I share it with Alexis, but—"

"Bring it on," Beckett accepts.

When the concoction is done, it looks like a banana split, but the flavors and toppings aren't the traditional ones. Kate's trying not to moan too salaciously, but the taste of each combination is fantastic. She takes tiny bites, letting each settle on her tongue to be enjoyed.

His eyes are on her with each bite. She can't identify his smile, and so she asks bluntly, "What?"

"Nothing," he replies, his gaze dropping while he pokes at the ice cream with his white plastic spoon. As excited as he seemed to be to get here, he isn't eating much.

"Tell me."

"You look like you're having fun," he shrugs.

He is disarmed and disarming, but she's prepared for whatever comment is about to follow. She knows it's a come on, some lusty retort that's going to make her body twinge. Of course the best part about whatever she is certain he's about to say is that she'll have an excuse to rebuff him. After all, she feels her chill melting, and she doesn't want to get too comfortable. As obnoxious as she wants to think he is, he's been ridiculously intriguing, fun, and fascinating for their entire date, and it's making her reconsider some of her objections to him.

So she prepares the comeback, the one that will reestablish the requisite space between them, and baits him. "Maybe I am having fun. You think that entitles you to something?" she interrogates with a knowing smirk.

"Absolutely," he emphatically answers before her words fade. She doesn't even have time to respond before he continues, "It entitles me to sit here and enjoy your smile."

She can't help but allow the grin to stretch on, shy as it may be. She's not used to fighting an expression so hard.

He clears his throat and adds, "As far as I'm concerned, that makes my entire evening an unmitigated success."

Shaking her head, she says, "You know you've kinda surprised me tonight."

"Oh?"

"Yea. I expected it to be one ridiculous pass after another."

"Disappointed?" he quips. "I have plenty of lines in my arsenal if you'd like me to dust them off."

She hears her own soft giggle as she shakes her head. "Not disappointed. The opposite. It's actually been fun."

"Fun enough to—"

"Stop right there," she admonishes.

He, as she guesses is often true, doesn't obey, "I was going to say…fun enough to go out again some time?"

Kate did not anticipate this, so she answers with the first thing that comes to her mind. "Does that mean the date—the evening—is over?"

Tilting his head, she can see his mind is firing in a thousand different directions. "It doesn't have to be," his voice nearly cracks midway through the response, showing the uncertainty that lies below his almost chronic aplomb.

Kate knows the words she's about to speak are a bit misleading, and she feels guilty on some level. But she wants him to feel as tied up as she is, so she says, "I thought maybe…you could show me how you move."

His elbow slips off the table because he's leaned forward a little too much. "That was exactly what I was thinking." He speaks a bit more quickly, "I know you made the no sex rule perfectly clear, and I am not asking you to change your mind…not at all."

She nods slowly, feeling her pulse flutter and rise as she's wondering what he'll say next. She should probably tell him what she actually meant by 'move,' but she wants to hear what he's thinking, even though she knows she's probably holding onto a lit firecracker a bit too long.

He puts his hands up, like he's signaling surrender, and simply placing the terms on the table. "Maybe I could show you a thing or two about-"

Beckett interrupts him with a derisive laugh. "Show me a thing or two? You think I'm some innocent girl waiting for a man to show me the ways of love?"

He leans closer over the table, and she still feels like he's touching her even though at least four inches separate them at their closest point. "On the contrary. I look at you and I see a woman who might be able to teach me a few things. And I…am a very willing student."

"You're ridiculous."

"Before I was so rudely interrupted, I was trying to tell you that I want to show you a thing or two about what I can offer, like an interview. I'm attentive. I'm adventurous, and giving, and I'm extremely interested in making sure you have a very good time. I'll make you an offer."

"You can stop right there."

"Hear me out. I will give you a chance to judge my abilities for yourself. I will do my absolute best to satisfy your needs...all while keeping my clothes on, entirely. All buttons buttoned and zippers zipped. Scout's honor."

