CHAPTER TWO

. . . . .

. . . .

He didn't say anything to Juliet about Emily.

He wanted to believe it was simply to retain some measure of privacy, because anything he told her was likely to end up in Spencer's ear. He also wanted to believe it was simply to avoid being teased by anyone, no matter how good-naturedly, about having even the dimmest prospects of a love-life.

But mostly it was that he didn't want to see relief in her eyes—a quickly-hidden expression of thank God I don't have to worry he still has ideas about me anymore.

Silence was golden for many reasons.

Emily was pleasant, good with a gun at the range, and moderately interested in his Civil War reenactment group. She let him kiss her at the end of their second date, and it was nice, and she smiled, and it was nice. Nice. Everything was very nice.

And if he still dreamed about Juliet, and still could not get her out of his freakin' heart, well, he'd give it time.

However, time wasn't his in this matter. When he and Emily were about six weeks into an uncomplicated quasi-relationship, with goodnight kisses the limit of their intimacy (and oddly, he was okay with that; it fit with Giving It Time and he was in no hurry), they went one Saturday afternoon to see a movie.

They were just turning away from the counter with their popcorn when he heard to his left, "Carlton?"

Why am I even surprised...

He turned, as did Emily, to see a smiling and ever-golden Juliet standing there holding her own bucket of popcorn. Damn her, does she have to be so beautiful?

"O'Hara," he said, and obviously there had to be more, and not just because he could feel Emily tensing at his side (interesting) (not good). With feigned calm he said to Emily, "This is my partner Detective O'Hara. O'Hara, this is Emily Adkins."

Juliet gave him an odd glance, but smiled again at Emily and offered her hand. "Juliet. Sometimes I think he forgets I have a first name."

Emily mostly relaxed. "Hi. It's a cop thing, right?"

"Sort of a rule, except I've always refused to call him Lassiter. What movie are you seeing?"

I swear to God if we're seeing the same movie, I will fake an aneurysm right this damned minute. I will not be on a damned date in the same damned theater as Shawn Damned Spencer while I'm alive.

"Strangerland," Emily told her. "Are you here for that?"

For a second he thought he heard the very slightest of an edge in her tone. Maybe she wasn't so relaxed after all.

"Minions," Julie admitted. "I love those little guys."

"I do too." She glanced at her watch and then at Carlton. "Should we go in?"

Definitely an edge.

Still, the women smiled at each other as they parted ways and if Spencer was on the loose, he was out of sight & hearing, just where Carlton liked him to be.

But this chance meeting, he knew full well, would come back to haunt him.

. . . . .

. . . .

Juliet had seen The Minion Movie once already with Shawn (and of course Gus). Today she was here alone because she needed to get away from them; they'd filled the living room with a large Hot Wheels race track and were providing all the crowd noises for the imaginary competition they'd planned out.

But for most of the movie she sat with her eyes closed, feeling more than a little sick.

She'd seen Carlton's tension and knew he was afraid Shawn was nearby, and she hated that he associated her with someone who could cause him such stress.

She'd also seen a flicker in those large blue eyes which told her he wasn't even comfortable with her there. Her. His partner and friend. Nothing to do with Shawn. Her.

She hadn't missed Emily's momentary unease at her appearance—smacked of jealousy, it did—and right now she certainly wasn't missing her own unease because… because, dammit, Carlton was out on a date.

And it clearly wasn't a first date.

And he hadn't felt he could trust her with this development in his life.

And that was her fault, not his.

And more, the woman was comfortable enough in their relationship to feel possessive of him, which made Juliet hate her.

And worst of all, by far the very worst of all, at this moment that woman was seated close to Carlton in the dark... maybe holding his hand… maybe letting him put his arm around her… simply being with him, close and warm and together.

And Juliet wasn't.

. . . . .

. . . .

It took a few days for the ax to fall.

Juliet didn't say anything about the encounter on Monday at work, and Carlton was relieved; at the same time he knew she was expecting him to mention it himself.

Why the hell did he feel guilty about keeping quiet? He had a right to a personal life, and he didn't have to tell her every single thing going on in it. She sure didn't tell him everything—not that he wanted to know, if it involved her boyfriend—and he understood instinctively that one reason she didn't say much was because of who that boyfriend was, and thank God for that.

Bah. Shut up, Lassiter. Crime to solve. Life to live. Get on it.

Wednesday, Emily called to ask if they could have coffee after work.

And he knew. He didn't know what it was going to be exactly, but he knew.

He met her a coffee shop near her home, not one of his regular haunts, and they sat at a table near the window as the colors of the sky started to reflect the onset of evening.

"I really like you," she said. "You know that, right?"

"Yes," he said heavily.

Emily looked rueful. "I'm sorry. It's just… look, I know police partnerships are intense. I understand that. But Carlton, in all the time we've dated, did you know you never once referred to your partner's gender?"

"Yes," he said heavily. It was the one dumb thing he knew he'd been doing.

Her surprise at his honesty was evident. "Why?"

"Because some people get freaked out about a man and woman working together closely and I didn't know how it was going to be with you so I hedged and… then… six weeks went by."

