Right Place, Right Time
"Dad? Hey—everything okay?" she asks anxiously.
"I was gonna ask you that. I've been calling you for hours, Katie."
"I'm sorry. I haven't had my phone on me and my day's been kind of bananas."
"I've been worried," he scolds and she rankles with irritation.
She should be thrilled. He's worried. He cares again. He just wants to know how she's doing.
But he's acting like she snuck out without telling him. Like she's just a kid. And not the girl who had to grow up too fast, pick up all the pieces of herself alone, and survive without him for months.
"What a refreshing change of pace," she snarks.
He sighs.
"I'm trying here."
She deflates, her anger dissipating. He knows he's broken something between them and it's not going to be an easy fix. But he can't just expect her to pretend like nothing's happened.
"I know you are. And I appreciate the check-in. But I can't really talk right now. I have a wedding to get to."
Bea and Forrest had decided they didn't want to wait anymore.
"A wedding?"
"I'll explain in the morning," she says, "When are you getting discharged?"
"First thing tomorrow. Craig and I are going up to the cabin. You can reach me there."
"Okay. That's good. Great."
There's an awkward, stilted silence.
"I'm glad you're okay," he says finally.
A small smile paves over her lips.
"Right back at ya."
They had a long road ahead of them, but they were heading in the right direction.
She paces on Bea's front porch, checking the stainless steel watch on her left wrist.
Castle had loaned her his Omega Seamaster, one of the most preeminent luxury brands for divers, but more importantly, it's the same model worn by James Bond in the Pierce Brosnan movies. The writer had been all too happy to tell her about its ability to withstand water pressure up to 300 feet deep and how it had luminescent features and could glow in the dark.
(He was so cute when he got excited about things).
He'd also gone on in length about how Texas has multiple time zones and explained that when they'd arrived in Adrian around 4:30 p.m, he had to adjust it to 5:30 p.m. because they'd left the Mountain sector behind and were currently in Central territory, which meant they were only an hour behind New York.
And it's nearing 7:45 p.m. now, which means they've been waylaid for almost two and a half hours. They'd originally planned to be in Amarillo by 6:30 p.m., so they could grab a meal, check out the Route 66 festival, and turn in early for a much-needed good night's sleep, but now they had a wedding to attend at 8:15 p.m. (sundown was going to be a little after 9 p.m.) and she was in charge of making sure everything was running on time. Even though she'd lost all sense of it.
Guess God was laughing at her and her plans, too. (If there was a God).
She hadn't expected any of this.
Certainly hadn't expected to fall in love with Richard Castle.
She tried so hard to fight it. Tried to wage war against it with practically every ounce of her being.
But after everything these past few days and especially after the past two and a half hours of brawls and duels and feuds, she's realized she's tired of fighting. It's like this place and these people have set off a powder keg in her and blown her entire foundation apart.
And she can finally see all too clearly how she's fighting a losing battle. How he's already surmounted all of her defenses—burrowed under her skin, smashed her walls into rubble, and forged his way into her heart.
It's no use in denying to herself that she's already half-way in love with him, if not completely head over heels.
It's not logical. Certifiably insane, really.
But the heart doesn't make logical choices.
So she surrenders.
She loves him. Hopelessly so.
How could she not be?
He frustrates the hell out of her, but she's never met anyone as sweet and caring as him. Never had someone who put her first, above all else.
He's been there for her, and she wants to be there for him, so they can just dive into it—together. As true partners.
She's just not sure if her grief will let her put him first in the way that he deserves. If this is the right time for them.
She's terrified her grief will force him away like Bea's forced Forrest away and she'll be alone again, left to drown in the crushing pressure of its depths.
The loud slam of a car door yanks her from the rabbit hole of her thoughts.
Bea had asked her to be one of her bridesmaids and one of her first duties was to greet Gene and LeAnne and let them know there'd been a change in their dinner plans. Apparently, it was tradition for her little brother and sister to drive in once-a-month for a family dinner and it just so happened that they were supposed to have it for tonight.
A handsome, lanky man with sandy-blonde hair climbs out of a vintage turquoise Chevy pick-up, a gorgeous, statuesque woman with olive skin and long, dark hair and three young boys in tow.
"Are you Kate?" the man asks, trotting up the porch steps. "They said you could tell us why everyone's runnin' 'round like chickens with their heads cut off."
"You must be Gene," Kate says with a warm smile and a cordial handshake.
