Chapter 6: Sugar High
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"I knew I heard noises down here last night!" Nicki exclaimed as she opened the kitchen doors.
Rachel gasped in horror at the aftermath of what looked to be a violent scene. "What the hell? Did someone ransack the place?"
Both women cried out in surprise as a man suddenly stood up from behind the counter.
"Damn it, Tony! You scared the shit out of us," Rachel said. "What are you doing in here . . . in the clothes you wore last night?"
Tony walked over to the trash bin and quickly discarded the collection of porcelain shards he'd been hiding in his hand. Rachel immediately became suspicious when she saw his bruised face. He didn't answer her.
"What's going on?" Rachel pressed again, more impatient this time.
Tony replied with a forced smile, "Breakfast." He shrugged up against the refrigerator.
Rachel crossed her arms and entered the room, shoving aside bits of broken glass with her slipper. "You sure there wasn't another intruder in here last night? Like the one you all tried to hide from me before?"
Tony shook his head almost frantically. Rachel had never seen her unflappable bodyguard looking so frightened before.
Nicki clicked her tongue in disapproval as she cautiously circled the island counter, getting a better look at the damage. "This is a disaster."
At this, Tony spoke up defensively. "Fluorine and Chlorine will clean it up like they always do."
"Flora and Clara?" Nicki corrected Tony's distasteful nicknames for their housekeepers.
"Yeah, just what I said." Before he'd even finished his sentence, his face went white, staring at something just behind them. He shifted to stand with his elbow awkwardly on the far counter, covering the knife block from view with his large arm.
Rachel whipped around to find Frank standing there, arms casually spanning the door frame as he surveyed the room. Nodding slowly, he said in a nonchalant voice, "And that's why you should clean up as you go while cooking."
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How dare he take her somewhere nicer than where she'd taken him? It was Rachel's first thought when they entered the restaurant. Georgetown Inn was a hidden gem, concealed by an unassuming Bavarian looking facade on Mount Washington. They were seated quickly because he'd made reservations, by the windows no less. Rachel smiled approvingly at the mountaintop view of the city from her chair.
She eyed him from over the top of the extensive wine menu. "Should we get a bottle?"
He shrugged. "We're not driving home."
She smiled at the waiter and confirmed their order.
Conversation came easily to them when they were together, Rachel noticed. The last time they were together their topics of conversation had always been serious, revolving around her stalker, the mysterious letters, the danger she was constantly facing. She recalled the few brief times they had shared where they could relax and enjoy each other's company – their first and only date, and the first day or so she'd spent at his father's cabin. It wasn't a lot of time to really get to know someone, she considered. Maybe that was why they had always butted heads. If they weren't trapped beneath a mountain of stressful circumstances, they actually got along quite well.
After they had exhausted several topics, a moment of quiet settled between them. "You know it's pretty crazy our paths haven't crossed all these years until now," Rachel reflected.
Frank looked surprised. "You're sure they haven't?"
She crinkled her brow in confusion.
"Remember when you performed in Vegas in '97?" he asked.
She smiled. "Yeah?"
"I was there."
She squealed and reached across the table to playfully tug his elbow. "Aww! You took your wife to see me sing?"
"No. My wife was in our hotel room with a headache. She didn't know I went," he explained brazenly. "I was there alone."
Rachel was stunned.
"I heard you were performing that night, and I got the ticket from a guy on the street," he said, his eyes never leaving hers.
She struggled not to tear up. "You didn't bring me flowers?" she said jokingly.
Something in his eyes changed as he thought over what to say. "All those years, I always heard you on the radio," he said softly. "Nothing could compare to hearing your voice in person."
Rachel didn't know what to say. She was moved deeply by his admission, and the look in his eyes alone was enough to raise her heart rate.
At that point the waiter arrived with their dishes, and the moment was lost. Rachel stared down at her plate of chicken marsala, confused by the weird new feeling in her gut. She lifted her fork, but couldn't take a bite.
"You alright?" Frank asked, noticing something was off.
"Yeah."
"They got your order wrong?"
She shook her head and forced a tiny smile. "No, no. I just… need to let it cool down a bit."