Emily sighed. "There were several times when I asked about your partner and used the word 'he' and you didn't correct me."

Carlton rubbed his temples, so damned tired of himself. "Because I'm a paranoid idiot." He waited for her slight smile. "Emily, there's nothing between us. There never has been or will be. She has a live-in boyfriend and there's just… nothing."

(You think if you say it enough you'll believe it too?)

"Then why the deception? How did you think it would go when I found out?"

He felt helpless… and resigned. "I guess I thought by the time it came up you'd already trust me enough not to question it. You'd see it was no big deal."

"It's kind of a big deal." She pushed her coffee cup away. "Not that she's a woman. Not even that she's a very pretty woman, but that you felt you had to conceal it. And I'll admit, I'm a little nervous about dating a cop anyway. You have a dangerous job with long hours and…" she trailed off. "Maybe it's best to just call this off now."

Carlton looked at her, and asked himself if it even mattered as much as it should.

Try one more time, said the non-abusive voice in his head.

"If you're concerned about my longevity," he said flatly, "I can't make promises. If you're concerned about my fidelity, I can. I'm a man of my word, Emily, and I take relationships seriously."

"Carlton…"

Yeah, this one was a lost cause. She'd made up her mind before she even called him.

He straightened in his chair. "However, if you're just feeling skittish about all of it, there's nothing I can do either way. I apologize for concealing that my partner's a woman. It was cowardly. But everything else you've seen and heard from me is the real thing."

Emily looked unhappy now. "I'm sorry. Maybe I am just skittish. But my warning sensors are going off, Carlton, and I have to listen to them."

Once again, he asked himself, do I even care that much? She's nice, but…

Yeah. Maybe "nice, but…" was one of his warning sensors.

He held out his hand. "It's been…"

What? What had it been? Short? Ill-fated? Pointless? Doomed?

"It's been nice," he finished.

She accepted his hand, collected her handbag, bent to kiss his cheek, and stepped out of his life.

For a minute he sat with his coffee, twirling the cup slowly and wondering why he wasn't more upset. He was a little upset, but really not as much as one might expect.

First time out of the barn, boy-o. Not every race can be won.

Rather than wait for the server to appear, he went to the register to settle up. The woman who took his money had a lavender streak in her black hair and he was thinking idly that it looked surprisingly good when she said, "None of my business, but did you just get dumped?"

Carlton eyed her.

She seemed sympathetic. Also youngish and pretty and nonjudgmental.

He took the change she handed him. "Yep."

"You okay?"

He thought about it. "Yeah."

She grinned. "Not sure yet?" She had a light dusting of freckles across her cheeks. Spent a lot of time outside, he figured.

He focused on the question. "Actually… yeah, I'm sure. We weren't together very long and nothing much was happening."

"So… why'd she kill it?"

Carlton moved to the end of the counter when someone else approached, not sure why he was willing to tell this inquisitive stranger anything.

She was attractive, he decided as she attended to the other customer, despite the semi-crazy hair; looked like she might be a runner. Maybe early thirties. Stop profiling her.

"I'm going on break," she called down to another employee, and next thing he knew, she'd led him back to his table, refilled his cup and then sat across from him with a bottle of water she pulled from her wide apron pocket.

Okay. Not like he had anything else to do, and the coffee was pretty good here.

"And?" she prompted.

"I failed to tell her my work partner is a woman."

"Oh. Why?"

He sighed. "Probably because I knew it was going to lead to being dumped in a coffee shop six weeks later."

She laughed. "Did she have anything to worry about with you and your partner?"

"Nope." And that was the truth. No matter his stupid-ass feelings for Juliet—feelings he would conquer one day, even if it wasn't until the day he died—Emily never had anything to worry about.

"Then why did you expect the worst?"

Carlton gave her the unvarnished the truth. "It's what I do best."

Again she laughed. He didn't mind. Honestly, he was puzzling himself more and more lately.

"Well, if it's any consolation, I've seen her in here before. She comes in with a man, has a talk, makes him unhappy and then leaves by herself. I think this is her designated break-up place."

Emily hadn't said much about previous boyfriends, yet somehow he wasn't overly surprised. "You're saying I'm just the latest in a string of dumpees?"

"Seems so." She sipped her water, and damn if she wasn't smirking a little. "Best-looking one in a while, though."

Now he felt warm, but it wasn't a bad sensation.

"I should tell you," she went on, "I know who you are. I've seen you on TV. Detective Lassiter, right?"

The warmth faded somewhat. "Sorry for any bad impressions. I'm told I become insufferable when a camera's pointed at me." He'd heard that from both Juliet and Karen Vick more than once, in carefully-couched terms.

"No worries. Usually I'm mesmerized by those completely magnificent blue eyes."

Hmmm, warmth was back. Skip ahead, man. "Uh-huh. What's your name?"

"Manda. Manda Crockett."

"Short for Amanda?"

"No, just Manda. My mom's form of rebellion." She stuck out her hand. "Carlton, right?"

"Yeah. My mom's form of punishing me."

Manda laughed. "I like you, Carlton. If you're not on the rebound, and you're not secretly a freak, we should really get together."

