Chapter 12 – The Non-Date Date
She's running late for roll call.
Again!
And the blame for her tardiness could quite conceivably be laid at Richard Castle's feet.
Again!
She bolts through the swing doors of the Twelfth with her rucksack bumping against her lower back. The doors whiffle-waffle behind her as she takes the stairs two at a time, breathing heavily, her cheeks a bright shade of pink, bangs spiking up in front.
"Good of you to join us, Officer Beckett."
The voice is unmistakable, the sarcasm deployed like a bomb amid the tone unmissable, slowing Kate's speed walk across the lobby to more of a fast stroll.
She stops well out of striking reach, halfway between the front desk and the stairs to the upper level. "Sorry, Sarge."
"What is it this time, Beckett?" asks Halliday, jerking her chin in an upwardly, enquiring manner.
"This time?" Kate repeats blankly. Because no way in hell is she telling this woman – the chocolate thief, as Kate now thinks of her – that the reason she's late is because she couldn't decide which shirt to bring with her this morning to wear to her meeting with Rick Castle after work.
"Ever since you met that playboy writer you've taken to arriving late, and that's just not like you. These two things wouldn't be connected by any chance?" she asks, narrowing her eyes at the younger officer.
Although the question is couched as a criticism, Kate can tell that Halliday would be only too delighted if she were to admit that the reason she kept arriving late for work was because Rick, the playboy writer, kept her cuffed to her own bed for hours on end, doing increasingly naughty things to her, until she had to beg him to let her go.
Sadly this isn't true.
At least not yet.
"Eh…no, Sarge. Trouble on the 4 Train," she lies, shrugging in a "what can you do" kind of manner, hoping Halliday will let the lie slide and won't check up with her buddies in Transit.
"What kind of trouble?" asks the desk sergeant, her scrutiny bearing down on Kate like a scorching heat lamp turned up to the max.
"EDP, I think. Wasn't in my carriage, so… Listen, Sarge, I'm really going to be late if I don't—"
"Go! Go! But, Beckett," she barks, pointing across the lobby at Kate, "I've got my eye on you. Arrive late one more time this month and I am writing you up. Understand?"
"Yes, Sarge. Thank you, Sarge."
She hears the woman muttering to herself as she sprints towards the locker room to dump her bag. Close call. Too close a call. She needs to pull it together from now on. She's been getting distracted lately and that needs to stop if her goal of becoming the youngest female detective in NYPD history has a chance of ever succeeding.
They're assigned a pretty quiet, run-of-the-mill sector of the East Village to patrol that day. Their beat runs from the border with Stuyvesant Town at East 14th Street down to the lower edge of Tompkins Square Park at East 7th, and from 1st Avenue in the West to Avenue C in the East of their Precinct. The day drags, which Kate actually takes to be a good sign, since it means she's looking forward to meeting up with Rick for coffee after work, and then at the last minute, it takes off like a runaway train, leaving her feeling panicky, excited and completely underprepared.
The highlight of their tour ends up being a call to the East Village Apart-Hotel, situated on the corner of 1st Avenue and East 9th Street. They receive a request to attend after a male resident made a complaint to management that a laptop had been stolen from his room. Things got a little heated in the reception area of the boutique studio hotel when the guest asked to confront the maid who had cleaned his room the day before. Tempers became frayed and so the manager called the police to intervene before matters turned physical.
When they pull up in front, Kate and Jan get out and then stand looking up at the building for a moment or two, taking the temperature of the area and getting their bearings. The hotel is a five-story brownstone, and of course the guest in question has a room on the top floor. The 10lbs of extra weight Kate carries around on her duty belt really hits home today as she climbs all the way to the top of the old building with her cold still tugging at her lungs and blocking her nose. It's a walk-up, so, of course, there is no elevator.
"Wouldn't want to arrive here with two weeks worth of luggage and a couple of kids in tow," comments Jurkowski, as they pant their way to the top of the narrow staircase in single file.
