Land of Enchantment
A loud ringing pierces her deep slumber.
With a groan, she slowly rouses, disoriented and groggy, seeking out the source of the damned noise. The bedside landline, she discovers. Her face still half-smushed into the pillow, she blearily reaches for it, fingers fumbling for the handset. She knocks it out of its cradle and manages to clumsily catch it before it tumbles to the ground.
"'Lo?" she slurs into the receiver.
"Ms. Beckett?"
"Mhm," she mumbles affirmatively.
"This is Maurice from concierge services. I've been instructed to wake you. It's 7 p.m."
She jolts up in surprise.
"Seven?"
That would mean she's been napping for almost two hours. With no interruptions. She glances at the dream-catcher hanging over her lampshade. Impossible.
"Yes, seven," he repeats patiently. "You have one hour to get ready. Your ride will be waiting downstairs."
But her brain is fuzzy, still processing information, not yet caught up. Get ready? Her ride?
"Come again?"
And then, as if he's reading off something, Maurice says, "Your mission, Kate Beckett, should you choose to accept it, is…forgive me, Mr. Castle said I had to say it exactly as he wrote it."
At the mention of the writer, her heartbeat picks up speed. Maurice clears his throat. Starts over.
"Your mission, Kate Beckett, should you choose to accept it, is to get your ass out of bed, put on some glad rags, and prepare for a night of enchantment (and debauchery)."
All she can think is what a dork. But she's smiling from ear to ear. Of course he'd pose a night out as something from Mission: Impossible, knowing she's unlikely to back down from a challenge, but ultimately, still giving her a choice; an option to decline. The strings of her heart tug, hard and swift, her chest aching. Where the hell did he come from?
"Do you accept?" Maurice asks when she fails to respond. "He said if you're on the fence, I should tell you not to overthink it. That this is just two friends—"
"Yes," she interjects, fluttering with excitement. "I accept."
She's so tired of denying herself things that make her feel good. So sick of living every day without really living, a shell of her former self.
"Very good, miss," Maurice says, clipped and professional. "Your next task is to…Look outside your door, Punkerella."
He didn't.
There's a stack of three white boxes on the coffee table. She removes the two smaller boxes on top to get to the large one, anticipation coursing through her. When she lifts the lid and eagerly shuffles back the tissue paper, her heart stops.
Oh, he did.
Her fingertips glide over cool purple silk.
A card sits on top of the dress, and she huffs out a breath of amusement at the message.
Bibbity-bobbity-boo!
Under normal circumstances, she'd find it incredibly infuriating, the sheer arrogance of it—downright enraging, but these weren't normal circumstances.
And Richard Castle was anything but normal.
It's why she's thinking about accepting his invitation; agreeing to be his travel partner to Chicago. Maybe even back home to New York. If tonight goes well, she's gonna say yes.
Because with him, she's starting to believe…
anything's possible.
She adjusts the golden headband nestled in her blow-dried hair that she's swept back and pinned up into a bun, some loose strands artfully framing her face.
One of the other boxes included a spectrum of jewelry pieces. The band for her head. Golden cuffs for her wrist. A thin gold chain to replace the silver one that usually carries her mother's ring. Such a metrosexual, needing every piece of hardware to match. Except for the turquoise teardrop earrings.
Those are her favorite. It's a heart-rendering homage to her mother, and she spends a good minute washing her face clean after coming upon them.
The third box contains a pair of golden gladiator sandals that wrap around her calves. And he must've noticed she doesn't like the bulkiness of her brace because he includes a nude-colored compression sock for her ankle.
It hides her bruise and alleviates any lingering pain. Probably why he didn't give her heels. So she couldn't irritate her injury any further.
She doesn't question how he knew her size for the dress or the shoes or even her favorite color (purple). He's already proven what a keen observer he is. He also has surprisingly good taste.
The effect of the sandals and jewelry, along with the dress, a simple but elegant floor length, A-line piece that crosses over one shoulder, a seam slit open at the thigh, is mesmerizing.
Coupled with her golden eyeshadow, winged eyeliner, and shiny bronzer, she's shimmering with the strength of a goddess of Olympus or an Amazonian woman from Xena: Princess Warrior.