"I thought you were never a Scout?"

"Writer's honor then. You have my word. I will focus 190% of my attention on you."

"What's the catch?"

"There is no catch. Tonight I'll concentrate solely on you, and I won't stop until you're fully satisfied. Then you decide what happens next. You can walk away. I require nothing in return, no questions asked, no further offers. I have no expectations beyond that. But, if you decide you'd like to, we could go out again. Maybe share some…interactive playtime. You can call all of the shots…or none of them. Or anything in between. I'm open minded. What do you have to lose?"

"Does this line usually work?" She asks because she has no idea whatsoever how to respond to that.

"Jury's still out. First time I've ever made the offer," he says, waiting for her response with loud intensity.

Kate sits back, returning to seated-cop-stance with her arms folded. "That doesn't sound like much fun for you. Sounds like a recipe for frustration."

"I'm not complaining." He leans even closer, compensating for the gap she's added, but in a way that is more secretive than flirty. He whispers, "You really don't feel it?"

"Nausea?"

"…that spark between us, the gravity pulling us together. There's something there. I feel it. And I think you feel it as well. Aren't you the least bit curious? I can't stop thinking about it. Deny it all you want, but I see the way you flush. That pulse in your neck flutters more quickly, your pupils dilate when we're close."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she flat out lies.

"Okay then. What exactly were you proposing? Something about seeing me move?"

"Dancing, Castle," she smugly declares. "I thought we could dance."

Still, he is undeterred. "I have the perfect place."

He knows exactly where she expects he'll take her. Beckett is anticipating a throbbing beat and closely pressed bodies, maybe a rave with lots of dark corners couples can slip off to for moments alone. He does not want to be predictable or mundane. He's going to keep her guessing, continue to show her that he's not just a writer with a penchant for women. He's a romantic, someone exciting who does unexpected things that can actually bring a smile to her face.

There are three distinct floors at this club. It's exclusive, one that celebrities and the wealthy of New York often attend. The doors open onto a typical club floor, the kind with those heavy beats, coordinated lights, a long backlit bar, and a DJ. He's glad this is their first stop at the club because it's a great place to watch her move. Kate Beckett has an utterly astounding body, so amazing that even watching her do police work seems somehow more beautiful and graceful. And hot. But she was built for a dance floor, for gyration and visual seduction.

Rick offers to get drinks, noting that it is now past midnight, and she's still with him. Forgoing the all too easy Cinderella joke, he watches her merge onto the dance floor while he heads to the bar.

She dances for thirty or forty seconds before she's discovered by a guy. Rick thinks that's longer than it should be before she's approached. He feels a loathing for the dancing man instantaneously, even though he fully expected the arrival of someone exactly like this. The familiarity this guy shows, the ease with which he cozies up so close behind Beckett, upsets Rick more than he thought it would. The guy looks like a model, and probably is. Model boy slides a hand around Kate's waist, letting his palm rest on her hip. Castle feels a rising irritation that she's allowed this clearly unworthy human to get handsy, and almost victorious enough to pump his fist when she steps away, although she continues to dance. The model moves to the front of her, lifting his shirt to flaunt washboard abs that ripple too perfectly. Rick can handle the possibility of going home alone, but he does mind the thought of Kate going home with anyone else but him if she wants company. He realizes his disgust is obviously manifested on his face, and then sees she is looking right at him. He tries to blank his expression, to remember that dates are like playing cards, and sometimes it's important to maintain the perfect poker face.

She whispers something to the model, who shrugs and replies tersely (Rick thinks it's "Your loss," or something equally unimaginative).

She comes back to Castle near the bar, still dancing as she covers the distance. Her approach is hypnotic.

"What's taking so long?" she asks as she takes a drink from his hand.

"Just watching you," he confesses, his admiration plain.

"We're here to dance, not watch." Kate takes his arm, and he wishes there wasn't so much cloth between them, but even her hand, her fingers on his arm, feels too good.