He didn't look convinced but it didn't stop him from eating. Slowly, Rachel found herself able to take small bites of her food. It was probably one of the best marsalas she'd ever had, and it was a shame she couldn't fully enjoy it. She wasn't accustomed to feeling nervous on dates like this – if it could even be called a date. She should call it 'catching up with an old friend.' The thought made her sad. They would likely spend some time together for the week or so that they were both in Pittsburgh, and then they would go their separate ways again. She would go back to sunny California, and he would stay on the cold, rainy east coast. They wouldn't interact again after that. Lord, that was depressing to think about.
She glanced over at him for the first time since their food arrived, and her jaw dropped when she saw his plate. "Farmer, what are you, some kinda psycho?"
"What?" he asked defensively around a mouthful of steak. She pointed to his plate where only half the filet sat. Both the mashed potatoes and vegetables were gone.
"You eat one thing at a time?"
He looked down at his plate then back at her, looking both confused and amused.
"Yeah?"
"You know you're supposed to get a little bit in each bite. They all complement each other." She laced her fingers together to illustrate her point.
He smiled in a self-satisfied way. "Well, I don't eat that way."
She shook her head in disgust. "What a sin."
"Send me straight to the confessional," he muttered as he raised his wine glass to her.
The waiter appeared at their table. "Will we be having dessert this evening?"
Rachel and Frank exchanged a significant look across the table. Frank nodded at the waiter, who then began to rattle off the menu.
"Oh–" Rachel interrupted him halfway through, "I have to try your crème brûlée."
The waiter looked at Frank. "For you, sir?"
Frank chuckled into his napkin before laying it back down on the table. "I'm good."
As soon as the waiter left, Rachel started rambling. "Back when we were teenagers, Nicki and I used to order crème brûlée any time we got to eat at a fancy restaurant." She laughed reminiscently. "We had this whole list of all the places daddy took us, and we had them all in order of the best to the worst. I swear it was at least four pages long." She didn't notice that her eyes were watering until a teardrop landed on the back of her hand. She stopped talking and looked down, worried that he'd noticed.
"You miss her." His voice was barely audible.
Rachel looked up at him. "You might think I'm crazy, but yeah. Every day."
His face was solemn as he shook his head infinitesimally. "I don't think you're crazy."
Rachel didn't know whether to be relieved or offended. She hated herself a bit for even wanting the validation from a man who didn't think she was crazy. As if she had to have his approval for anything. But, she reminded herself again, this wasn't just any man. This was Farmer. She would have paid his debt to the devil himself if she had to. She could never let him know that, either.
Suddenly she felt extremely impatient for her dessert. She craned her neck outside of their booth to see if the waiter was coming out of the kitchen yet.
Frank raised an eyebrow at her. "I'm sure they're working extra hard on your crème brûlée so they can be at the top of your list."
She gave him a sheepish smile. "I bet if I really dug around the house when I got back home I'd find that list somewhere."
Frank chuckled as he polished off his glass. "You know, I don't normally drink wine, but this is really good."
Rachel beamed as he refilled his glass with the scant remains of the bottle. "See, I told you!"
The waiter returned promptly to trade their empty wine bottle for her crème brûlée. Rachel brandished her fork like the conductor of an orchestra before taking her first bite.
"Top of the list?" Frank asked.
"This could be a list all on its own," she replied between mouthfuls. He laughed. "You have to try it," she insisted, offering her fork to him.
"Don't tempt me."
"What? Watching your weight?"
"Only so I can be a harder target for the bad guys," he quipped while gesturing to the waiter for the check.
"One bite won't compromise your figure, Frank."
He smirked at her and gave in. "Yeah, that's a list-topper."
The waiter arrived moments later to sweep her empty plate away and hand the check to Frank.
"You know, it's ridiculous that I'm letting you pay for this."
"It's a hundred bucks, Rachel. Relax."
Nosy as ever, she squinted at the check before he had a chance to cover it with his hand. "A hundred fifty."
"Plus tip," he reminded her cheekily as he signed it and flipped the booklet shut.