"This is my wonderful wife, Willow," he announces and Kate grips her hand in welcome as Gene pushes his boys, who share their mother's hair color and complexion, forward, "And these are my three Musketeers." He bops their heads as he goes down the row. "Atticus, Atlas, and Paxton. Fifteen, thirteen, and eleven, respectively."
"Dad, I told you. It's Kitt now," whines the eldest. "Two 't's."
"Sorry, son." He faces Kate with a long-suffering sigh. "Forgive me. It's Kitt now. Two 't's." He puts his hands on his hips. "Though I don't know why you'd ruin a perfectly good—"
He's interrupted by another car door slam. This time, from a canary yellow 50s classic Thunderbird. A pretty brunette woman in her late-30s stalks down the path, her ponytail swinging and a yellow summer dress swishing over her brown cowboy boots. LeAnne, Kate presumes.
When LeAnne reaches their group, she immediately crushes Kate into a big hug and the young brunette stiffens in surprise.
"Um, hi," Kate manages.
LeAnne breaks from her, grinning widely.
"Had to give my daughter-in-law a proper salutation."
"Daughter-in-what now?" Gene gawps.
LeAnne squishes Kate to her with an arm around her shoulder. "This is Roggie Bear's wife. He told me I could find her here. Pleasure to finally meet ya." She pinches Kate's cheek. "Why, you're as cute as a button."
"Soon-to-be ex-wife," Kate corrects, slowly extracting herself from LeAnnea's hold. She's beginning to understand Roggie Bear's lack of respect for personal space.
"Not in a coma, then?" Gene says with an arched brow of amusement.
"Uh, no. Wide awake."
"Hold on, did you say soon-to-be ex-wife?" LeAnne questions with a frown.
"We're getting an annulment."
"Say it ain't so!" LeAnne exclaims with a hand over her heart. "What happened?"
"We're, uh, just not a good fit. Conflict of personalities," Kate provides diplomatically.
LeAnne sighs dejectedly. "I know he can be a bit of a cur, but he's really sweet deep down. And he's got a good heart. I was too young when I had him and he's just had a rough go of it. Think you could reconsider?"
She remembers Homer mentioning how LeAnne got pregnant the summer before her senior year. A boy from out of town who didn't want anything to do with her or "her condition," but his parents took her in once the baby arrived. Said it was the Christian thing to do. Translation: the O'Learys didn't seem to think LeAnne or Bea were good enough to raise Rogan on their own. Kate wonders how different he might've turned out if Bea had more say in his upbringing.
"I assure you. I've given it my full consideration," Kate says emphatically, her fingers twitching.
"Such a shame," LeAnne tuts. "He sure could use someone to help take care of him right now. He's got a broken nose, you know? Poor thing."
"Does he now?" Gene says, taking heed when Kate instinctively hides her bruised knuckles behind her back. A knowing smile quirks his lips. "You're whiskey in a teacup, aren't ya?"
"Pardon?"
"Look sweet and innocent but ya pack quite a punch."
Willow stifles a chuckle behind her hand, while LeAnne throws her brother an inquisitive look.
"Uh, yeah," Kate hedges, glancing nervously at the writer's watch. 7:50 p.m. Shit. She needs to cut to the chase. "And as much as I'd love to discuss this further, we're running short on time."
"For…?" Gene prompts.
"The wedding. Bea's getting married. In less than thirty minutes."
"Married?!" LeAnne squeaks. "To who?"
"Forrest," Kate says simply, wishing Castle was with her. He's the storyteller. Not her.
But he'd been recruited to help transfer tables and chairs from The Camelot to the main street, which was being transformed into an impromptu wedding venue. Roadblocks had been set up on either end to redirect any Historic Route 66 travelers to the I-40 highway.
"Forrest Pansy? The one who ditched her and had a baby with someone else? That Forrest?" LeAnne presses.
"Yup."
(She's so not bridesmaid material. She really, really sucks at this).
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," LeAnne mutters.
"Well, knock me down with a feather," Gene crows in delight. "About goddamn time!"
Kate smiles wanly. "Bea's in the back with the gals," she says, pitching a thumb over her shoulder. "LeAnne, she wanted to speak with you."
"Good. 'Cause I've got somethin' to say." LeAnne marches off in a huff. (That can't be good).
"And they could use any extra hands on the main street. Setting up the venue and whatever else."