"Don't think this place was really designed with kids in mind," says Kate, looking around the modern, stripped back, studio space, with its exposed brick walls, bare wooden floors, wall-mounted plasma TV and sparkling white bed linen. The rooms are small, but this is New York City. Two white Scandi-design chairs that look like they probably came from Ikea face a narrow shelf bolted to the wall: a feature that goes by the rather extravagant description of "desk space" in the hotel literature.
Kate interviews the maid, while Jan takes the male guest. The maid, Irina Poletskova, is pretty distraught. She rambles in a phlegmy string of hard consonants, peppering the tearful flow of words with Да (da - yes) and Нет, (nyet - no) Спасибо ("spa-see-ba" – thank you) and Я не понимаю (I don't understand). Kate is wrapping up her interview in careful, well pronounced, but rather formal Russian when Jan appears at her side; his notebook closed but his mouth hanging open.
"Spasibo. Zapišite, požalujsta," she says, handing the young woman a pen.
"You speak Russian?" Jan doesn't attempt to mask his amazement.
"Apparently," shrugs Kate, enjoying the fact of being able to surprise her older partner for once.
"What'd you just say?"
"I thanked her for her help and asked her to write down her details in case we need to contact her."
"She tell you anything?"
"Not much. Only that she didn't take the laptop. She needs her job too badly."
Jan whispers, "Illegal?" and Kate shrugs in reply, glancing over at the frightened woman with concern.
"You believe her?"
Kate regards the thin, terrified looking woman, her hands red from scrubbing and God only knows what kind of industrial strength cleaning fluids, her face showing the sharp, sallow signs of malnourishment. "Yes, I do. If she was stealing from guests she wouldn't look as if she subsists on boiled cabbage and whatever scraps her boss is throwing out. You get any sense out of him?" she asks, jerking her head towards the hotel guest who made the complaint.
The man in his early thirties sits slumped in a chair in the corner. His eyes drift closed every few seconds and then he wakes with a start when his chin hits his chest and he startles himself with a grunt.
"Yeah, I get the sense he's been partying a little too hard since he got into town. Guy spent seven hours at an all-night club on Bowery last night. Staggered in at eight this morning with a meatball marinara from Subway and a massive headache. Said he woke up a few hours later and his laptop was gone."
"What's your thinking?"
"Frankly? I think the guy wouldn't recognize his own mother if she walked in here right now. I say we give the room another going over. Look see if he missed anything."
"You get his permission for a search?"
Jan shrugs. "We find his laptop, I doubt he'll give a rats about the formalities."
"Jurkowski, come on. If we don't find his stuff…you know we're in trouble with the Captain if this pothead comes down off his Rocky Mountain high and makes a complaint."
Jan sighs. "Fine, I'll ask him. And he's from Alaska, just so you know."
"Whatever," mutters Kate, eyeing up the burly pothead. "And don't just ask. Get him to scratch his name in your notebook. Use a doobie if you have to."
"Roger that," quips Jurkowski, flipping Kate a mock salute.
The laptop in question is finally recovered from beneath a pile of dirty clothes that the stoner from "Baked Alaska" had kicked under his bed. In the course of their search they also find a small quantity of weed packed inside a clear plastic baggie concealed deep within the toe of a rather ripe-smelling hiking boot.
Kate peels off her latex gloves, rolls one inside the other and then tosses them into the trashcan. "You wanna take him in? Charge him with unlawful possession? she asks, watching her plans with Castle go south if they do, given the extra time it'll take to transport, book and process him.
"Not to mention wasting police time by being so off his face he couldn't find his own ass with both hands in broad daylight," Jurkowski adds, in a voice loud enough to stir the man from his doze.
"Yeah, that too," laughs Kate.
"I thought you had plans with what's-his-name, the writer guy tonight?"
"I do…but work comes first, right?"