As Rachel stood up to leave, her red scarf slipped from the back of her chair to the floor. Frank was a swift responder to chivalry's call, and the delicate accessory was back in her hand before she could blink an eye. Their fingers brushed as she accepted it back from him with a whispered word of thanks.
The night was frigid when they stepped out of the restaurant. On the very top of Mount Washington, there was no escaping the wind. "It should be illegal for a place to be this cold," she shivered.
Frank laughed. "You'd get used to it pretty quickly if you lived here again."
She was about to make a snide comment about him being cold-blooded when she felt the warm weight of his jacket on her shoulders.
"Next time you're back in Pittsburgh, bring seasonally appropriate outerwear," he chastised.
"I'm not coming back to this place again unless it's in July," she muttered, closing his jacket tighter around her body.
"The incline is just past this lookout." She could hear the smile in his voice.
They walked in silence for a little bit, when Rachel thought out loud, "Nicki would've loved that place."
Frank didn't say anything else on their walk back to the incline. This time there were only two other people on the gondola with them as they rode down, so Frank sat across from her instead of beside her.
Rachel sighed as her eyes wandered out the window to the glittering skyline. "It's always so awkward when I try to talk about Nicki to anyone else. Nobody else knows what actually happened up there that night."
Frank looked extremely uncomfortable and she wondered why. Then at long last he spoke. "I sometimes wonder if I could've prevented it."
"Frank, there was no way you could have done anything more than you did for Nicki. Don't forget you saved my life … and Fletcher's life. Hell, even his own father–"
The heat rose to her cheeks as she caught herself. She couldn't fathom meeting Frank's gaze in that moment, but by some inexplicable magnetic force she couldn't help it. She saw in his piercing eyes, the reflections of a life that she could have lived. They glistened at her tauntingly, making her question everything she thought she knew. Across from her sat this enigmatic man; a man who tortured her like no other man ever could.
He'd haunted every nightmare where she had to relive the trauma of what had happened to them. She would drown forever in the memory of his arms around her, carrying her to a safe haven she wasn't sure even existed. She would choke back sobs at the vision of his face, drained of its color, lying on a hospital bed in a nest of wires and tubes – wondering why he would jump in front of her, why he would sacrifice himself for her, how she was going to tell his sweet father that now his only son had been taken from him . . . because of her. And then she would wake in a cold sweat, in a tangle of blankets, with the echo of the gun shot still ringing in her ears.
Rachel wished she could verbalize these things to him. But something told her she didn't have to. Something told her Frank felt the exact same things.
"You look so beautiful right now."
To say she was stunned would be an understatement. His soft-spoken compliment, having come out of nowhere and in the midst of such harrowing inner dialogue, took the breath straight from her lungs. He may not have saved her physically this time, but he knew how to save her with his words.
She tilted her head and gave him a small smile. "Thank you."
For the first time in a long time, Rachel felt beautiful. Hollywood may have told her she was barely clinging onto the last bits of beauty from her youth, but the joke was on them, because Frank Farmer disagreed.
Rachel's smile blossomed into a full, flirtatious grin as she fluffed her hair with shaky fingers and turned to her reflection in the window.
Screw Hollywood.
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After arriving back at Station Square, Rachel looked for any excuse to prolong their date. She urged Frank to come with her into the hotel coffee shop, using his body as a shield to hide from the familiar group of female fans she'd seen at her hotel room door the other morning.
Rachel snorted in distaste when she heard which Christmas song happened to be playing on the overhead speakers. "Would you believe I gotta sing this song for that Christmas show this weekend?"
Frank paused to listen as Eartha Kitt's sultry voice begged Santa for decorations from Tiffany's. "What is this, anyway?"
Rachel threw him a look of disbelief. "Come on, Farmer. 'Santa Baby?' The worst Christmas song in existence?"
He stared at her for a moment before his lips broke into a wholesome smile. It was such a fast and unexpected change of expression that it made her entire world tip on its axis. He should be arrested for involuntary charm.
He began to shake his head at her. "No, no. The worst Christmas song in existence is 'Baby, it's Cold Outside," he corrected her.
Rachel cocked her head in consideration. "Yeah, all the worst Christmas songs have 'baby' in the title."
He squinted to the side with a crooked smile. "I can't think of any others."