She finishes applying her neutral lipstick and stuffs her wallet inside the golden clutch he gifted, which came with a matching golden lighter and golden cigarette case. She's sure if he had the time, he would've had her initials engraved, she thinks wryly. She can't imagine what it all cost. If she does, she won't make it through the night.
She steps back, assessing her reflection in the tall mirror. She wishes she had time to get a real mani and pedi, rather than the rush job she gave herself with the blush pink nail polish that had been squashed at the bottom of her saddlebag, but she's pretty satisfied, nonetheless.
It's been a while since she's invested in something as superficial as her appearance. During her party girl phase at Stanford, she usually favored a smokey eye, smudged liner, and a dark lip in a pinch.
But this…this purposeful indulgence is something she hasn't allowed herself since the day Detective Raglan showed up on her doorstep.
Gus opens the door of a limousine town car for her, one hand behind his back like a proper liveryman.
Ridiculous.
"You clean up nice," Gus says with a tip of his hat and an approving wink. He's outfitted in a fancy chauffeur's uniform, complete with white gloves; an upgrade from the Hawaiian-print shirt and ratty cargo shorts he'd worn earlier in the day.
"Same to you," she says, smiling with a slight blush and sliding inside.
"Mr. Castle is going to be happy to see you. He's still wrapping up a final errand, but he wanted me to give you this in the meantime." The hand behind his back comes forward as he presents her with a clear plastic box, a purple trumpet-shaped flower inside. She doesn't recognize it.
"A desert rose," Gus explains off her bewildered expression. "The trumpet shape gives them the ability to survive in harsh environments. They come in many colors but are often associated with hope, resilience, and strength—a reminder that beauty and life can prevail even in the most challenging of circumstances."
Well, fuck.
Writers and their metaphors. If he were there, she'd berate him for being so transparent, but instead, she's blinking back tears and rasping out a gruff thanks to Gus. He nods with a kind, knowing smile and gently closes the door.
As he makes his way into the driver's seat, she opens the box to examine the flower further. Only to discover it's attached to an elastic band of shiny gold. Oh. It's not just a flower…
No.
It's a fucking corsage.
No sex with Richard Castle.
That's her new rule. (Well, an old rule really). One she needs to keep more top of mind.
No kissing. No touching. Nothing.
Not even the squeeze of a damn pinky finger.
If she's going to do this thing with him, they can't complicate it with sex.
She wants him. But she needs him more. Needs his folksy aphorisms, his crooked smile. His childlike wonder and larger-than-life personality. And sex would screw it all up.
Especially since he's probably still thinking about Kyra.
Yeah. Friendship is safe. Enough for now.
So no sex with Richard Castle.
No kissing. No touching.
Nothing.
She enters the lobby of the La Fonda Hotel in downtown Santa Fe searching for him, wearing her corsage, holding her dress up with one hand, the other curled around her clutch. Gus said he'd be waiting inside.
"Now can I call you a Bond girl?" he murmurs into her ear from behind.
She wheels around, her pulse skyrocketing as her nose is assaulted by his cologne, something deliciously spicy and woodsy. He really needs to stop doing that. She's going to have a heart attack.
His eyes blaze a trail from top to bottom, burning her all over.
"You look—I mean…wow," he says, tongue-tied.
She smirks, pleased. "Not too bad yourself, 007."
And it's an understatement. He's devastatingly debonair in a crisp tux and bowtie. He must've gone to a barber because he's freshly shaven and his unruly hair has been trimmed and arranged into a perfect coif. His cufflinks are gold, his pocket square is turquoise, and a boutonniere of a purple desert rose is pinned to his lapel.
Shit. How the hell was she supposed to hold herself back when he looked like that? When they were matching?
He extends his elbow for her, but she hesitates to take it. No touching. She needs to draw a firm line. Establish boundaries. Manage expectations of debauchery.
"Castle, I just want to be clear. This isn't a…"
"Date?"
He lowers his elbow.
"Yeah. I don't want you to think—"
"That this is anything other than two friends decompressing after a long, hard day? Don't worry, Beckett. If we were on a date, you would know it."
He presses a button on a nearby elevator. The doors slide open and he holds his arm out, offering her first entry.