Jan turns the Ziploc baggie over in his hands and then he dangles it from his fingertips, giving it a little shake as if to weigh the contents. "This is like…less than an ounce. We write him a ticket, he pays the $100 fine and we're good to go."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure. You deserve a night off with Lady Godiva," he chuckles, bumping shoulders with Kate and giving her a cheeky wink.
"Just write the damn ticket and let's get going," Kate replies, rolling her eyes and shaking her head at him.
Back at the precinct she changes as quickly as she can in a quiet corner of the unisex locker room, speedily debating between the two shirts she brought with her so that no one who walks in could accuse her of over-primping before her date. Ooops! Which is not in fact a date.
"I'd go with the purple," says a voice out of the quiet. Halliday has her back to her when Kate whips around to see who just spoke. "Brings out your eyes," she adds gruffly, giving Kate a brief smile before disappearing again, leaving her alone and bemused.
She goes with Halliday's choice, marveling that she's taking fashion advice from the fifty-something desk sergeant who hasn't been seen out with a man in all the time Kate's been a cop. But the woman is right – purple does bring out the rich tones in her eyes, even her mother used to tell her that – as well as being her favorite color.
Her heart is racing while she leans over the mirror in the ladies' bathroom applying a little mascara, trying to keep her hand steady as she strokes on a suggestion of eyeliner, before adding a final slick of lipgloss. She touches up her lips with a smile on her face, remembering Castle's comments the last time they went out – how the lipgloss made her look even prettier. She's being a sap, she tells her face in the mirror, getting ridiculously excited about having coffee with a guy she arrested less than a couple of weeks ago. But then she remembers their phone call last night – the relief she felt to finally speak to him again after over a week of silence, how much better he made her feel despite her cold, how he always seems able to make her laugh even when she doesn't want to. There's a lot to be said for all of these qualities, and then there's how easy on the eye he is on top of that. Being a great writer doesn't hurt either.
She half jogs the two blocks to the coffee shop until her cold makes breathing difficult and she begins to cough. She covers the final block at a fast-paced walk. He's already there, she can immediately see, when she pushes open the coffee shop's creaky blue wood and glass door. His head floats just above the "Open" sign, decapitated, until she steps inside and can then see the rest of him. He looks good – relaxed, casually dressed, sitting reading the newspaper with a pen in his hand – and he fits this scene so well; like an artist in residence. She takes this moment, when he's unaware of her presence, to study him: the thick dark hair, the smooth, toned skin of his face with just the very suggestion of laughter lines around the side of each eye. To look at him feels so familiar, and maybe it's just the book jackets. But maybe, just maybe, it's that she hasn't stopped thinking about him since they first met - his kind, handsome, at times silly, face imprinted on her brain. Whatever it is, she feels excited to be here, nervous in a good way…
And then she sneezes.
Kate hastily blows her nose with a tissue and then stuffs it back into the pocket of her denim jacket. But it's too late, Castle heard the sneeze, looked up and now he knows that she's there. No more time for creepy staring.
"Hey." She approaches with a smile.
Castle shoots to his feet, scraping his chair across the bare wooden boards in the process. Several people look over at the noise but all Castle can focus on is the pretty young cop standing in front of him with a backpack over her shoulder, a slightly pink nose, and the prettiest smile on her face.
"Kate. Hi." He's practically beaming. In fact, scratch that. The man is beaming…at her.
She looks down at the low table positioned between the two armchairs he's managed to commandeer: at the folded newspaper and the open Moleskin notebook full of scribbles and doodles, at the half-empty coffee cup and the plate littered with crumbs. "Have you been waiting long? I'm not late, am I?"
"No. No, I was here ridiculously early matter of fact," he admits, running a hand through his hair, disturbing the glossy perfection.
It's awkward: being face-to-face again. They're both suddenly shy. It'll take time to thaw, Kate realizes; for them to hit the rhythm they achieved on the phone. They have so little shared history up until now – one arrest, a few drinks in a bar, two late night phone calls, and now this. Still, people have been known to fall in love based on less so…
Yeah, maybe just a little too soon to be thinking like that, she admonishes herself, digging her nails into the palm of her hand for a quick sense check.