"I think that's our cue," Gene says gamely. He pokes his elbow out for Willow to take, and they shepherd their boys down the steps together. "Nice meetin' ya, Kate. Welcome to the family."
She puffs out a weak laugh.
That could've gone worse.
She's about to head into the house when the floorboards creak with the sound of footsteps.
Kate spins on her heel. "Hello?"
A girl with snow white skin, sky blue eyes, and a chic bob of ebony black hair smiles at her apprehensively, adjusting the hiking bag on her back and clenching her fist around a spray of white daisies.
"Hi, I'm Rory. My dad told me to come here. Said you could introduce me to Bea."
"Right. Yeah. 'Course," Kate fumbles. "Um, right this way." But she doesn't move, something holding her back. Rory notes her hesitance.
"Kate, right?"
She nods.
"I'm not going to throw a fit or anything. I just want to give her my blessing," Rory says.
"Blessing?"
"I don't know if my parents ever loved each other. I know they tried to for my sake, but I think it would've been better if they'd just broken up sooner instead of trying to live up to some stupid societal expectation. Instead of putting on a show so I could lead a charmed life."
Rory worries her bottom lip between her teeth.
"But I never wanted my happiness to come at the expense of their own…so when my dad called me the other day and mentioned he was heading back to his hometown for the first time in twenty-three years, I decided to skip out on backpacking through the rest of Europe and hopped on a plane because…it felt important. I just had a feeling, you know?" Her blue eyes pool with doubt. "Is that silly?"
Kate shakes her head with a soft smile of understanding.
"Not silly at all. You trusted your gut instinct."
She motions for Forrest's daughter to follow her inside.
"And your timing couldn't have been better."
"He's a cad who abandoned you and knocked up the first slut who opened her legs for him!" LeAnne shouts.
Okay, maybe their timing could've been a little better.
Kate pointedly clears her throat in the threshold of Bea's bedroom and everyone pauses and swivels their gaze over.
"This is Rory," she states coolly.
"Daughter of the cad and the slut," Rory clarifies.
LeAnne's eyes widen in horror as Kate represses a snort, her respect for the young woman magnifying tenfold.
"Rory," Bea gasps as she shoots up from her seat in front of the vanity, wearing only a white silk slip and her head full of hair rollers. "You're here. How—?"
"My dad always said summers back home were the best, so I thought I'd finally see what all the fuss was about." She shrugs casually, her bag thumping to the ground. "And I wanted to meet the woman who put the joy back into his heart. Give her my blessing before they tie the knot."
Bea's eyes shine with tears of gratitude and she sails across the room to rope Rory into a tight hug.
"And, um, these are for you." Rory thrusts the bouquet at Bea. "A little birdie told me daisies are your favorite flower and I thought it could be your something new. Since they're freshly picked and they're supposed to symbolize new beginnings."
Bea stares at her, frozen in awe.
"It was silly. I shouldn't—"
"No, not silly. Not in the slightest." Bea cups Rory's jaw and presses a kiss to the apple of her cheek. "They're perfect."
"Yeah?"
Bea nods, taking the stems from the young woman. "You know, I was tryin' to ask my sister here to be my maid of honor, but she ain't been very honorable."
She shoots LeAnne a dirty look and the youngest Potts sibling has the decency to bow her head in shame and mumble sorry under her breath.
"So I think she'll understand if I ask you instead."
Rory's eyes flood with surprise. "Oh, you don't have to do that. Really—"
"Nonsense. There's no one I'd rather have by my side," Bea chides. She plucks one of the daisies from the bunch and tucks it behind Rory's ear. "New beginnin's, right?"
Rory grins.
"Right."
Bea loops her arm around Rory's and tows her inside to join the hubbub of activity. There's a small army of women in various states of dress and undress, styling hair for each other and assisting with make-up application. Blow dryers are droning like small jet engines and hairspray is being heavily spritzed on mountains of curls, clouding the air with a chemical smell.
It reminds Kate of her roommate Debbie Winaker, the beauty pageant contestant who often prepped for her competitions in their dorm and soused their shared space with a deadly combination of hairspray, perfume, and cigarette smoke. She's surprised they didn't spontaneously combust. Surprised this place hasn't gone up in flames, everyone and everything, by some magic, ticking smoothly along like clockwork.
"How much longer do ya think it'll take with the dress?" Bea hollers.
The knitting gals (who also knew how to sew) had been working on Bea's old prom dress, making adjustments, letting out the waist and bust a bit.