She steps inside. "You dress to the nines for a night out with your friends often?"
"When there's just cause," he says smoothly, joining her side. "We're celebrating my success, aren't we? Isn't that reason enough?"
She side-eyes him, ignoring his sudden proximity as he reaches over her and selects the top floor.
"And the corsage and boutonniere, those are—? What? A little extra enchantment?"
"You're not the only one who missed out on prom, you know." He brushes at his lapels. "And in case you've forgotten, I was recently dumped by someone I thought I might be spending the rest of my life with, so I deserve a little extra enchantment, don't you think? Have you never distracted yourself with fanciful whimsies before?"
"Fanciful whimsies?" She laughs. "That's what you're going with?"
"Is it really so hard to believe?" He turns, crowds her against the elevator wall; his breath washing over her. Husks, "Or did you think this night was all about you?"
Fuck. Heat licks over her skin and her lips part open of their own accord.
The elevator dings, saving her from doing something stupid, while he backs off with a smug smile. He exits onto a rooftop, tossing over his shoulder,
"Might want to close your mouth, Cowgirl. You'll catch flies like that."
"Nothing decompresses like a 1989 Châteauneuf-du-Pape," he says, handing her a glass of wine. She accepts it, taking an experimental sip of the red blend. It's bold and rich, tasting of raspberry and plum. Absolutely divine. She hums in approval as she leans into the balcony railing.
The Bell Tower Bar at La Fonda is apparently the best spot in town to watch the sun go down. In the summer, it doesn't set until around 8:30 p.m., so they have another fifteen minutes to enjoy the riot of rosy pink and coral orange streaks in the sky, clouds like cotton candy, tinged with lilac.
Sublime.
"You know what I've been wondering?"
"It goes without saying I want to know everything you wonder about," he says with a naughty grin, propping on his elbows next to her.
Her eyes roll, more affectionate than annoyed. "If you're a born-and-bred New Yorker, how the hell do you know how to drive a car?"
He launches into an account of his time at Edgewyck. Describes how the editor who published his first story (Damian Westlake) took him under his wing and inducted the writer into his band of merry men. Details how one initiation requirement was taking the Headmaster's car for a joyride.
"Sounds like hazing," she says, frowning slightly. She's not sure she likes this Damian. Seems to her he took advantage of the young writer...preyed on his vulnerability.
"They were just giving me a little bit of a hard time."
"They abandoned you when you got caught. Let you take the fall."
"I had a clean record. All I got was a warning," he protests, "And Damian made it up to me. His dad pulled some strings and got me a summer job in the Hamptons at the country club. I've worked valet there every summer since I was sixteen." He pauses, noting their surroundings. "Well, until now."
His loyalty to his mentor is commendable. And yet, something about Damian's character is off-putting, his actions coming across as manipulative rather than caring. Practically Machiavellian. But the guy is clearly Castle's personal hero—the first person who went out on a limb for him; believed in him and his writing. So she doesn't push the issue.
"Explains why you tip so well. You know how the other half lives," she supplies in lieu of her real opinion. "You're a real-life rags-to-riches tale, aren't you? A genuine Cinderella. Or should I say, Punkerella?"
He smirks. "Careful. Almost sounds like I'm rubbing off on you."
"That's a horrifying thought."
He chuckles. Gestures at her. "What about you? How do you know how to drive a motorcycle, Miss City Slicker?"
She tells him how she was constantly doing reckless things to spite her lawyer parents. Sneaking into clubs like CBGB on the weekend with a fake ID. Dating guitarists from grunge bands who smelled like wet flannel and clove cigarettes for seven months.
"I worked all of high school to pay my bike off. My dad threatened to send me to a nunnery. And my mom just shook her head and said, Katie, every time you ride that thing just remember how much you hate hearing me tell you I told you so," she recounts easily, "Those were her four favorite words."
There's a lull after she finishes and she looks up at him. Finds him staring at her with a strange expression.
"What?"
"Nothing," he says quickly. "Do you, uh, have your fake on you?"
She chooses to go along with his blatant misdirect, afraid to investigate further, and retrieves it from her clutch. Shows him the ID that claims her birth year is '77.
"Guess this makes us the same age," he jokes. "What's the H stand for?"
