He extends his hand, smiling. "Richard Castle."
She freezes. Her favourite author just bought her a drink? Shut. The. Front. Door.
Kate's mind is reeling. Her favourite author just bought her a drink. She looks at the woman he is with. Her favourite author is clearly on a date- and he bought her a drink. This is the weirdest day she has had. Ever. And she's had some weird ones. She runs through a catalogue of reactions in her mind- ranging from calling him on the fact he is on a date with someone else, to walking away, and- briefly- to throwing down the gauntlet and flirting with him until he walks away from his date (she rolls her eyes at herself for that one) and settles on a decision, biting her lower lip. Fuck. She's going to play the fangirl card, because frankly, given the situation, anything else is beyond her.
"Willyousignmybook?" Shit. Sentences, Beckett, she tells herself. Use words and sentences, like an actual human being. She's mortified, thinking- I used to be able to say entire words and sentences without sounding like an idiot- but it's Richard-freaking-Castle in front of her, and, as the case may be, she actually has a copy of one of his books in her purse back at her table.
He beams at her. "Of course." And then a moment of hesitation- "do you actually have a book here, for me to sign? One of mine, I mean? Not that I wouldn't sign a Patterson-" Gina is sinking down in her seat across from him, and although he is faintly embarrassed that he's brought this situation upon them, he can't bring himself to be sorry. This woman standing here, looking for all the world like a deer in headlights, is just so… intriguing. Beautiful, yes, and clearly haunted, and possibly unstable, now that he thinks about it, registering the conflicting emotions on her face. But mostly, intriguing.
"I have a book. Your book-" She breaks off, and returns to her table to get her purse, cursing herself for bringing a dog eared copy of such an old book. Kate wishes she had the latest Derrick Storm with her, but it wasn't like she was expecting this, and she hadn't even been planning on reading the thing. She had expected her day to be miserable, so she grabbed a Castle book off her shelf on the way out the door. Not the first time she'd done that, and probably not the last. She's well aware that carrying a crime fiction novel around is an unusual security blanket, but it is what it is.
Rick follows her back to her table- no way he's making her walk back and notice the daggers Gina is shooting them both- and Kate wordlessly hands him the book. He signals a waiter to ask for a pen and finally asks. "What's your name?"
"Beckett. Kate. Kate Beckett." She groans inwardly, again, wondering where the heck her moxie has gone- any cool she ever had has abandoned her- but she remembers, as well, what today is- startled to find she had forgotten for a matter of minutes- and sighs. Not like she had a hell of a lot in reserve today of all days. She'll get her book signed, and get out of here.
"Well, Beckett, Kate, Kate Beckett. It's been a pleasure meeting you." The author smiles broadly at her as he hands the book back and he leans in to kiss her cheek, eliciting a tiny shocked gasp. Kate can't meet his eyes as he steps away and smiles awkwardly, chewing her lip again.
"Thank you. For the book. And the drink." And she's suddenly exhausted beyond all comprehension and wants out of this mind fuck that is happening today of all days, with the drink buying and book signing and cheek kissing. He seems to get that she's done with the conversation and he nods, and turns, walking back to his table, to Gina.
When he turns back to look at her one last time, she's gone.
"What the hell was that, Rick?"
"What? I'm an author. People ask me to sign my books." Rick rubs his face with his right hand before conceding. "Look, I shouldn't have bought her a drink. But I noticed her and she looked so sad, and I wanted to do something nice- and she's a fan so I could even sign her book." He smirked. Thank God Gina hadn't been there to see what he wrote in the book. He hadn't been able to stop himself. The physical pull he'd felt toward her- Kate- was so strong that it had taken all his restraint to see the turmoil in her eyes and limit himself to just kissing her cheek before walking away. He wanted this night with Gina to end- he wanted everything with Gina to end, well before it truly began. And he wanted to see Kate again. He wanted her story and he wanted her.
What. The. Actual. Fuck?
Kate bites back tears and an uncomfortable feeling of humiliation. What is going on? It's today and she cannot- will not- deal with any more drama. The exhaustion that has been shadowing her since she woke up this morning (shadowing her all week) hits her, hard, and she throws the book against on the floor in an uncharacteristic moment of passion, anger burning her cheeks. Why she's so angry she can't really even say, just has an awful feeling of fear in the pit of her stomach. She closes her eyes for a second and presses her fingertips to her eyelids as if to push back tears.
Opening her eyes, she studiously avoids looking at the book on the floor and walks through the kitchenette to the bathroom, pulling at her clothes as she walks, and turning the shower taps to scalding before she even has her shirt off. She finishes undressing and steps into the steam, the hot needles of water, and sinks onto the shower floor, leans her forehead against the still cool tile. And allows what she denied all day. She weeps.
As the water gets cooler- it happens too quickly in this apartment, Kate pulls herself together, assesses. She's still angry, but mostly with herself. There is no reason for her reaction. It was a weird day, she tells herself, and it was a weird encounter this evening. Her stomach rumbles and she actually laughs, as she realises she left before the pasta she ordered even got to her table. Without paying. She kind of grins to herself as she wonders whether Richard Castle, Mister arrogant writer himself, paid for her whole bill instead of just the drink that he'd so inappropriately sent to her table while on a date with someone else.
Just like that, she's not angry any more. She can almost see the funny side. She'd waited until she was well away from the restaurant, on the subway, before allowing herself to open the book, read the inscription. She had opened the pages of Flowers for her grave with such reverence, spell bound that she'd met Richard Castle. She had expected his signature, at best a "to Kate", or perhaps a "dear Beckett". She hadn't expected what she saw. Not words. Instead, just a number. His phone number.
What. The. Actual. Fuck?
