A/N: Had hoped to post this update yesterday but then the site broke down. :( Apologies for the delay. At least it let me use the downtime to write chapter 5, which should be up in a couple of days. Fun and games to come.

Chapter 4 – The Ride

Previously...

Kate watches her favorite author walk away this time, allowing herself this final chance to observe him before New York City claims him from her. The height and size of his frame, the broadness of his back, shoulders as powerful as any wide receiver; he is an impressive specimen of masculinity, there is no denying. But then he doesn't look back, and the moment of fractured longing passes.

She chews on her lip while staring down at his business card once more, her gaze locked on the tasteful, sophisticated lettering until the black font starts to dance like a puppet in front of her eyes.

When she looks up again and turns, the female desk sergeant is leaning over the battered old counter, her chin resting on her hands, watching her.

She gives Kate a smile, and then tips her head in the direction of the front door. "How many millionaires asked you out this month, Beckett? Go on. What are you waiting for?"

Kate's cheeks flood with heat, but she finds herself flashing the sergeant a crazy grin, before she turns on her heel and begins running for the exit.

"Mr. Castle? Wait up!"

Kate's heart is racing as she hurries to catch up with Richard Castle before he can skip the confines of the precinct without knowing that she has changed her mind.

Because she has changed her mind. Hasn't she?

This question and its complicated answer give her sufficient reason to pause, mentally speaking, that her footsteps begin to slow down a little. From the rat-a-tat rush of mere seconds ago they take on a more sedate pace, allowing her time to think.

Because this – what she's doing right now – is a risk. No question.

It's a huge risk: running after a legendary playboy. A playboy she had just arrested. A playboy who managed to finagle his way out of the entirely legitimate charges the NYPD was set to bring down on him by calling in a favor; a favor which allowed him to evade the clutches of justice completely. Ordinarily she wouldn't give a guy like that the time of day. In fact, she'd go so far as to say that she'd bide her time awaiting her chance to wreak revenge on his sorry, entitled ass.

But two things are stopping her from taking that route.

First of all, he actually happens to be her favorite author. This emotional connection becomes all the more complicated by the fact that it was her mother who discovered his novels first before passing that knowledge on. This shared love of his writing is one Kate finds difficult to look beyond, since it's almost as if her mother had somehow given the man her prior approval to be a part of Kate's life, in some shape or form, before she died.

Second of all, it has been a long time since anyone decent asked her out on a date (if you can even call this millionaire writer, with a reputation for the ladies, "decent"). She wears a uniform all day long, a really unflattering uniform that gives her an ass and hips that she doesn't even own, chunky, unbecoming curves that she removes at the end of each day along with her utility belt and her 50/50 polyester nylon blend pants. She's also completely surrounded by male cops at work, cops who appear to be either married or married to the job, and who treat her like the little sister they never had…if she's lucky. Her time off is spent at the Laundromat, buying groceries she has no time or inclination to cook, catching up with her dad for the odd breakfast, and working on her mother's case when the need for sleep lets up enough to allow. So the opportunity to meet anyone of substance is severely limited by circumstance these days. A little help in that department should not be overlooked lightly, if her life is to get any better before she herself hits thirty.

If there was a point three and four to all the brain turmoil and self-justification Kate is engaging in, as she slows to a halt just inside the front door of the precinct house, it's that a) She really needs to get laid, and b) Her Sergeant just gave her the thumbs up to do so. What happens next is a mere stumbling block on the road to happiness; a pesky pothole in her plan, send to test her resolve.

"Well looky here. If it isn't The Horse Whisperer in the flesh," greets Alex "A-hole" McAllister, as he shoulders his way through the front doors with his wingman Greg Henderson.

"Now that is one ride I would not mind taking," mutters A-hole, loud enough for Kate to hear, though the comment is clearly intended for his partner in crime.

"Giddy-up, baby," clucks Henderson, a thick-necked redhead with a flat top buzz cut that makes the top of his skull look like the flight deck of an aircraft carrier.