"Ask your mother," she says coyly.
"How the hell did your middle name come up? You talked one time!"
She smiles cryptically into her wine glass, and he changes track.
"595 Broome Street," he reads from the address section. "That's in SoHo, right? Why'd you pick that?" he queries, giving the card back to her. She returns it to her wallet.
"Some friends and I used to go to open houses around town when we were bored. We liked to pretend we were the kind of people with glamorous lives, and there was a showing at these loft spaces on the corner of Broome and Crosby. Gorgeous. Wide open. Amazing built-in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. I fell in love immediately. It's been a dream ever since to live in one of them."
"I bet you will."
"How can you be so sure?" she says with a small laugh.
"'Cause I don't think anyone can stop you once you've set your mind on something."
He made dinner reservations at La Plazuela, the hotel's restaurant downstairs, a breathtakingly stunning venue. Potted tree plants stand tall under cathedral-style ceilings adorned with hand-carved beams and stained glass skylights.
Over 500 window panels surround the dining area, each one hand-painted in a different flowery design and a small fountain pool sits in the center, slightly sunken in, emitting a faint but musical trickle of water. There's something magical about it all.
Castle readily informs her the hotel, constructed in 1922, was built on the site of what used to be known as the Inn at the end of the Santa Fe Trail, a location that's been part of the famous downtown plaza since 1607, meaning there's history older than the foundation of America itself pulsing under the heart-pine flooring.
The food is ambrosia, from the refreshing strawberry goat cheese salad appetizer to the main course, cheesy enchiladas stuffed with char-grilled filet and a blend of chili spices that sets her taste buds afire with an intense but heavenly flavor.
They swap more stories while they dig in. She talks about her mom, telling him about her incredible work ethic, her famous brunch spreads, and her legendary prank-pulling skills. It's freeing, sharing happy memories of her, the ache of her being gone subsiding a little.
"Sounds like quite the firebrand. Like mother, like daughter," Castle notes with a wide grin, eyes sparkling.
"I think she would've gotten a kick out of you."
"Yeah?"
She nods, smiling bashfully. And then, she listens, enraptured, as he talks about his mom and what it was like for him growing up backstage, watching her perform from the wings and how it made him fall in love with the art of storytelling.
After they both polish off their dessert of flan, a creamy vanilla custard drizzled with caramel sauce and decked with fresh raspberries, their stomachs bursting, the writer announces, "I got something for you."
He motions at someone behind her.
"Castle, no. You don't have—"
A server deposits something book-like in front of her. It's leather-bound and topped with a shiny, red bow. A photo album, she realizes. The kind with 4x6 prints.
"Something to remember me by. If you are leaving. Which I know you aren't. But just in case," he says, slipping the server a tip.
Her heart thuds as she removes the bow and cracks the album open. Inside are shots of them at the Grand Canyon and candids from moments on the road. She snickers at the ones of the writer posing in his ranger outfit and brooding at the meteor landmark but gives him a sardonic look when she comes across the one of them together.
"Really, Castle? Bunny ears?" she reprimands. "Real mature."
"Oh, c'mon, they're totally classic!"
She continues her perusal with a shake of her head. She's unsmiling and glowering in a few pictures, but there are others where he's managed to capture her mid-laugh or smothering a grin. Her fingers feather over the photos, wonderstruck. She looks…happy.
"You never do things half-way, do you?" she marvels. "This is really sweet. Thank you," she says, unable to contain the bright upturn of her lips. He's doing it again. Ruining her.
She doesn't need a photo album to remember him; doesn't think she could forget him if she tried, but she appreciates it all the same, the rush of affection for him, making her light-headed.
"They turned out great, didn't they?" he says, glowing with pride. "You should consider becoming a model. Even your scowl is titillating."
"Do you ever keep a thought to yourself?" she chortles.
"I'm serious. You could make good money."
She hesitates slightly.
"What was that?" he asks.
"What was what?" she says innocently.
He doesn't need to know this about her. It's embarrassing.
"That look."
"What look? There was no look."
"There was definitely a look…" He gasps. "Oh my god, you've modeled before, haven't you?"
God-fucking-damnit.
She scrunches her nose, caught. Nothing to lose now.