"How long we got left?" Lenora yells.
"Twenty minutes," Kate chirps.
"There ya go. We'll be done in twenty minutes," Cecilia answers, the sewing machine needle clacking noisily at a rapid speed.
Bea chuckles. Nudges Rory.
"If you feel like it, you can rinse off after Kate. And we'll find you something to wear, too."
Bea glances back at Kate with an affectionate smile.
"You did a hell of a job, sweet pea. Thank you."
Kate tips her hat, her heart overflowing with warmth, and heads toward the shower to wash away the grime of the day.
Maybe she wasn't half bad at this bridesmaid thing after all.
Extraordinary.
Just…extraordinary.
Kate is the first to walk down the aisle after Lenora's four year-old granddaughter, Polly, who scattered rose petals over the Route 66 midpoint marker, a thick line of white that slashes through the center of main street and has midpoint stamped in tall block letters of black, three times over.
They'd set up chairs, flanking each side of the line. Westside for the bride and Eastside for the groom, both sides mostly filled by a mix of Ladies and Knights, though there were two empty chairs with roses on them to honor Bea's parents. The rest of the town was standing on the street or sitting on top of cars or in truck beds parked along the roadside.
Merlin and a few Knights make up the wedding band, the head cowboy playing tunefully from a harmonica, while his compatriots strum other Bluegrass instruments like a fiddle, a banjo, and even a washboard.
Kate floats forward in her white cowboy boots and a sweet and simple dress of lilac that hovers just over her knees, the thin straps tied in little bows on each shoulder. The hair that doesn't quite hit her shoulders has been blow dried into huge open curls that are scooped over to one side and pinned back by a large butterfly-shaped brooch studded with sapphires, the same one Bea had been wearing earlier in the day on her belt buckle.
The piece of jewelry looks familiar to him, but he can't quite pinpoint where he's seen it before and he's dying to know the significance, knowing it played a part in Bea accepting Forrest's proposal.
But all coherent thought is driven from his head as Kate reaches the end of the aisle, clutching a bouquet of dried flowers from Bea's living room collection, and she finally glances over at the row of groomsmen. Forrest had asked him to be one in addition to his old football teammates, Eric and Philip and John, while his father, Arthur, had been bestowed the title of Best Man. They were all in clean white button-downs with bolero ties around their necks, Stetsons on their heads, and cowboy boots on their feet.
Forrest is in one of those fancy Western shirts that's a deep navy color and embroidered with intricate patterns of gold. His mane of titian hair has been slicked back and trussed into a low pony by a cord of leather. Accompanied by black boots and a matching black Stetson, he looks every bit the part of a Cowboy Prince (if there was such a thing).
When Kate's eyes catch his, she brightens with a smile, so soft and tender and warm, he forgets how to breathe as hope chokes him, true and swift, the beat of his heart, flying as fast as a swallow.
Was that for him?
He doesn't know what happened in the brief time they spent apart, but something's different. She seems…lighter. As if the burden of the world no longer weighs her down. The mask of the icy warrior shedded like the skin of a chrysalis to reveal a girl with a rekindled fire for life, a newborn butterfly ready to flap its wings and take flight.
He thought she was drop-dead gorgeous the night before as a glimmering goddess, but this…her—in a girlish summer dress and loose curls, backlit by a sky drenched in orange and pink and purple, and looking at him like that, like he's more than just a road trip buddy or a partner—he doesn't think he's seen anything more divine.
He could fill a thousand book pages trying to describe her, but it still wouldn't be enough. Still wouldn't do her justice.
She wiggles her fingers at him, a subtle and shy wave, and he yearns to stride over and paint his lips against that breathtaking smile, but it's not the right time or place. Not yet. So he tips his hat at her instead, grinning stupidly wide.
The other bridesmaids file in after her, a pastel rainbow of color: orange, red, green, blue (Lenora, Cecilia, Priscilla, and Rory, who he'd met briefly when she arrived at The Camelot to surprise her father. A red ribbon of silk is tied in a bow atop her dark locks). He can't wait to hear the story of how she was crowned Maid of Honor.
The music swells, signaling Bea's arrival.