Kate's heart sinks on hearing the new nickname she has the man she's currently running after – like literally running after – to thank for. She feels her hackles begin to rise even further when the two men fist bump one another at her expense. When she hears the gratuitous whinnying and neighing sounds the men begin to make as she approaches, she slows to a saunter.

"How's the wife, McAllister?" she asks, trying to keep the smirk off her face by maintaining the grimace the pair had just put on it.

When the grin on the brash looking cop's face melts away and the equine sound effects fade into silence, Kate goes in for the kill.

"Oh, that's right. I forgot," she says, smacking herself on the forehead in a gesture of mock amnesia. "She left you for her girlfriend, didn't she? Sorry to hear that. But what can you do?" grins Kate, giving the two men an overly perky, bouncy little shrug. "The heart wants what the heart wants, I guess. Well...see ya!" she tosses over her shoulder, ignoring the growl of displeasure coming from behind as she finally bursts out onto the steps outside.

The air is fresh, the sun rising high on what looks like will soon be a beautiful, early spring day. Kate inhales a lungful of oxygen as she scans the sidewalk for signs of the departing writer. She hopes Jurkowski's got her talked to the head of the line for some undercover work today. The thought of being cooped up inside the stale environs of a squad car for the next eight and a half hours with her partner - who she does actually like - debating what's for lunch all morning is more than she can bear.

At first she can't see him, so she stands still for a moment or two with her hand over her eyes, shielding her face from the direct sun, while she performs a recce of the parking area and the sidewalk, crowded with patrol cars and unmarked's, aided by the elevation provided by the precinct steps.

She suddenly remembers what Sergeant Halliday had yelled out when they were still standing inside chatting: that his ride had arrived. So she immediately checks curbside, expecting to find an idling yellow cab perhaps or maybe a fancy car service vehicle, given who we're talking about here. What she finds instead is a classic car with a text-book, classy blond idling by the driver's side door, her bare arm resting on the gleaming, removable hardtop, a row of gold bracelets glinting in the morning sun.

The car is the most perfect specimen of a 1970 classic Mercedes-Benz 280 SL that Kate has ever seen. The interior is red leather, which contrasts perfectly with the silver blue bodywork and shiny chrome detail of the exterior. But any envy she might have for the car flies out the window completely when she spots Castle opening the passenger door preparing to leave, and she begins hurrying down the front steps to reach him, without actually pausing long enough to put two and two together first.

Her shift is about to start, her Sergeant is expecting her back inside with news, and it's about damn time she went on a date with a man who will at least offer, nay expect, to pick up the tab, even if she intends paying her share all along. These are the excuses she will tell herself later to explain her hasty, unthinking action. Right now though, she heads hell for leather towards the classic car as fast as her long legs will carry her.

When Castle stretches across the roof of the car to squeeze the hand of the female driver, Kate dismisses it as nothing. But when she's still yards off and he gets inside, folding his large body into the red leather bucket seat, and the woman sitting beside him leans over to kiss him on the cheek—

Well, that's when she comes to a slamming halt in the middle of the broad sidewalk that aprons the front of the Twelfth.

She was going to risk it. On this jerk? She was actually going to risk it all – her reputation, her self-respect, her golden rule of never dating anyone she met at work – though up until today that rule had never actually had to include men she had arrested at work. She would be amending that rule from here on in to include this new and dangerous possibility for sure. In fact, given this was Richard Castle - with the entourage and the crazy fans and the seemingly endless Page Six appearances with numerous interchangeable blonds on his arm - she would probably have ended up losing her sanity too. So it was with a crushing sense of disappointment and an ego-bolstering jolt of self-preservation that she told herself it was better this way.

The man had called up his "ride", aka girlfriend, much like he'd used the Mayor. But then he'd gone on to chat her up while he was sitting around the precinct killing time: trying to persuade her to go out on a date with him when he'd just fucked things up for her at work, managing to make a laughing stock of her twice in the space of twelve lousy hours. Just thinking about it made her mad – the nickname he thought was perfect and earned, him lounging on a bench in front of her Sergeant, wearing those insanely expensive Italian leather shoes, telling her how good she looked in uniform, how smart and intelligent and…beautiful.