"How ridiculous?" she asks, arching both eyebrows inquiringly about how early he got here, since it offers her humor to mine at his expense for once.
Castle looks at his watch.
"Come on," Kate cajoles, dumping her heavy bag on the floor by Castle's chair. "I'll bet you know without even looking."
He coughs to clear his throat. "Let's just say my next coffee had better be decaf."
"Are your hands shaking?" she teases, knowing that she'd fail that particular test herself if someone were to hand her a cup and saucer right now. And she can't even blame the over-consumption of coffee the way he can.
"Mm-hmm," he nods, giving her a tentative grin.
Kate laughs. "And is your heart racing?"
"Uh…yup. Definitely," he nods more vigorously, breaking out the beginnings of a sly smile. "But that might have more to do with you than the caffeine."
Kate bites her lip and studies her boots. "Jeez. I walked right into that one," she laughs, covering her face with her hand.
"I see you got us a good table," she remarks in the next instant, switching subjects less deftly than she'd like, but it is what it is.
"Perks of being here half an…hour…early." Castle emits a comical little gasp and then clamps a hand over his mouth, eyes as wide as Frisbees at the embarrassing information he just gave away.
His gaff and follow-up gesture are funny enough that they make for the perfect icebreaker. They both laugh and then Kate shakes her head and sinks down into a worn, slightly saggy armchair covered in faded red velvet. She crosses her long legs and allows herself a moment or two of calm to gather her thoughts.
They order coffee from the waitress – a decaf for Rick – along with a couple of pastel de nata* at Kate's suggestion.
"I need a sweet treat at the end of a tour. Blood sugar thing," she explains, licking a thick blob of yellow custard off her finger.
"Really? Like…doctor ordered?"
Kate laughs. "No, more like no self-restraint."
"Ah. Rough day? And how's your cold? You sounded pretty choked on the phone last night."
Just that last sentence – You sounded pretty choked on the phone last night – gives them a connection, a sort of history and a shared intimacy all at once that helps to dissolve the last of Kate's nerves.
"In fact, I half expected you to cancel," Castle runs on, while Kate scoops generous amount of custard between her lips, relishing the surge of energy she can feel as the sugar begins to hit her bloodstream.
She frowns, wiping her fingers on a paper serviette. "Why would I cancel? I worked an eight hour 35 minute shift, this place is like two blocks from work, and—"
"Maybe you changed your mind. People do."
He cuts across what she's saying, and though his words are quiet, almost timid, they are out of character enough that they stop her in her tracks. No ego here, no confident swagger or bluster either. Instead of "people" Kate hears "women" and she wonders why anyone would want to cancel on this man, annoying though he can be at times. There's no way she can't ask a follow-up question.
"What made you think I would change my mind?"
Castle looks regretful, as if he wishes he hadn't said anything. Like a defendant in court he has opened up this line of questioning and so anything Kate asks is fair game. He shrugs and concentrates on digging his teaspoon into the center of the gooey tart, cutting through the slightly scorched, blistered layer of skin on top, then on down into the creamy custard and outward to destroy the puffy, flaky, buttery pastry.
"These are sinful," he mumbles around a mouthful of sweet perfection.
Kate smiles, wide-eyed and so beautiful that it catches him unawares. "See. Best way to end a tour."
"I don't know about a tour, but I can't think of many things that couldn't be improved by ending with one of these," he adds, tapping the side of the plate with his spoon.
The words are no sooner out of his mouth than Kate is grinning and her cheeks are turning pink as she imagines the mess a pastel de nata might make of the sheets on a sex-rumpled bed. She looks down at her coffee cup shyly, taking a quick mouthful to hide her grin.