"This way," he says, nodding toward another door.

She lifts an eyebrow and scowls. "Back room? Really?"

"Come on," he insists.

They walk through the heavy metal doors and down a hall, passing a few couples who found those quiet spots to be almost alone. He's pretty sure she thinks he's dragging her to a make out spot, but he's not nearly stupid enough to try it just yet. She's more sophisticated than that. Kate is a woman to be earned, and he's pretty sure good things will come to those who wait. Although he also knows he may be waiting months. He'll find ways to cope.

He swings open the next heavy door and waits for her to enter. When she sees the next floor, something a bit more sophisticated, and certainly not a hookup spot, he wants to shout, "Ha. Maybe a little trust is in order," but limits his gloating to a whisper near her cheek.

This room looks more like a jazz club, a little dimmer, and private, with smooth, soulful music playing. Admittedly it feels a bit like a step back in time. Beckett looks pleased, though, and it makes him happy.

This is the moment when an epiphany descends on him, and he knows how he can keep her in his life a bit longer. He decides at this point that it's best to play the long game, because rushing her will not end favorably for him. She's intoxicating, a drug, and he's already planning his next fix before he's even tried a sample.

He swings them by a table where they place their glasses, and then he holds out his hand, palm up, and waits for her response. She accepts his hand as he guides her to the floor. Rick slings an arm around her waist, finding a polite settling point. Right now, he feels content with the prospect of holding her in his arms, looking into her eyes. This kind of closeness makes it harder for him to exhale, clouds his thoughts, but he believes he could stand like this with her indefinitely.

She drapes one wrist over his shoulder, but before she can land the other, he covers her hand with his and presses both against his chest. It's a little familiar, but he feels it's a classic romantic move befitting the ambience.

She's warm, body taut against him. The only skin he is making contact with is the back of her hand, but even the small space he has available to test is soft and inviting. The muscles down her side move beneath his hand, all at once she is strong and elegant. He has the distinct impression that she's beginning to melt into the closeness. Their eyes lock, and nerves tighten his throat. He doesn't remember feeling so flustered since his youth.

For a while, they dance in silence, and he intentionally looks away. It's too tempting to imagine things becoming heated between them, to dream of more intimate circumstances, and he's decided he's not going to rush things. It's important to take this slow.

"You really do like a challenge," she whispers. He can feel her breath on his ear, and thinks maybe this is another level of torment she's choosing to apply.

"Why do you say that?" he asks. His bedroom voice emerges, and from the stare she gives he thinks maybe he's getting to her.

"You're clearly used to getting what you want from women. You're successful, wealthy, decent looking—"

"—decent?—"

"—I'm willing to bet you could find someone to take home within the next hour. Someone who would giggle at all your jokes and fawn over you, and eagerly respond to your suggestions. You're wasting your time with me. I'll let you in on a secret. I'm not that interesting. I work, I go home, sleep, wake up and do it again," she remarks. "Honestly, Castle, my life is pretty boring."

"I beg to differ."

She soaks up the compliment, and he tightens his arm around her back just a little. He notes the way she doesn't resist or tense, and their stares cement again.

"I'm going to tell you something. Something…deeply personal," he gravely states.

She starts to retort, expecting his typical suggestiveness, "Oh this'll be—"

"I was blocked," he interrupts. "It was worse than I've experienced before. I was starting to wonder if my writing days were over."

Beckett's face falls, shock evident. "Is this a joke?"

"No. There was nothing funny about it."

"I'm sorry, Castle. That's gotta be hard."

"It's a horrific, sickening feeling," he confesses, still holding her hand beneath his larger one. This kind of serious talk is not in his comfort zone, but the situation calls for it.

"You said you 'were' blocked. Does that mean you aren't anymore?"

"Quite the opposite. I have so many ideas it's almost overwhelming. Almost."

"What happened?"