Kate shakes her head, utterly disgusted at herself for falling for his charm so easily, equally disappointed to find she was just another available female he thought would fall into his lap if he fed her just one more well-judged, perfectly pitched line. Close but no cigar, buddy!

It just wasn't meant to be. Dates with millionaire writers weren't supposed to happen to girls like her: girls with miserable pasts harboring murdered mothers and alcoholic fathers; girls who give up their dreams for the ghosts that lurk under their beds and in the back of their minds; girls who are so young and yet damaged that they no longer believe in fate or magic or love at first sight, despite being of such a tender age that they have had little chance to experience any of these phenomena for themselves before writing them off as baseless bunkum.

Her anger at Richard Castle fades quickly enough that she manages to box up the desire to run over to the car, lean in through the window and tell him she'll accept his offer of a date, knowing full well that his blond girlfriend would be sitting there looking on in surprise. She's better than that.

No, it's time to start this day over, she tells herself, tossing her tepid takeout coffee in the trashcan by the front door before she bounds up the steps to the precinct's front entrance. The old wood and glass doors rebound on their strong, brass hinges, flapping helplessly once Kate is safely on the other side, oblivious to the yell and the screech of tires behind her.

Kate sprints up the short flight of steps to the lobby with her cheeks burning, planning to streak through the reception area unnoticed so that she can make a dash for roll call without having to face any awkward questions from Sergeant Halliday.

Too late! The woman has the eyesight of a bald eagle.

"Hey, Beckett! You need me to recommend a lipstick that'll work with your skin tone? Maybe lend you a dress?" suggests the burly desk sergeant at a volume designed to entertain anyone vaguely in the vicinity of the front hall.

Sergeant Halliday nudges a male colleague after delivering this incredulous offer. The pair descend into a fit of helpless giggles that soon have them clutching at one another while they jig around behind the counter like a couple of tots in a sandbox hearing their first toilet joke.

"That won't be necessary, Sarge," nods Kate, proudly jutting out her chin, squaring her shoulders and taking her medicine like a man.

"Why not? My dresses not good enough for you?" demands her superior, unwilling to give up this ridiculous joke just yet.

Her shoulders shudder and then she and her sidekick are off again, laughing until tears stream down their faces at the thought of tall, slender, stylish Kate Beckett ever donning any dress worn by Sergeant Halliday, and for a date with a millionaire no less.

"Mr. Castle's ride, Sarge. It was his girlfriend," explains Kate, saying the magic words that have the effect of sobering her superior up immediately.

"Oh. Oh, dammit, Beckett. I'm sorry. I had no idea." Sergeant Halliday looks genuinely contrite, which somehow makes it worse.

"No harm done," Kate shrugs, attempting to brush the whole mess off. "Just wasn't meant to be," she tells the woman bravely, digging her nails into the palm of her hand to combat the unexpected look of sympathy Cathy "Hardass" Halliday is now sending her way.

"Right. Well, better get going then," says the sergeant, her brusque demeanor utterly at odds with the hilarity of a minute ago. "Garcia's on roll call. He'll have my ass if you're late," she warns Kate, attempting to rescue the young cop's mood with a little tough love.

"Thanks, Sarge," nods Kate, swiftly heading for the stairs.

The old wooden doors on the front of the building shudder and shake, whiffle-waffling back and forth just as Kate is clearing the very last step on the second floor landing.

Sergeant Halliday instinctively looks up from her newspaper upon hearing this Pavlovian sound to check what flavor of guilty is about to cross her path. When she sees what's coming, she closes the newspaper altogether, slowly shakes her head and then she leans forward on the front desk with her chin resting on her hands.

"Well, well, well. Would you look at what the cat dragged back in. What do you want, Mr. Castle?" she demands, when the writer sidles up to her counter looking flushed and out of breath.

"There's been some terrible mistake," he gasps, clutching at his chest with all the drama of a Tony-winning actor. "You have to arrest me."

TBC...