Castle sucks in a breath and his eyes widen as he appears to be reading her thoughts. "You really have a dirty mind, don't you?" he leans in across the side table to whisper.
Kate gives him a direct look. "I work with men all day long. Men who carry guns but behave like little boys most of the time. The humor kind of rubs off after a while," she shrugs. "But I promise I started out pure as the driven snow."
"Are you saying you were…corrupted by the NYPD?" asks Castle, waggling his eyebrows in a comical fashion.
Kate sits up a little straighter in her armchair. "Corrupted is a big word."
"I happen to like big words," parries Rick.
"Mmm," hums Kate, licking the last of the custard off her finger.
Castle just stares, made speechless by both the sound she proceeds to make low down in her throat – a kind of husky moan, aided and betted by the deepening effect of her cold – and by the spectacle of watching her lick and then suck sweet custard off the tip of her index finger. Her display is close to obscene for a public setting such as this.
"Are you outraged by my behavior, Mr. Castle?" she teases, realizing what she's just done, though not intentionally.
"There are kids present," Castle leans over to whisper, jerking his head in the direction of two kindergarteners, in for a treat with their East Village mommies after school.
The kids sit swinging their legs from bentwood chairs that won't let their feet reach the floor, while their mothers gossip over grande lattes with whipped cream and dusted coco on top. Both boys are blowing bubbles into tall glasses of chocolate milk through pink and white candy-striped straws, utterly oblivious to Kate's vocal enjoyment of her pastry, or the show she inadvertently put on for the entire café while finishing it.
"No one else seems to mind."
Castle and Kate both look around the room. No one is paying them the slightest bit of attention.
"Did my enjoyment of my pastry annoy you?" she asks outright, knowing full well that annoyance was not the effect her performance had on him at all.
"Annoy—" Castle shakes his head vigorously. "No."
"Then what's the problem?" she asks boldly.
He can see that Kate is enjoying this from the glint in her eye.
"Look, you know what. Forget I said anything," he insists, trying to brush it off and move on.
"Oh, no. We're in the process of…getting to know one another. I think it's good that you spoke out. I mean if there are kids around and you think my behavior is…unacceptable, as a father, I should be guided by you. Right?"
Castle narrows his eyes, wondering what she's playing at now.
"I mean you're a successful author, celebrity, pillar of the community, naked police horse rustler…" She breaks off her script to giggle.
"Ah…that again."
"Yes, that. Did you think you were going to get away so easily? That story has miles to run yet. In fact, it's now a permanent part of the legend that is Richard Castle."
"Legend?" he smirks, pleased to see the warm blush return to her cheeks.
"I'm quickly learning that your ego does not need stroking…at all."
"Maybe not my ego, but…"
"Okay, now who's being inappropriate?" hisses Kate, cutting her eyes to the mothers this time.
Castle lets his head drop. "You're right that was—"
"A low…blow?" suggests Kate, staring into his eyes.
"Are you sure there's no more than sugar and eggs in those tarts?"
Kate laughs and the conversation moves on. Somehow this is easier than she thought it would be – conversing with the mystery novelist both she and her mother have held in such high esteem for years. His presence gives her more than his words did on the page, and the debt she owes him for that…well, it would take a long time to repay. She knows she should begin by sharing these things with him, but she's not ready for him to see her in that light yet – to see the wounded animal that she became after her mother's murder. He looks at her now and he sees – or she imagines that he does – a pretty, plucky, young cop with nice eyes and a good sense of humor. She couldn't bear to watch his fascination turn to pity when he gets a glimpse of who she really is; that way lies ruin and a power-imbalance she knows she doesn't want to deal with. A seven-year age gap when you're both doing well, happy and healthy, is nothing. Change one of you significantly and suddenly that gap becomes a gulf: someone is leaning on somebody else, and pretty soon a whole Jenga tower's worth of emotions comes crashing down around you.
"How's Alexis? Settled any better?" she asks, for want of a better change of subject.