Arm-in-arm with a sandy-blonde man and a brunette woman with similar features (her siblings, the writer determines), Bea glides toward Forrest in a pale yellow, ankle-length gown. With a sweetheart neckline and off-the-shoulder sleeves, it's cinched at the waist, the skirt a cascade of ruffles. Her hair is half-up in a bun and the other half is a waterfall of curls. Her mother's red cowboy boots peek out from beneath her dress hem and her sapphire engagement ring glitters on the hand she has wrapped around a white daisy bouquet.
She's magnificent.
But it's the rosy blush on her cheeks and pure love shining from her eyes that makes her the most beautiful bride he's ever seen.
Forrest is a lucky guy.
And if the awestruck look on his face is any indication, Forrest knows it.
The writer sneaks a glance at Kate, only to find her sneaking a glance at him. His heart soars and he grins, even wider than before, his cheeks busting with it. And she smiles the smile of adoration, the one that steals all the air from his lungs. So he takes a risk—and winks.
She winks back.
Oh, God.
That does it.
His heart is hers.
He's pretty sure she stole it right around the same time she stole his fries.
But now he's 100% certain.
He's in love with Kate Beckett.
Completely head over heels.
Hopelessly so.
"If anyone opposes to this union, then shut your goddamn pie hole!" Homer booms.
The crowd resounds with quiet laughter.
The old man keeps the ceremony short and to the point. And as the two lovers exchange thin gold wedding bands, they also exchange the oldest vows in the book.
To have and to hold.
For better or for worse.
For richer or for poorer.
In sickness and in health.
To love and to cherish.
'Til death do us part.
"And for the time of our lives," Forrest tacks on. Bea puffs out a soft, happy giggle.
"By the power vested in me by the state of Texas and the Lord Almighty, I now pronounce you husband and wife." Homer concludes their tale with a holler. "Now please kiss your damn bride!"
Forrest needs no further instruction as he gathers Bea into the branch of his arms and bends her down for a passionate, swoon-worthy kiss.
It's fire and love and doves release above them, fluttering off into the sunset, peace restored.
For the traditional father-daughter dance, Gene leads Bea onto the floor as Merlin's band plays a jaunty cover of Lance's favorite song, Rock Around the Clock by Bill Haley & His Comets, the first number one hit of the Rock 'n' Roll era.
Fairy lights have been strung over the street, illuminating the reception area, while lightning bugs flit about in the dusk light.
Lois Wayne, the local town reporter, also flits about, snapping shots as the de facto wedding photographer.
Tables and chairs have been shoved to either end of the street to make way for dancing, and Gwen and other workers from The Camelot have stationed in the kitchen cafe of Bea's shop, whipping up vegetable salad appetizers, burgers, chicken tenders, and fries for the main course, and vanilla ice cream and apple pies for dessert.
LeAnne pulls a reluctant Rogan onto the dance floor (er, street).
"Did you know she calls him Roggie Bear?" Kate tells Castle, her dance partner.
"That's funny. I've been calling him The Deadbeat Kid. You know, because he's not Butch Cassidy or The Sundance Kid but he's—"
"A deadbeat husband?" she chuckles.
"But not for much longer," the writer says cheerfully. Rogan had signed the dissolution of marriage forms his lawyer faxed over to Bea's home office. They just needed a stamp and signature from a judge.
"Not for much longer," she echoes softly.
And not much longer until she tells him how she feels. She doesn't want to wait anymore. Doesn't want to let her grief win and let it rob her of something great. Something extraordinary. But she doesn't want to tell him here. It's not the right place. Not the right time.
He flashes her a lopsided grin, as if he can read her thoughts, and squeezes the fingers clasped around hers. "Still wanna head out soon?"
They had discussed leaving for Amarillo that night, so they could be at the courthouse first thing in the morning. And because Gene (who owned a specialty repair shop there) said he could get Castle an overnight paint job for his Mustang—anything for the guy who helped put a spring back in his sister's step.
"Maybe another dance or two."
She's not in any hurry to leave his arms. It's exactly where she wants to be.
"Okay." He grins again. "As long as I'm dancing with you." He leans down to whisper in her ear. "I think someone has a crush on you."
Her heart leapfrogs into her throat.
"What?"
He spins her away from him and she spots Kitt openly ogling her from his seat at one of the outskirt tables. The fifteen year-old quickly busies himself with his plate when he realizes he's been caught.
"He's just a kid!" she exclaims once Castle tugs her back into the cove of his body.
"Not to mention your cousin."
"Why, you're lower than a snake's belly in a wagon rut!" she proclaims in mock offense.