"I was seventeen and I thought it would be an easier way to make money than waitressing. It was one summer. No big deal."
"What was it for?"
"Nuh uh."
"Oh, c'mon. You can't leave me hanging like that. You know I won't stop asking until you tell me."
She sighs. "Some sports clothing company. They put me in a tennis outfit."
"No. Way. You, in a preppy tennis skirt? I'd kill to see that," he says, staring off with a dreamy look on his face.
"Stop fantasizing."
"Too late."
She reaches over the table. Grabs his nose with two fingers and squeezes hard.
"Apples, apples!" he cries out.
She releases him, smirking, and he rubs the afflicted area vigorously.
"I bet you Tennis Kate is much nicer," he grouses.
"What makes you think she wouldn't whoop your ass, too?"
His mouth curves into a wicked grin.
"I'd be happy to let either of you spank me."
She's breaking a rule.
But only because it's necessary.
After exiting the restaurant and relinquishing her photo album to Gus's care, Castle divulges that their next stop is the plaza, where the art market has been replaced by a dance floor and a stage filled with jazz musicians as a part of Santa Fe's summer concert series.
And then, he holds out his hand and asks, "What do you say, Kate? Will you go to the dance with me?"
So she's breaking a rule. Making an exception really.
Because they're dancing. And touching is kind of unavoidable with a dance partner.
Especially when Richard Castle is your dance partner.
He's spinning and twirling and dipping her in time with the fast and jaunty music, their hands and bodies disconnecting and reconnecting in exhilarating synchronicity. Guess her parents were right about Cotillion paying off at one point.
When there's finally a break, she collapses onto a bench under a tree strung with lights, breathing hard, adrenaline flooding her heart and veins.
"Jesus, did you get possessed by Fred Astaire or something?"
"I'm a Broadway baby. It's in my blood," he says, preening slightly. "You're pretty light on your feet, too, Ginger. How's the ankle?"
"Don't feel a thing," she reports just as a cool breeze sweeps over her. She shivers, her bare arms pimpling with gooseflesh.
"You cold? I keep forgetting that the temperature drops at night in a desert climate."
"What, didn't pack me a coat, Mary Poppins?"
"I only had three hours! Something was bound to slip through the cracks. I'd give you my jacket but I wouldn't want you to confuse it as anything other than a friend helping a friend. Seeing how this isn't a date."
She directs an eye-roll at him.
"Just give me the damn jacket, Castle."
He complies, quickly arranging his suit jacket around her shoulders. The smell of his delectable cologne envelops her, dizzying her, and when he takes a seat next to her, her body unconsciously cants closer, a hypnotized snake pulled to its charmer.
Too close.
Shit.
No kissing. No touching. Nothing. She repeats internally.
But he doesn't know those rules. Because he's reaching out to fix her flyaway hairs, tucking away strands that've become unfastened from her bun.
"Better?" she snarks, hoping it'll encourage some distance, but the ladder of his knuckles linger down her jaw, tracing the bone in admiration.
"Beautiful," he whispers.
Fuck.
Her eyes slam shut.
"Kate," he murmurs, and it's torture. The way she can feel him, so close, her body so aware of him, fine-tuned to his movements. The way she wants to tilt her chin up, let her lips brush against his and pour her gratitude into him; shower him with adoration.
Because everything he does is magic. He's magic.
And she's bewitched.
"Kate," he murmurs again, a silent question, asking permission.
But she can't grant him anything. She needs him too much, and she's not ready to risk their friendship.
She summons an inner strength she doesn't know she possesses and shifts away, severing the rope of tension between them, blurting out,
"I need a smoke."
He almost kissed her.
She'd been so warm and pliant in his arms on the dance floor, so open and carefree all night, letting him peel back layer after layer. Gifting him with parts of her mother.
And he'd almost ruined it with a kiss. He was so caught up in her, that smile, her shining effervescence and regal beauty. She's Helen of Troy. A face that could launch a thousand ships. But for her, he'd launch hundreds of thousands. Millions. Because she's more than a face.
But kissing her was a bad idea. An almost kiss had already forced her into retreat and he wants her to stay. Wants her to feel comfortable around him.
So no kissing Kate Beckett. And maybe less touching. Probably no touching.