"You," he answers solemnly. "You think you're boring but I can tell you, you are fascinating. I can come up with a dozen usable plots, but that isn't what really brings a story to life. What makes a story relatable to the reader, the kind of story they're invested in and can't put down…it's the characters. If I'm not intrigued by my character, how am I supposed to sell them to the reader. I needed someone I could be excited about, a character who could still surprise me."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"You're the inspiration. You gave me the idea for my next character. She's based on you."

Beckett's face blanches thoroughly, and that wasn't the reaction he expected.

"You're angry?" he asks.

"No," Kate shakes her head. "I'm flattered, I guess. And a little baffled."

"This tremendous surge of inspiration, it's…I imagine it's like getting a break in a cold case you thought you'd never solve." She starts to reply, but he speaks over her, "Let me guess…you've never had an unsolved case?"

"I wish. I know how difficult that is. The frustration. How it eats away at you." She turns away, and he feels like he's said something wrong, something that touched her in a way that makes her turn introspective when he was trying to make a connection with her.

Optimistically, he continues, "The good news is that it's exponentially satisfying when you figure it out. The harder the climb, the greater the satisfaction when you reach the summit. When you find that one missing piece that makes everything fall into place. It's such a rush. I have you to thank for that. Honestly."

"I didn't really do anything."

"You did, though. And if there's ever anything I can do to help you out…just let me know. I'm not a cop, but I know stories. I know people."

He prepares for her to respond warily, but she answers, "That's very sweet of you."

Her forehead drops a little, and for a moment, he thinks she may lean against his shoulder. He wants her to so badly, to feel her rest some of her weight against him. The pair settle into silence, and he remains content with the fact that she isn't pushing him away.

"Did I ruin the evening?" he asks after a song or three passes, he isn't sure because he hasn't really been listening to the music.

Kate's piercing gaze finds him, and she shakes her head, but says nothing.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive," she begins. He sees her brow moving as she thinks, her eyes seeking, lips searching for words that don't come, words he desperately wishes he could hear.

When it's clear she won't say more, he asks, "Any chance I can convince you to do this again? Tomorrow? Or next week?"

"I dunno," she softly jokes, "I'm sure there are lots of families in the 12th who could use large charitable donations."

"No," he shakes his head, noting the way they both stop swaying. Now she is joking, and he is the solemn one. "No more deals. No more bargains. Just me, asking you, to go out again. This story between us…I don't want it to be over."

He can hear his heart thudding in his ears as he waits for her reply. He's asked women to marry him and felt less nervous.

An intoxicated couple next to them loses their balance and crashes into Kate, spilling a syrupy drink on her arm. She quickly excuses herself, and he watches, heart fully aching, as she slips off the floor and disappears down the hall into the bathroom. He wonders if she will use the opportunity as an excuse to escape the question. In fact, he's not even sure she'll return.

Kate stares at her reflection in the mirror as she washes the sticky neon beverage off her arm. Bracing her hands on the chilly white sink, she tries to catch her breath and straighten out her mind. She never imagined things would go like this, that she'd feel so tempted to go out with him again, so lured in by this man. Beneath the flair, he has a depth she did not expect. The thing that frightens her far more than her attraction for him, is the possibility that maybe, one day, she could share secrets with him she hasn't spoken of in years. For the first time in a long time, she considers telling someone about her cold case, the one that changed her life forever. Strangely enough, she imagines her secrets might be safe with him.

The thought of that kind of vulnerability, discussing that case, her mother, something so deeply personal, well that's far more intimate than sex. She's too pragmatic, she reminds herself, for silly flights of fancy like this. There's something about him that makes her feel like trust could one day be possible. Maybe it's his ridiculousness, his complete lack of interest in hiding whatever he wants to say, whenever he wants to say it without the slightest concern for appropriateness. Or maybe it's because he can be sweet and considerate, as well as youthful and enthusiastic. She flashes a smile at her reflection as she thinks, 'A man willing to steal a horse in the nude doesn't feel the need to hide much.' Something about him seems unexpectedly honest, although still deeply annoying.