"She's…yeah, she's doing great, thanks. She was up and dressed for school before I even looked in on her this morning."
"Wow."
"She loves school. In fact, you probably won't be surprised to hear that she's more of a grown-up than I am at times."
"Is that so?"
"Mm-hmm. When she was five she told her teacher, Mrs. Edelstein, that, and I quote: "Daddy likes to make blanket forts while I do my homework."
"She what?" Kate sniggers.
"Yeah, and this was in answer to the question: "Which of your parents sits down with you after school to help with your homework"? Let's just say parents' evening was a little embarrassing next time around."
"Oh God," laughs Kate, imagining the scene and the fancy footwork he'd have to do to get out of that one. "But you charmed her, right?"
"Charmed?" asks Castle, after draining his coffee.
"Yes. This…this Mrs. Edelstein. You charmed her?"
Castle seems a little dismayed by the question, but he answers nonetheless. "Believe it or not my charms don't always work on the opposite sex, whether they're twenty-three or fifty-three."
"I…I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply…"
"What? That I get out of every tight spot I make for myself with a wink and a smile, a joke and a signed copy of my latest novel? No…that would be about accurate," he admits, a little brittlely.
"Rick, I—"
"I'm sorry, Kate," he says, suddenly sounding tired. "I didn't mean to put a damper on things."
"And I didn't mean to be so rude."
"No, you weren't rude. You were just calling it as you see it. I have a lot of work to do on growing up. I'm well aware of that."
"Look, I know I'm just a cop, but you…you seem pretty together to me. Most of the time. You're obviously a great dad to Alexis, and you're parenting all by yourself."
"Thanks," he mutters, giving her a smile he rustles up from somewhere…somewhere a little manufactured.
He looks uncomfortable and crestfallen. The lightness of their earlier banter has gone, and a heavy, truthful mood had descended to make things a little awkward between them. It's a mood they're too new as friends to easily work their way out of. Kate started this with her charm crack. She obviously touched a raw nerve, so she feels a responsibility to make it up to him, to find a way out.
"We had this funny call at work today." She smiles a little too forcefully, feeling her cheek muscles ache and her skin stretch tight. "Yeah…guy thought he'd had his laptop stolen from his hotel room. Accused this poor Russian maid. Aй!" exclaims Kate, shaking her head at the memory of the young woman's gaunt, tear-stained face.
Castle shoots forward in his chair. "Wait. What was— That last thing you said. Was that Russian? Do you speak Russian?"
Kate smiles and nods slowly. "Da," she replies, watching his eyes light up, the somber mood instantly forgotten. "Да, я говорю по-русски." (Da, ya govoryu po-russki.)
Castle sinks back in his teal velvet armchair looking shocked and then delighted. "My God. You are one of the most interesting, talented women I think I've ever met. Say something else," he urges, almost breathless with anticipation.
Kate knows that she has the upper hand now, not to mention his full attention. The throaty Russian consonants roll off her tongue even more effectively this afternoon with the aid of her cold-afflicted breathing.
"Что вы хотите мне сказать, товарищ?" (Chto vy khotite mne skazat', tovarishch?)
"Wow!"
She laughs at his reaction. "You don't even know what I said."
"I don't care. Insult me, denigrate my reputation, tell me my writing is terrible, worthless, so far removed from reality that no one would ever believe a single word I…"
He stares at Kate whose smile had melted into something close to torment.
"What? Hey, what did I say?" he asks, leaning over to touch her hand.
Kate shakes her head, forcing the truth out of her mouth and back down inside where the words won't be tempted to rush out. She rustles up another smile, brave and artificial. "Nothing. Just…thinking about that poor maid."
"Oh, yeah. So, did you find out who took the guy's laptop?"
"Uh…yep. My partner suggested we search the room properly. Guy was so doped up he did a pathetic job of looking for himself. Jan found the laptop under his bed hidden by all these dirty clothes."