Rachel turned away quickly, choosing to salivate over the pastry display instead of him.
"Damn, I really shouldn't be eating this stuff," Rachel muttered half to herself as she perused the glass display on the counter. She stopped in front of the chocolate croissant, shaking her head dramatically. "It's calling my name, Frank."
He leaned on the glass and smirked at her. "You only live once."
She turned away, waving her hands in front of her face. "I can't. I can't! It goes straight to my hips." She sighed and traced her fingertips over the glass as she looked at some chocolate covered strawberries. "Let me live vicariously through you, Frank. Just get one."
"I don't eat after seven P.M."
"Fucking regimented bastard."
The pleased half-smile he flashed her nearly made her knees give out.
She looked up at the coffee menu. "Oh, they have my favorite holiday flavor."
Rachel approached the register and placed her order. She noticed the young female worker behind the counter do a double-take as their eyes met. It was always awkward never knowing if people really recognized her in public anymore. It was so different ten years ago, when everyone immediately bombarded her in the streets. The young girl didn't say anything, but fulfilled the order in record time.
Rachel thanked her for the coffee and gave her an extra few dollars tip. "You sure you don't want anything?" she asked over her shoulder. Frank shook his head and opened the door for her on their way outside. She shivered at the gust of wind that greeted her, but the first sip of coffee warmed her well enough.
"Mmm. Here, take a sip of this, Farmer. Tell me if you can guess what flavor that is." She handed him the coffee cup, and he did as she instructed.
His delayed reaction included wide eyes and a spluttering cough. "That's, uh… heavy cream with sugar and a splash of coffee."
"It's gingerbread dreams!" she said defensively.
"Yeah, if your dream is to improve your gag reflex."
"My gag reflex doesn't need improving," she said suggestively.
He avoided eye contact and continued walking a bit more briskly at her side. "I'm just saying I could throw back whiskey faster than that stuff."
"Let me guess, you take your coffee black?" she giggled.
"I don't drink coffee," he said coolly.
"Of course you don't." Rachel sighed. "How could any of us forget your drink of choice?"
He chuckled. "On the rare occasion that I do drink coffee, yes, I take it black."
She looked at him pointedly, and was slightly shocked to see a flirtatious gleam in his eyes. She stopped walking where a line of tall hedges marked the end of the path, turned to him and said, "Frank, can I ask you something personal?"
His eyes wandered to the river then back to her. "How personal are we talkin'?"
She lowered her voice as she murmured, "Really personal," fully expecting him to get shy.
To her surprise, he replied, "Sure," with that same gleam in his eyes. Oh, he was not prepared.
She smiled a bit, then blurted, "When you have sex with the same person for six years, don't you start to get sick of 'em after a while?"
Eyebrows raised, he looked down at the ground for a moment, breathed deeply, then laughed a bit. "Wow, you're really making me clutch my pearls here, Rachel."
"I'm sorry, I know you're a private person. I just had to ask. I'm genuinely curious." She knew she was rambling, but she couldn't help it. "It's sort of embarrassing, but I've never been in a long-term relationship."
He paused before saying, "I feel like that's been your choice."
She shrugged. "I don't know if it's been my choice or just the nature of my job. I do get bored with these guys pretty quickly though," she added with a casual laugh before noting the hurt look on his face. She realized then that he had managed to avoid answering her question, and she decided it best to leave it that way.
"Frank, I'm sorry that your marriage didn't work out," she said sincerely.
He looked anything but moved as he murmured, "Thanks." And started walking in the opposite direction.
The temptation to get huffy with him rose within her, but she suppressed it, wanting to be the bigger person. After all, it wasn't her fault that he'd married the woman. At least in Rachel's opinion, this Leah sounded downright frigid.
Rachel followed him quietly for a while, sipping her coffee. "Sometimes it's nice to do your own thing, you know?" she said cheerfully as possible. "I always liked my independence." She swore she could hear him roll his eyes. "But of course you know that about me."
He was still silent. Rachel hated silence. She hated that Frank was more of the quiet type. But because she hated it so much, she almost loved it. It was one of the many things about him that made no sense to her. He was so hard to read, and it vexed her to the point that she just wanted to pester him incessantly until he caved.