The whole thing is surreal, from meeting a favorite author, to finding him infuriating in reality, and then being charmed by him during one of the most fun dates she's ever been on. It doesn't hurt that he's handsome in a classic and cocky sort of way. He's definitely not her usual type, but he was right when he suggested she could feel the spark and pull between them.

Still, she doesn't want to make a mistake, doesn't want to rush into anything she may regret, so she stands firm in her resolve that she will not be going home with him, not tonight. 'But also maybe not never," she silently tells herself. It's important that she sticks firm to her resolve, showing him she means the things she says. She doesn't want to cave too easily, inflate his ego.

When she leaves the bathroom, she sees Castle waiting near the end of the hall. The light there is sparse, and mostly she can only make out his silhouette. He's leaning against the wall, looking dejected, a far cry from the over-the-top, spirited man she worked with earlier in the week. He isn't scouting for his next prospect, he is simply waiting for her. Part of her is surprised that his attention span has such length.

Remembering that she didn't respond to his request for another night out, she feels a little bad for rushing off. Barely willing to admit it to herself, she knows she's grateful for the clumsy couple who spilled their drink to give her a few seconds to think.

He doesn't look up when she starts walking toward him, or even notice her until she's only a foot or two away. "Hey," she says.

His hopeful blue eyes rise to hers, a crooked smile finding the corner of his mouth. "Wasn't sure if you were coming back."

"Just wanted to wash off my arm. Wasn't sure if I wanted my new fragrance to be Orange Crush," she jokes.

"Look, I had a good time tonight," he admits, "but if you don't want to go out again, just say so, I promise, I can handle rej—"

He stops talking because he has to. Her closeness startles him. He's still leaning on the wall, but Beckett is now so near him, so thoroughly invading his personal space that he's pretty sure this counts as actual touching. Her palm presses to his solar plexus, and he turns only a little and finds her face aligned perfectly with his. Those gorgeous, plump lips are ever so slightly parted, and he's not sure how he can stop himself from tasting them. Still, he feels any mistake may send her running. He tilts his head only the slightest, his own lips parting almost imperceptibly. He nudges her nose with his, pressing his hands back against the cool, thickly painted wall to anchor them so he doesn't grab onto her.

When she makes the decision to hop across the centimeter span between them, he hears his breath become heavier. Damn her lips are soft, slightly spicy from the drink she had, and she holds there for a moment. It's insanely enthralling, making him feel things in his head, chest and stomach that he shouldn't feel so copiously from just a kiss.

He's afraid to move, nervous to shatter the fragile structure these seconds are built upon. She moves though, thank god, because it was almost painful to squelch his response. Her lips surround his upper lip, gently tugging, and when her tongue tickles the soft underside, his gasp stutters. If his goal was to remain cool, he's failed, not that he cares. He's literally pressing his hands against the flat wall like he can hold on. If he stops hanging on, he's going to wrap his arms around her, pull her legs around his hips, spin her around and shove her up against the wall. He wants her that badly, that completely.

She's tentative, though, her kiss slowly exploring, studying him, studying them, and how they meld. It's delectable torture, something to be savored and rushed at the same time. Her fingers remain against his torso, but her other hand moves to his shoulder, sliding with smooth pressure up the back of his neck. His hair stands on end back there in the hot path left behind by her caress. Her fingertips move over his scalp before she grabs the back of his head, and there he finds an answer. There is an urgency to the way she pulls him closer, an insistence similar to what he feels.

Her body stretches luxuriously, lining his. A moan slips from her throat when he starts to return the kiss more hungrily, feeling like now she may not pull away, at least not from that, although he doesn't dare any escalation, any other untested contact. He's trying so hard not paw at her. He sees this in his mind, the image of him leaning almost passively against the wall while she takes control.

