CHAPTER EIGHT

. . . . .

. . . .

Juliet held out until Sunday afternoon. It wasn't easy. In fact, it was just about harder than telling Shawn she was leaving.

So what happened with the ex's screaming neighbor?

Ten excruciatingly long minutes passed.

Ten.

She didn't know whether to be worried or… worried.

But then came the buzz.

Sorry, was in the shower. It turned out to be 50 Shades of Geriatrica. The old guy next door and his old boyfriend were having loud "fun."

The first sentence struck her more forcibly than the rest of it, and not only because of the instant and wicked image of his lean naked body under a warm spray of water.

Although that was pretty intense.

The real question? Why was he in the shower at three in the afternoon?

What had he been doing?

Had he been doing the Apple Crumble Bitch?

She couldn't even hold it together enough to text him back.

"You have a problem," she whispered to the empty living room, her eyes burning.

After a while, the phone buzzed again.

Did that blow your mind?

"Yeah," she muttered, "but not the way you think."

Maybe the Chief had been right to suggest she make an appointment with the EAP. She had to get a handle on this jealousy: it was going to eat her alive.

To Carlton, she texted: Kinda. Sorry to interrupt.

Yeah, like that didn't sound passive-aggressive.

Where are you?

Home.

Alone. Miserable. Missing him.

Her phone rang.

"You weren't interrupting. I just got back from my run."

Great, now she had to wonder why he took his run so late. Was he just now getting home from a weekend of debauchery?

Since she remained silent, he prompted, "Everything okay?"

"Yes."

"Because the last time I showed concern you bit my head off."

"Yes," she agreed. "Sorry."

"Juliet?" His voice was gentler. "Seriously. You okay?"

Damn him, damn him, damn him. He's supposed to be uncaring. He's supposed to be cold. He's supposed to be a heartless son of a bitch. He's supposed to call me O'Hara and keep me at a distance, not make Juliet sound like a caress.

"Juliet," he repeated, sounding both impatient and worried. Still kinda felt like a caress.

"Yes."

He sighed. "Okay, tell me this. Did I do something? You know I won't figure it out on my own. Just tell me."

"You didn't do anything."

Nothing but Heart-stomper.

Now he was quiet for a moment. "All right. I'm going to put my shoes on and get my keys and come pick you up. I'm taking you out for ice cream and possibly shoe-shopping, which I will hate, but which I will do for you because from the million words you're not saying, I'm enough of a detective to know you need some kind of therapy."

Oh, Carlton. You have no idea.

"Okay?"

Juliet let out a deep breath. "Okay."

"I'll be there in ten. Don't make me honk the horn."

She sat there for another three minutes trying to decide whether it was good or bad to see him at all when she was in this totally screwed-up frame of mind.

Then she spent the next seven minutes running around making herself presentable because hello: ice cream? And hell yeah: Carlton.

. . . . .

. . . .

You're an idiot, he told himself as he drove over to Juliet's place.

At a stop light, he shoved one hand through his hair, feeling untidy and unkempt and who cared because he was getting to see her.

Figuring out why she was upset was second, and was that messed up?

Yes, Lassiter. Figuring out why she's upset should be first priority. Seeing her to satisfy your own stupid longings (shut up, Mr. Enough Now) is just selfish and base.

Especially because she was probably upset about Spencer.

On the other hand, he reasoned, if she was upset about Spencer then maybe she wasn't getting back together with him.

That was good, right?

Yes, and not just for you, you selfish jerk.

All he knew was this: Mr. Enough Now was falling down on the job.

Emily cut him loose because of Juliet. Manda was a deviant. Victoria would have been Nightmare Road, and while he did take some pride in being asked for another chance by the ex who'd put him through the wringer, he took more pride in having walked away unscathed.

Which left him where he started: bonkers for Juliet, his partner and friend and Number One Can't-Have. Seeking her out, no less.

Idiot.

When he pulled in, Juliet was already at the bottom of the stairs, flushed and unbearably pretty and smiling as if she were happy to be with him.

He had time to tell Mr. Enough Now to get stuffed before she climbed in and buckled up.

"Cold Stone Creamery?" she asked hopefully.

"Anything you want."

Anything.

His phone rang.

. . . . .

. . . .

The sunshine felt wonderful, and her Cookie Doughn't You Want Some was pure decadence, and Carlton looked just as yummy sitting there all Sunday-undone with his Berry Berry Berry Good.

Juliet was momentarily extremely happy.

She had been unhappy earlier in the car, when Carlton dug his ringing phone out of his pocket, frowned at the display, muttered "yeah, that's going to voicemail" and started driving without any other word of explanation.

One of his women, she knew. Maybe Manda again. Maybe the Heart-Stomper. Maybe some other chick she didn't even know existed. After all, he'd certainly proved he was good at keeping secrets this summer.

Might as well ruin a good thing, she thought.

"So what's the full story on—what'd you call it? Fifty shades of geriatrica?"