Friendship is safe. Friendship is enough.
As long as he gets to be by her side.
"We still haven't completed our mission."
He leans against the idling town car, hands in his pants pockets.
She blows out a cloud of smoke, arching an eyebrow.
"There's still the debauchery portion of the evening. I thought we could take the casino by storm," he proposes.
"Back at our hotel?"
He nods.
"But we'll need covers."
"Why would we need covers?"
"Because people on missions have covers. Duh."
She smirks. Takes a long, thoughtful pull from her cigarette.
"Okay. Fine," she says after a beat, puffing smoke out of the side of her mouth. "My name is Vera Mulqueen and I run a crew of Russian mobsters—a loan sharking operation. And I'm on the lookout for a down-on-their-luck sucker who's in way over his head."
He blooms with delight.
"Oo, an evil alter ego. I like it. Very femme fatale."
"And you can be my plucky sidekick."
She offers him a hit of her cigarette.
"Plucky sidekicks always get killed," he says, accepting a pull. "If we're doing a noir theme, can't I be the hard-boiled partner? Wait. No. What if I'm your go-to private eye? I can dig up dirt on your marks, give you proper blackmail material, and you can call me…Joe Flynn."
"Sure, Joe. You can be my P.I.," she says with a short shrug of her shoulders. Smiles, mischievous. "You are a dick after all."
"I walked right into that one, didn't I?"
"Two thousand dollars!" she crows.
"I knew you'd clean house with that poker face of yours. Oh, I wish I could've taken a picture of that guy's face. He couldn't believe it."
They stumble into their suite in a chorus of tipsy giggles, delirious with victory. She pulls her headband off and reaches for the pins in her hair, tugging them loose, letting her scalp breathe. The writer knocks her hand away and helps her with unraveling her bun. She stands with her back to him, allowing him easier access as he unfastens the rest of her pins.
"At least I can pay you back now," she says.
"Kate," he admonishes softly, his hot breath on her neck. A tingle runs down her spine.
"I don't want to keep owing you."
"Negative, Ghost Rider. You don't owe me anything. It's what partners are for."
He squeezes her shoulder gently, and she turns, her hair falling in loose tendrils around her.
"You gotta let me do something," she pushes back. "Breakfast on me?"
He grins at her. "Deal."
She smiles shyly, her heart thrumming as fast as a hummingbird's.
She's gonna do it now. She's gonna tell him yes.
"Thank you. For tonight. I had a really fun time."
"Me, too."
She inhales a fortifying breath.
"And these past few days…they've been unexpected and a little crazy, but it hasn't been all bad. So, I'm just gonna say this and…"
"Actually, would you mind holding that thought?" he says, putting up a finger. "I have to pee."
She muffles a snort. Waves him away. Him and his tiny bladder. He scurries, making a beeline for his ensuite bathroom.
She shakes her head, amused, scattering her hair accessories and uncashed chip winnings on the coffee table. Castle will have to exchange them for her in the morning. She unclasps her golden cuffs, adding them to the pile. She opens the mini fridge next, snagging a mini water bottle. Unscrewing the top, she slings back eight fluid ounces of the cool liquid.
Her gaze falls to the couch, where she spies the writer's black Moleskine sticking up from between two of the cushions. She plucks the notebook from the crevice and plops onto the couch, kicking her feet up, the gears of her mind whirring.
She's been dying to suss out what he's always jotting and scribbling down. She knows she shouldn't. That taking a peek is equivalent to reading his diary, but her inhibitions are lowered...the itch to scratch, too powerful to ignore any longer.
She skips the first few pages, his hasty scrawl of bulleted observations too messy to make out, but it becomes neater, more careful and exacting, as she scans further, and a name pops out at her.
June Winter.
A girl with a hot-and-cold temperament.
One who carries the weight of the world on her shoulders; haunted by an unsolved mystery in her past. A girl with a promising and bright future until the death of her loved one turns her entire world upside down. And the only way she can cope is with the hot burn of tequila down her throat and the rough touch of a stranger in her bed every night.
Each word is a knife to her heart, sharp and fatal, slicing through every artery, vein, and ventricle until there's nothing left of the organ but shredded strands of ribbon, stained red by the gush of blood. It's like he's crawled inside her brain and laid her bare; spilled her guts for vultures to circle and pick at.