He laughs, loud and rich, and her heart somersaults. She loves his laugh—it's one of her favorite sounds.
"I think they'll make a Southern Belle out of you yet."
She rolls her eyes but does little to hide the smile that stretches over her mouth.
"Either way, Kitt with two 't's is gonna have to get in line," he growls roguishly.
Her eyebrow crooks up playfully. "Oh, yeah? Behind whom?"
"I love it when you use whom correctly," he deflects jokingly.
"Must be your great grammatical influence over me," she mutters sarcastically. She wishes they didn't have to dance around what they really wanted to say.
A chuckle rumbles in his chest, soft and low. Another favorite sound of hers.
"I think Merlin would be first in line."
"Merlin?" She scoffs. "I don't think I'm his type."
"Impossible. What man would ever turn you away?"
(Maybe the man whose heart might still belong to someone else).
"Maybe the kind of man that turns all women away," she says instead.
"Wait a minute." The writer blinks. "Are you saying Merlin's gay?"
She gives him a pointed look. "You can be really oblivious sometimes."
"Oh my god. This totally explains why he knew all the choreography to Dancing Queen."
She giggles, nodding at Merlin and his fiddler bandmate. "I think he and Sir Gawaine are dating."
The writer hums in agreement.
"Well, I hope they beat the odds and get their happy ending."
"Me, too."
They smile at each other and the rest of the world falls away as they continue to dance.
A new song starts. A slower, more melodic ballad. It sounds like Hopelessly Devoted To You from Grease.
Her arms wind around his neck as his hands find her waist and they sway.
"Speaking of dating, my mother was wondering if Craig is single. Apparently, he's—and I'm quoting here—quite the hunky dish."
"Isn't she seeing some piano player?"
"She doesn't really stay tied down for long. Her first marriage was less than a year. And her second husband stuck around just long enough to run off with her life savings. So if anyone asks, I don't live with my mother. She lives with me."
She pinches his cheek lightly and affectionately teases, "You're such a good son."
He huffs a self-deprecating laugh. "And a pimp apparently."
"Craig is single," she answers. "Also a widower."
"Recent?"
"Couples years back. Stroke."
"Oh, God. That's horrible."
"Yeah." She exhales a melancholy sigh. "But at least he knows what my dad is going through. Even if it's not quite the same."
"How is it not the same?"
She's quiet for a long beat.
"He knows why she died. And my mom—"
"You don't know why," he fills in gently.
She nods. "It doesn't necessarily make it hurt less, but it helps to know. The why matters."
Something fierce and powerful burns in the writer's gaze and she has to look away, the flames too intense.
"They'll be good for each other," she says, rerouting the tone of the conversation. "They're heading up to my family's cabin upstate tomorrow."
The writer follows her lead and she loves him even more for it.
"Sounds charming. They'll be like Bert and Ernie."
"Oscar and Felix," she adds.
His blue irises spark with challenge. "Frasier and Niles," he volleys.
"Norm and Cliff," she fires back.
"Kirk and Spock."
Her mind draws a blank. She scrunches her nose. "You just had to one up me, didn't you?"
"Not my fault if you can't think of another epic TV bromance."
She narrows her eyes, not quite ready to surrender just yet.
"Starsky and Hutch."
He pauses. Thinks. "Tango and Cash."
"Turner and Hooch."
"Hooch is a dog!" he protests.
"But they still make a pretty good team. It totally counts," she argues.
He chuckles in concession.
"Then I guess you win."
"What's my prize?"
"Whatever you want."
Her heart thuds painfully in her chest as he cradles her jaw in his hand.
"What is it you want, Mary? What do you want? You want the moon? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down."
If anyone else said that to her, she'd discount it as some cheesy pick-up line from an old movie. But she knows he means it. He really would, if he could. His sincerity is one of the things she loves about him.
But she doesn't want the moon.
She just wants him.
So she takes his hand from her face and breaks from his hold.
"C'mon, George Bailey. I want to show you something."
"Oh, wow."
Bea's colony of bees buzz loudly in the fading light, a cacophony of lively humming.
"She said she makes her own honey. Best in the county five-years running."
"Oh, that is too good. Bea and bees? The puns write themselves!"
Her face unfolds with that breathtaking smile, and he's arrested by the sight of it. She takes a seat on the top step of Bea's back porch and tinkers with the watch on her wrist (his watch), suddenly silent, her brow furrowing in contemplation.
"Hey, you okay?"