He closed his vivid blue eyes briefly as if in pain. "O'Hara, I'm only going to tell you the following things. First, two seventy-something old men. Second, purple kimono. Third, blonde wig, red lipstick and nothing else. Fourth, some kind of wheel of… Godforsaken misfortune. Fifth, I'm calling my therapist first thing tomorrow morning."

She laughed, and his smile was wry, and she ate more ice cream to stop herself from asking about HER.

"You gonna tell me what had you down?" he asked carefully. "Or should I leave it alone?"

"I'm just tired," she lied. "I worked the first half of Bateman's shift this morning because he had sick kid trouble."

Carlton frowned, but said nothing.

"I'm okay," she assured him. "It's okay to be tired now and then. Don't worry. I'm a tough girl."

"You are." He ate some of the berries and then set his spoon down. "Look, my offer of the spare room stands. If you don't want to do that because you think it'd be an imposition, you know better. If you just think it'd be weird and creepy to stay in my place, say so. Either way, say so. Moving's expensive. You don't need to be shelling out for a hotel room on top of that."

"It's not creepy or weird," she protested. "I've fallen asleep on your actual person during stakeouts. It's not that."

He nodded. "Fair enough. Pride, then?"

"No… well." She put her own ice cream down. "Maybe. But not what you think."

"Oh, do tell me what I think," he suggested in somewhat of a dangerous tone.

Juliet grinned. "Don't use that voice on me, buster." She liked how an immediate smirk lit his eyes. "Okay, I knew I was ending my relationship but the night it happened, it was kind of an impulse. I hadn't prepared for it. Nothing set aside, no real plan. So… I feel like I need to suck it up and lie in the bed I made. Does that make sense?"

After a moment, he resumed eating his ice cream. "Yes, but ultimately you're trying to prove a point to yourself by way of stabbing your bank account in the heart."

That stung a little, but he wasn't wrong, was he? And if she was going to stick with this lie, instead of I can't be trusted alone with you in your home, then she had to accept it. "It's not so bad. The hotel manager gave me a great discount. How did your visits with Victoria go?"

Oh, you stupid girl.

Carlton's dark brows knitted together.

"Sorry," she said quickly. "Not my business."

But he answered as if she hadn't spoken. "It was weird. She was too nice. It's entirely possible she's dying."

He said it so blandly that it took her a moment to understand he was joking, and when she started laughing, he smirked again and asked her what kind of apartment she hoped to find.

It did not escape her that he never really answered the question.

Later, he offered to make good on his shoe-shopping offer. She almost said yes just to prolong their time together, but it was no good to torture him. Or herself.

Getting back in his car, and wondering if she was a masochist, she asked another question.

"What did you mean when you said Emily broke up with you because of me?"

Carlton gave her the side-eye, starting the engine and looking suddenly remote.

"Sorry. I keep crossing lines, don't I." Misery washed over her.

He shook his head. "You took her by surprise."

"I did?"

She sure took me by surprise.

He glanced at her again before pulling out into the street. "She was uncomfortable with my partner being a beautiful woman."

Was he blushing?

Was she?

"But I… but…"

"You don't know your power," he said dryly, and the faint red tinge was gone.

"I'm sorry, I guess?"

(Not really.)

This amused him. "Don't worry about it. Sure you don't want to look at even so much as flip-flops?"

"No, I'm good." But once more, she felt as if he'd evaded giving a real answer.

His cell rang again, and this time when he pulled it from his pocket, she glimpsed the name on the screen: Emily.

Emily.

Guess she wasn't "uncomfortable" any more.

Carlton, she noted, did not frown this time. His expression remained neutral as he returned the phone to his pocket, and it took every bit of personal power she had to pretend everything was peachy until he dropped her at her place.

. . . . .

. . . .

He waited until he was home to listen to Emily's voicemails, which were simple requests that he give her a call when he had a chance.

Curiosity won out.

"Carlton, hello," she said warmly. "Thanks for calling me back."

"No problem. Hope everything's all right."

"It is… but… well, let me just get to the point. I've been thinking that I may have acted too hastily."

He felt his eyebrows shooting up. "As I recall, your alarm bells were going off."

"They were," she admitted, "but I've come to understand your reluctance to tell me about your partner. After all, I did react the way you thought I would, and I had to ask myself what I was insecure about. We had a pleasant time getting to know each other, didn't we?"

"It was very nice," he said, glad she couldn't see the accompanying eyeroll.

"Then… would you be amenable to trying again?"

Three women in one weekend. Try again? Right.

"Emily, I'm going to ask you a personal question, and I hope you won't take offense."

"Um… okay?"

"Is it true you take men to that coffee shop only when you're dumping them?"

"I—excuse me?"

"It's just that I'm curious about where you'd take a guy to dump him the second time."

"What?"

"Because as long as I work in this town, unless she wants to change the situation, my partner is going to be the incredibly lovely Juliet O'Hara."