"Kate."
Her head whips up, finding terror in his eyes, and the only thing she can muster is a low, accusatory whisper.
"Loosely based?"
His mouth opens and closes like a fish.
She extracts herself from the couch corner. Sits up tall, spine straight. "Was this in the outline you sent to your publisher?" she asks, deadly calm.
But she doesn't have to wait for his answer. She can see it written in the anguish warping his face. The leftover scraps of her heart rip into a million tiny pieces.
She so desperately wanted to believe in the words he spun from gold and bask in their warmth. Soak up their light. Wanted to believe in him and the possibility of joy. But now, there's only ice in her veins.
"So, what? Was your plan all along to charm the girl with sad eyes, get her to tell you all the sordid details of her tragic past, and make a pretty penny off of it?"
"God, no. Kate. That's not—I didn't mean—I would never…" he says, tripping over himself helplessly. "It's not you. Not really," he finishes weakly.
"She wears the engagement ring around her neck like an albatross. A sacred talisman. A reminder of the life she lost," she reads from the Moleskine bluntly. She meets his eye squarely, all steel. "I'm sorry. Tell me how that isn't me."
He has no response. No rebuttal. His head hangs, dejection setting roost in his shoulders.
"God, Castle, I thought I could trust you," she says, voice cracking and tears falling. She was gonna say yes.
A flame of anger flickers in his gaze. "You wanna talk about trust? We wouldn't even be having this conversation if you hadn't been snooping behind my back."
She shoots up to her feet, outraged.
"Would you've told me if I hadn't? Or were you just going to wait until the book was published and I couldn't do anything about it?" she spews.
He extinguishes. "I was going to tell you. I just didn't know how," he says feebly. Sotto, "I knew you'd be upset."
"You're damn right I'm upset!" she yells.
How could he do this? She can't fathom it. Can't reconcile the sweet guy who bends over backwards just to see her smile, the one who enchants her and makes her feel like a princess, with the stranger in front of her, stabbing her in the back and bleeding her dry.
"What's worse is you knew what this could mean. And you did it anyway. You begged me to let you in, banged down my goddamn door, and when I finally did, when I finally entrusted my secrets to you, secrets I've never told anybody else, the first thing you do is turn around and offer them up to your publisher on a silver platter. Like it didn't mean anything to you. Like I mean nothing," she says, her voice hoarse.
She can't cry. She can't break down again. But she really thought he was different. Special.
"Course it meant something," he croaks, devastation colonizing his face. "Kate—"
"No," she barks. "You don't get a say anymore, Rick. You made me believe things could be better. You made me have hope. But it was all just bullshit. I inspire you? No. I'm just some pet project to you; a bird with a broken wing that you picked up off the side of the road and tended to because you couldn't face the fact that you're a fraud with no imagination."
Instead of cutting him off at the knees, her barbed indictments light a match in him and he sparks with fury.
"You don't mean that. And you know none of it was bullshit," he objects vehemently. "And you're many things, Kate, but you're sure as hell not a project to me. But that's not the point, is it? You're just looking for a reason to run. From me. From your life."
"Yeah, well last time I checked, it was my life, not your personal jungle gym. And for the past three days, I've been running around with the school's funniest kid. And it's not enough."
She tears the corsage off her wrist. Throws it at his feet.
He leans down and picks up the crumpled flower, smoothing out the petals and cradling it like it's precious.
She wants to vomit.
"It could be enough," he says quietly. "You could be happy, Kate. You deserve to be happy."
How dare he?
"How do you know what I deserve? All you care about is yourself."
"How—? Because of everything we've been through together!" he shouts. "Three days, I've been right here. Three days, just waiting for you to open your eyes and see that I'm right here," he says, emphatic and beseeching. "See that I can be there for you. Be your travel partner. Your friend."
"Is that what we are?" she challenges.
She was gonna say yes.
"No, you know what? I don't know what we are. We almost kiss, and then we don't talk about it. We nearly die at gunpoint, but we don't talk about it. So no, I've got no clue what we are. I know I never meant to hurt you."
But it does hurt. It hurts like holy hell.