Who was he to argue with that?

He was single, Emily didn't want him, Juliet had never wanted him outside of that glorious never-to-be-repeated brief encounter, and again he heard that voice in his head, not the voice of self-doubt and recriminations, but the voice of common sense.

Enough. Enough, now.

So he listened to it once more.

"Manda, I might be a little tightly wound, and I admit to having an unnaturally low tolerance for squirrels, but I'm no freak. What about you?" He narrowed his eyes at her. "If I run your name through the system, what will I find?"

She wasn't in the least offended. "You'll find that about ten years ago I got popped for pot, and a couple of years before that I keyed my cheating boyfriend's car in a fit of rage."

"Ah. So you have anger issues?" Something they might have in common. Gotta start somewhere, bud.

"No, silly, because I took up pot."

He gave her his best steely look and she only laughed again.

"I'm kidding. I was just a stupid college kid with a broken heart. Got better, grew up, moved on."

"Learned how to make good coffee too." He drank more of it. "When's your next night off?"

Her smile was broad and enticing. "Friday. Got a pen? I'll give you my number."

Enter Manda Crockett.

. . . . .

. . . .

Juliet had waited all week to see if Carlton would mention Emily to her. She was proud of herself for not caving and asking, but in truth it wasn't about respecting his privacy as much as it was about not being sure she could keep the jealousy out of her tone.

Jealousy she had no right to feel, and jealousy he was in no way obligated to care about.

She lived with a man in what appeared to be a committed relationship, she'd asked Carlton to keep private their indiscretion—an indiscretion she'd initiated—and he was honoring that because he was her friend and partner, so by God if he was dating someone now it was none of her business and the least she could do for him was butt the hell out.

But damn, she wanted to know. She wanted to know everything about the kind of woman he'd gone after. The kind of woman who was stealing her Carlton from her.

(She'd gone so far as to check the woman's priors. Boring.)

You are ridiculous and stupid and selfish.

Yeah? So?

On Saturday afternoon she carried two bags of groceries in from the car, ready to make chili and cornbread and generally take comfort from food. When she'd left, Shawn and Gus were lolling on the floor still playing with the Hot Wheels and promising to have it all put away by the time she got back.

Setting the bags on the counter, she peered into the living room and saw to her relief that the track was gone.

But… so was her overstuffed chair.

Her refuge.

Panic rushed up inside her: what had they done with her chair?

A voice shoved through the panic, then another.

Them. They were arguing.

She followed the sound and found them in the hall outside the master bedroom door.

Shawn was sprawled in the chair, which occupied the entire width of the hall, and Gus was standing, hands on his hips, as they argued about what seemed to be old Ronco and K-Tel TV commercials.

"Why is my chair in the hall?" she demanded.

Shawn stood up. "Sorry, Jules. We wanted to get this done before you got back."

"Get what done? Why did you move it?"

"It's time to put it in the bedroom, sweetie. If you're going to get any sleep at night and you need the chair, it should be in the bedroom."

Gus looked uncomfortable. "He said you wanted this."

"He says a lot of things, Gus."

"You know that's right," he mumbled.

"I'm right here, guys, and yes I do say a lot of things, but almost every word is pure gold and my biographer is going to be hard pressed to get my life and wisdom down to just three volumes."

Juliet took a breath. "Shawn, the chair is fine in the living room. I told you before I didn't want to move it."

"You should check into a sleep study," Gus suggested.

"I don't need a sleep study. I need my chair in the living room."

"Jules, honey," Shawn interrupted. "Sweetie. Seriously. The chair will fit perfectly in the corner by the window, and it'll free up a permanent space in the living room for the Hot Wheels track—admittedly on a smaller scale than we envisioned, but we can make the sacrifice for your health."

Gus nodded.

"Plus we'll be together at night again. We just have to figure out a way to get it through the door."

For my health, she thought. Right.

Sleeping in the chair—and sometimes on the sofa, but he hadn't noticed that yet—had stopped being about having kissed another man.

Because sleeping in the chair was no longer about her guilt.

It was about no longer wanting to be with Shawn.

A chill took up residence along her spine.

"Shawn, please put the chair back in the living room. If you have to have the Hot Wheels track set up, take over the dining room. We don't use it anyway." And it wasn't as if they'd be having a dinner party any time soon. Or ever.

He waffled; she could see it.

Gus must have judged her tone to be Quite Serious. "Shawn, let's put the chair back."

He didn't like to give up his master plans, but obviously the promise of a guaranteed larger space for his toys was too tempting to resist. "Fine," he huffed. "But only because you twisted my arm."

Juliet looked past him. "And because you were never getting it through that door anyway." It had been hellacious trying to get it into the house to begin with.

He didn't bother to argue. "Why are you standing there, Burton? Start pushing!"

She returned to the kitchen, unnerved by how… unnerved she'd felt at the idea of sleeping in the same room as him again.

This has nothing to do with kissing Carlton anymore.

This is all about your current relationship.

And now that you get that, you just have to figure out how to tell Shawn it's over.

. . . . .

. . . .