There is no telling where she's learned to kiss like this, if it's from some experience or merely a manifestation of her passions finally being freed, but he feels fortunate to be the recipient. Finally, since she seems very comfortable with how things are going, he reaches out, keeping one hand glued to the wall for good measure. His thumb climbs her jaw, fingers moving along her neck. The slippery softness of silk would feel like burlap compared to her skin.

It's stupid and reckless, but he inches his mouth over to her neck, knowing she may rebound away from him, but he has to, his desire needs to emerge somehow. Rick's lips and tongue explore her there, seeking those sensitive places and trying to show her what he's capable of doing to her if she lets him. He hopes she knows, she can feel, the way he's going to make her explode if she's willing. He is more than happy to devote ridiculous amounts of time and effort into doing just that.

She claws at the back of his head roughly, pulling him closer and inviting him to continue. Her fist grasps his shirt, pulling in as much of the fabric as she can, but it's the sounds, tiny sounds, that shoot through him.

The fingers he still has affixed to the safety of the wall ball up as he gathers his bravery. He brings those timid digits to her hip, and the second she doesn't withdraw, he becomes more brazen, allowing his hand to move over her back, pull her body flush to his. She moves closer under her power, her thigh settling between his. His right leg is partially wedged between her thighs, he's actually jealous of a part of his own body. His face, his hands, his hips, would all rather be there, arguing over which most deserves that placement.

Her lips move to his ear, he feels her tongue on the lobe as she whimpers out a cry that will forever haunt every hot, sweaty thought he has.

His hands are now moving on their own without interference from his thoughts, pressing down her back, fingers venturing up the swell of her ass but stopping short of groping those firm cushions he's been starving to palm.

The nearby music dies and lights come up, signaling to all of those still there that the hour is late and the club is closing down. She pulls back enough to see him, although their bodies are still aligned from chest to knees. Her lips are bright red, eyes wild, and breath harsh and ragged, so wanton compared to the composed detective she lets most people see.

"Any chance you are considering my offer?" he asks, his stare falling to her neck and chest before returning to her mouth and then eyes to await an answer. He's aware he probably looks brainless with need, but takes comfort in the fact that she seems to look the same.

"Which offer?" she asks, raspily purring with a voice that sounds like it hasn't been used in years.

He's almost forgotten there were two. He offered her a no-reciprocation-necessary pleasuring session, and then later another date. He's too thoughtless to figure out which answer he's supposed to give, so he says, "Which ever you're willing to accept."

The look on her face, raw sexuality, makes him brace for an answer that's going to make him so hard he'll be begging for mercy, he just knows it. He's ready to hear it, wanting that thrill that will follow and the vast array of possibilities that may develop from there.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"Don't be sorry," he looks down over her body again, holding on tight, full of admiration and curiosity, hoping that soon he's going to know so much more about her. "You did absolutely nothing to be sorry for."

"But I'm about to," she replies, firmly pressing her hands to the wall to remove herself from him. "I have to go. Thanks. I, uh…I had a nice evening."

Once he wraps his head around the fact that she's going, she's actually walking away from this, he shouts after her, "Kate! Wait! At least let me make sure you get home!"

But she disappears into the crowd before he can give chase.

He looks at the space that's now empty before him, and asks the universe, "What the hell just happened?"

Rick tells himself he should run home, grab a shower and work out some 'tension,' then take a nice long nap. But the ache he has is located more in his chest than anywhere else. In the space of an evening, he was thoroughly falling for her. Maybe she doesn't want this, doesn't want him, but he stands by his belief that their story is far from over. If she won't date him, he'll deal with that, but he can't yet let her go, not without a fight. And he's relatively sure that if he can find a way to stay in her life, things will work out.

So he doesn't go home to his shower or his bed, he picks up his phone. "Hey, Big Cheese! Need a quick favor!" he declares.

The voice on the other end speaks, and Rick checks his watch.

"Sorry, Mr. Mayor, I didn't realize it was this late…or early. Either way. But I promise you, this is important."

Next up Part 3 (the last part of this mini-story, no, really, I mean it this time).