It wasn't long before they reached the coffee shop entrance again, and Rachel set her half-empty coffee down on one of the iron tables on the patio. She looked expectantly up at Frank, but he didn't take her hint. Eager to get him talking again, she eventually probed, "So almost two years? No girlfriend?"
"Yeah."
She leaned in towards him and whispered. "Aren't you starving?"
He mirrored her gesture and whispered back, "I have hands."
She feigned scandal with raised eyebrows and reached out to take his hands around her waist. "Yes, you do."
They stared at each other then, for a moment that went on an unspeakably long time. A gust of wind shuddered about them, and Rachel found herself lost in his cerebral expression. The nostalgia caught her heart hard with every blink of his eyelashes, every reflection in his blue-green eyes, every familiar angle of his handsome face. But there were some things she'd forgotten. Had his eyelashes always been that long? Had his lips always been that full?
Before she knew how it had happened, they were kissing. And it was like no time at all had passed since the last time they kissed. This was the first time Rachel had revived something with a man from her past, and it was intoxicating. In any other case, she would never think of going back to old boyfriends. But Frank was never really her boyfriend. It was all very . . . complicated. And that was why she wanted to fix it. She had to fix it.
His kiss was frustratingly light. She could sense the hesitation in him, and it killed her.
"Damn it, Frank," she groaned against him. "Why can't you give me a proper kiss?"
He answered as if it were the most obvious thing. "We're in public."
She glanced up at him with narrowed eyes. "Oh, so you have performance anxiety?"
"If I'd wanted an audience I would've stayed in show business." He sighed, caressing her flimsy scarlet scarf between curious fingers.
His timing was still good. Staring drunkenly up at him, Rachel shook her head and kissed him again. He was a bit more bold this time, but still she could sense him holding back. She pressed against him, testing his boundaries, and was slightly startled as she felt the cold metal pressure of his gun against her hip. She'd forgotten about the concealed carry. Suddenly everything about him became ten times as sexy.
She tugged his hands suggestively. "Why don't you give your hands the night off?"
He chuckled, and like the true son of a bitch he was, didn't even acknowledge her suggestion. "I want to get you something before they close. Wait here." She was left with her mouth hanging open as he disappeared back into the coffee shop. He came out less than a minute later with a small blue box, and inside was the pastry she had been eyeing up before. All worries of love-handles were gone as she squealed, "Aww, Frank, that is so sweet of you!"
"I didn't wanna risk you breaking into the coffee shop in the middle of the night to get it."
She laughed. "You know I always get my way."
He smiled. "Let me walk you to your room."
He guided her out of the cold evening air and into the warm hotel lobby. Her stomach did a little twist as they stepped into the elevator together.
"Which floor?" he asked.
"Thirteen," she answered coyly.
He hit the button with both his forefinger and middle finger. Her eyes lingered on the button he'd pressed, with an inexplicable feeling of jealousy. As she'd predicted, he didn't say a word to her on the way up. He let her step out of the elevator first, and walked her down the hall to her suite.
She stopped in front of her door and made two failed attempts to use her key card. "Damn it, these things hate me! I can never get them to work!"
"Here." He gently tugged the card from her grip. "You have to slow down."
He made one attempt, and the door clicked contentedly open. He whipped the card out casually between two fingers and held it up to her. She pulled it slowly back from him while murmuring sweetly, "I like the way you put that key in the door."
He laughed heartily. "I'll bet you did." He held the door back with one arm for her to walk inside. "Don't forget to eat your pastry before you go to bed," he reminded.
She pouted at the box. "I was going to save it for morning. The sugar might keep me up all night."
"Eat it now. It won't taste as good in the morning."
She eyed him suspiciously.
"Goodnight, Rachel." He placed a chaste kiss on her cheek, his fingers catching the end of her gossamer scarf again with silent intention.
"Goodnight."
As soon as the door clicked shut, she shook her shoes off, sat on the edge of her bed, and opened the pastry box. She lifted the dessert up to her mouth to take a bite and discovered the extra key card to his hotel room hidden underneath.