"Carlton!" she snapped.

"The answer's no, Emily. Thanks for asking, but my alarm bells are telling me you're a bad risk. Goodbye." He pressed the 'end call' button and tossed the phone aside.

Mr. Enough Now was shouting, "WHAT THE HELL?"

Carlton told him to take a hike.

. . . . .

. . . .

He didn't say anything about Victoria. He didn't say anything about Manda. He didn't say anything about Emily. He didn't say anything about any other women.

They worked, and Juliet wondered.

They worked more, and she wondered more, and each day that he never said a word about his personal life was a day she started to go slightly more insane.

She couldn't look at him without wanting to kiss him. And maybe lick him a little.

(She couldn't blame any of the women for trying to get him back: on the dessert cart of life, one slice of Carlton would never be enough.)

She seriously considered simply telling him she was crazy-ass in love with him.

She also seriously considered taking him up on the offer of the spare room.

Then she could accidentally go into his room one night—accidentally naked—and see what accidentally happened.

Because something would definitely happen.

Talking to an EAP shrink was looking more and more like a viable plan.

They were having lunch at Benita's on Friday after rounding up a drug dealer when Shawn and Gus came in. Juliet knew it really was a coincidence, because she could always spot Shawn's Fake!Surprise Face and Gus's wasn't half that good; both of them seemed legitimately unprepared for this encounter.

Carlton, typically, went quiet and tense.

Shawn tossed off a few jokes about the cutlery not getting along with the salt and pepper shakers and segued into a harmonization with Gus on a brief Ode To Napkins. They were funny. They were usually funny.

Juliet asked how Henry was doing, not because she wanted to prolong the conversation but because she hadn't seen Henry in a while and he was a good excuse to make nice and "get back to normal" with her ex. Whatever normal would be for Shawn.

But when Shawn sat down in one of the empty chairs to answer, Carlton rose smoothly and said he was going to the restroom.

This left Juliet with a rather odd sensation.

It wasn't unusual for Carlton to remove himself from a Shawn/Gus show, but it was unusual for him to do it without a snark of some kind (although usually it was in response to a dig from Shawn).

This felt… wrong.

Gus nudged Shawn to move it along. They'd run out of the Tornado Tacos soon, he reminded him, and once the Tornado Tacos were gone, the Supa-Cinna-Pillas would soon follow.

Focus on food restored, Shawn got up, and after Gus bent to give Juliet a quick hug, he did too. His was longer, and he murmured "miss you, babe" in her ear.

They were at the counter ordering when Carlton returned to his seat, but he was disinclined to chat. Juliet wondered if he were merely uncomfortable on her behalf—but if he were, he surely wouldn't have abandoned her.

Either way, she didn't like it.

She didn't like one freaking thing about this entire damned summer.

. . . . .

. . . .

Carlton was staring at his red-lit clock, watching the numbers change, one after the other, ad nauseum.

He'd tried actually closing his eyes and sleeping, but that hadn't worked.

Seeing Spencer hugging Juliet again, seeing him whisper something in her ear, seeing her not push him away or look uncomfortable: that all sucked flaming disease-ridden porcupines.

Maybe they were taking it slowly; maybe it was a work in progress, but it sure looked like Juliet was at least thinking about getting back on the Spencer Crazy Train.

He should have stayed at the table in case he was wrong. In case she wanted moral support. But the moment Spencer sat down as if he owned the place… well, Carlton had to go off and pull himself together. It wasn't rational to want to punch a man for merely sitting down.

It wasn't exactly rational to want to punch him twice for hugging Juliet, either.

Twelve minutes past two.

He sighed.

Thirteen minutes past two.

He rolled onto his back. Sighed again.

Fourteen minutes past two.

The phone rang, startling the beejeezus out of him, and he snatched it up. Unfamiliar number. "What?"

"Um… Detective Lassiter?"

"Yes. What?"

"I'm sorry to bother you. My name is Rebecca Morrell. I'm the manager of the Ocean Gardens Hotel near the police station?"

Where Juliet currently resided.

"What happened?" he asked sharply, sitting up.

"I'm calling on behalf of Juliet O'Hara, your partner?"

"I know who she is," he snapped. "What happened?"

She finally seemed to register his impatience. "Everything's under control. She agreed to let me call you because I insisted on calling someone—"

"For the love of God, woman, what happened?"

"She intervened in a dispute by the pool and a guest hit her with a bottle. She says she's okay but I insisted on calling someone. I almost had to threaten to throw her out to get her to agree. So she—"

He cut her off. "You can stop talking. I will be there in under fifteen minutes."

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. . . . .

. . . .

[A/N: thanks to Pothangfanfic for the "fifty shades" inspiration, and to PsychLassieFan4Ever for the "one slice of Carlton" line. I think one, possssibly two more chapters to this, but I'm going out of town for a few days so you'll have to waaaait for ittttt.]