So she hurts him back.
"Kyra's parents were right," she heaves out. His eyes shatter. "You do have too many romantic notions. Pretending you're like Kerouac, living out some grand adventure on the road, but this is real life. Not some fairytale fantasy. And my tragedy isn't some fodder for your artistic expression."
She pitches his Moleskine, a poisoned apple, onto the couch.
"You know what we are, Castle? We are over."
She stalks across the room, jerking the suite doors open.
"Kate, wait. You pinky-promised."
No running. For now.
"Are you kidding me? You're actually bringing this up right now—after you just betrayed me?" she spits. "You promised I could trust you with my story. You broke it first, you fucking sociopath. Consider it null and void."
There's a hole in her body where her heart should be. Just a huge, big gaping hole of nothingness.
"Please don't go."
"Don't worry, Ricky, I won't leave the premises. I just can't be here right now. And you better not fucking follow me."
She leaves, no destination in mind, not looking back, the elephant on her chest, heavy and choking and she's drowning, drowning, drowning, one thought ringing in her head…
She was gonna say yes.
He's an idiot.
He wants to chase after her. Beg. Plead. Grovel.
Anything to win back her trust. Earn her forgiveness.
He replays their conversation over and over again, running through every hurled accusation, every loaded statement, attempting to pinpoint where it all went wrong. Only to realize, in horror, he didn't even apologize. Didn't even offer to rescind the story. Just tried to justify his actions. Casted the blame on her.
He's a fucking idiot.
But she's not going anywhere. Not yet. She has to come back for her stuff. And he'll be there when she does. Give her a proper apology. Tell her he'll scrap it. He doesn't want to lose her.
He plants himself on the couch, tucks her corsage aside for safe-keeping, and locks his gaze on the door. Waiting. Wondering. How did it get so bad? How did everything get so royally screwed up?
His Moleskine is a dark smudge on the couch cushion. How could something so small cause such massive destruction?
Rage, wild and untamed, stampedes through him, and he suddenly grabs the notebook, violently chucking it.
The Moleskine collides into a device positioned on an end table, knocking it off the edge and sending it to the floor in a loud clatter. His surge of anger dissipates.
Sighing, he gets up to set the item right. A digital clock. The time reads just past midnight.
Of course, he thinks bitterly.
He'd been trying so hard to make everything right for her; prove to her that the fairytale fantasy was possible...but he chose the wrong fairytale. It's midnight and the spell of the evening is broken, the magic lost.
Tick, tick, tick…boom.
Mission: Failed.
And he doesn't even have the tangible hope of a glass slipper left behind.
His cell ringtone blares loudly, rousing him from his awkward position on the couch where he's fallen asleep.
"'Lo?" he answers groggily, rubbing the crick in his neck.
"Richard?"
"Mother?" He smudges his eyes with the jut of his palm, checking the digital clock, the numbers blinking in red.
2 a.m.? Jesus.
His brain somehow supplies the fact that there's a two hour difference, that it's even later in New York. And there's only one reason she'd be calling at 4 a.m. He snaps awake.
"Did you find him? What's wrong?"
"Let me speak with Katherine."
"What happened?" he presses.
A beleaguered sigh from her.
"I left my number with some bartenders at the places Jim frequents. Told them to call me if he came in. An hour ago, one of them reached out, said he'd just left, so I went over there, fast as I could. But it wasn't fast enough." She pauses, shuddering a breath. "Jim picked a fight with someone on the street. Got beaten up. And it's…bad. God, Richard. They left him for dead in some alleyway."
Just like her mother.
Oh, God, he's gonna be sick. This is gonna kill Kate.
"But you found him? You called for help?"
"Yes, he's being treated now. We're at St. Vincent's. And they're saying he might need surgery. Let me speak with Katherine. She needs to know."
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He sprints; yanks the doors to her room open. (Maybe she came back. Snuck past him). But her bed is unoccupied. She's not there.
"About that…"
"What did you do?" his mother sighs, impatient.
"Why do you assume it's something I did?" he protests, indignant.
"Richard, this isn't the time for your jokes. Whatever lover's quarrel you're in. Get over it. And go find her. Now," she orders. Guilt crawls in his gut.
"Before it's too late."