Castle wrinkles his nose. "Not the tidy sort then?"
"Nope. We also found some marijuana packed into the toe of his stinky boot."
"Your job isn't exactly glamorous, is it?"
"Did you ever think it was? I mean before you met me and I gave you chapter and verse?"
Castle tips his head over to one side, considering. "I think we're a long way off chapter and verse. Plenty more ground to cover."
"Had enough?"
"Not in the slightest."
"Good," nods Kate, feeling her heart begin to race again.
Castle leans in closer to speak over the noise of the screaming steam wand on the coffee machine. "Will you have dinner with me, Kate? I know I asked before but—"
"Yes." Her answer is immediate and unequivocal.
"You will?"
"You sound…surprised."
"I guess I am."
"Can I ask you something? Something personal?"
"Okaaaay." He looks a little unnerved for once, anticipatory.
"Do women turn you down a lot? Because I really can't imagine that would be the case."
"You'd be surprised then. My track record is…well, it's pretty lousy. Until I met you I had actually sworn off women for the foreseeable. Thought I should concentrate on raising Alexis. She is my number one priority. Some women can't cope with that."
"If you're asking if I'm one of those women? I'm not. I have my own…stuff to deal with."
"Sounds mysterious."
"No, it's…not. It's really not."
"You intrigue the hell out of me, Kate Beckett, if I might just say?"
This is Kate's turn to look slightly uncomfortable. "Well, don't get your hopes too high. I'd hate for you to be disappointed."
"I doubt that's even possible."
They look at one another, just smiling, until it gets a little awkward when the two small boys jump down off their chairs and begin playing tag around the empty tables in the coffee shop, screaming with excitement, occasionally bumping into furniture, and somewhat destroying the mood.
"Shall we?" suggests Kate, tipping her head towards the door.
Castle reluctantly gathers his things, pays the check, and then they leave the café together.
"That was fun," offers Kate, standing in front of the shiny, well-illuminated window of the LensCrafters store next door.
"Indeed it was. So…dinner. Should I call you to arrange or do you want to just pick a date now?" He's not letting her leave without a commitment one way or the other.
Kate thinks about getting another phone call, ideally when she's tucked up in bed with one of his books and can talk to him in the dark and quiet of her bedroom without any of the awkwardness they faced today. "How about we both consult our calendars and you call me later…once Alexis is in bed?"
It seems she just gave the right answer, if the smile on Castle's face is anything to go by. "Sounds perfect. Think about where you'd like to go. And…yeah, I'll call you later tonight."
He reaches out to touch her elbow and then he steps in closer to kiss her cheek. "You're really something, Kate. Something special. Don't let anyone ever tell you that you're just a cop."
"Thank you. Sometimes that's good to hear," she acknowledges.
Castle doesn't miss the cryptic suggestion beneath these words. This girl fascinates him, she's as multi-layered as an onion, and he intends to peel back every layer until he knows her as well as he possibly can. She's intoxicating – gentle, shy at times, and yet so strong, intelligent and far more cultured than most women he's ever been out with. There's definitely more there, way more than he knows at this point. He suspects she keeps her true personal story buried for reasons he has yet to fathom, but is determined to find out. This girl could never be just a cop. In fact, it's looking like she could never be "just" anything as far as he is concerned. He's getting in deep this time and the truth of that realization doesn't even scare him anymore.
"Talk to you tonight then. Safe home," he says, watching her walk away towards the nearest Subway station, with a rising feeling of loss.
TBC...
Note: * Pastel de nata are also known as Portuguese egg custard tarts. They are to die for!
As far as the Russian goes, I've included the cyrillic version followed by the phonetic in brackets, since some of the words will be familiar. The phase Kate said to Castle in the coffee shop was simply: "What do you want me to say, Comrade?" in response to him asking her to say something else in Russian.
Thank you for all your kind wishes regarding my cold. It's clearing up...slowly. Any errors or typos I blame on this ailment. ;)