He joins her side.
"I just keep thinking about timing." She unclasps the watchband and hands it back to him. "So many coincidences today, don't you think?"
He refastens the diver's watch to his left wrist. "How so?"
"Me, running into Rogan. You, running into your number one fan. Bea and Forrest crossing paths after all this time, on this day—the same day her siblings and his daughter also happen to be here? I mean, what are the chances?"
"Well, when coincidences start happening, they go on happening in the most extraordinary ways."
"Did you just make that up?"
He shakes his head with a small smile.
"Agatha Christie. She was a big believer in fate and luck and good timing. Right place, right time was one of her main philosophies."
Burnt orange fingers of light slant over her face and something shifts in her gaze, like she's made a decision, and her eyes glow gold with it.
"I need to talk to you about something."
"Is it about the birds and the bees because—"
"Can you just be serious for a second?"
"Yeah, okay."
"Don't look so freaked out."
But he is freaking out. She wants to say something serious. They didn't do serious. Not unless she was crying. Or he was apologizing for doing something stupid. (Oh, God, did he do something stupid again?)
"Actually, I don't know if I can do this with you looking at me. Can you turn around?"
But he can't move, rooted to the spot, paralyzed by the gravity in her tone. Do what? End this? Whatever this was, he didn't know. But he thought they'd been getting closer these past few hours, that with all the hand-holding and cheek-kissing and meaningful glances and soft smiles, an unspoken pact had been written and they were mutually working toward something—a future together. A future where they were more.
"Please?" she pleads.
Something in her voice jostles him and he wordlessly rotates until they're back-to-back, facing away from each other.
"So I've got this problem."
"Something I can help with?" He treads lightly.
"I met a boy as cute as can be."
His heart stops.
"Tell me more, tell me more. Like does he have a car?"
"He…does," she says slowly. "And he's a little egotistical and kinda immature and totally reckless."
(He did do something stupid, didn't he?)
"Sounds like a handful," he rasps.
"But mostly, he's sweet and kind and he's really been there for me."
(Or maybe not.)
"So what's the problem?" he asks cautiously.
"He just got out of something serious. I'm going through some stuff. And I don't know if we should change the nature of our relationship. Because he's sort of become my best friend and if we take that next step…I'm scared it'll screw everything up."
Hold on.
"Kate—"
"Please let me finish."
He snaps his mouth shut.
"But I know there's something else there. Something more. And I don't want to keep fighting it because, well…I'm kind of crazy about him and I just wanna dive into it together." She pauses. "That is, if he wants to dive into it with me."
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Did she just say she's crazy about him? And she wants to dive into it together?
"Castle? You there?"
"So, wait. You want…more? With me?"
"Why do you sound so surprised?"
"Well, you just—you seemed so serious. I thought you were breaking up with me…so to speak."
"Course I'm serious. This is the most serious thing I've ever done."
"Yeah?"
She huffs a breath of amused disbelief.
"You're a goddamn idiot, you know that?"
"So this isn't a dream?"
"No." She giggles softly. "You're definitely not dreaming."
"Can I turn around now?"
"Oh, um. Not yet."
"Not yet?"
"I just...I wanna do this—us—right. And I don't want to technically belong to someone else before we officially start something. So, uh, I wanted to see if you wouldn't mind…" She falters.
"Yeah?"
"Don't laugh."
"I won't."
"Promise not to laugh."
"Kate, I promise."
She inhales and then in a rush of air, blurts out, "I wanted to see if you wouldn't mind taking a vowofchastity."
"A vow of what?"
"Chastity," she says more clearly. "Just until I can get my annulment processed," she adds hastily.
"That's it?"
He feels her turn and he quickly does the same.
"You don't mind waiting?" she asks.
"Why are you so surprised?"
"I—"
"Kate, I'm kind of crazy about you, too. Of course I'll wait. As long as you need. You're worth it."
Joy breaks dawn on her face and he wants to kiss her so, so badly, but—
"What are the rules exactly? This vow of chastity—does it mean no kissing or touching? And are there promise rings involved or do we just shake on it?"
She huffs a laugh.
"Touching is okay. Just keep it PG. But no kissing. At least not on the lips. Shouldn't play with fire, you know?"
"Can't resist me, huh?" he teases.
She groans, burying her face in her hands. "Just forget I said anything."
"Not a chance in hell."
He gently pries her fingers away, and she looks up at him, self-conscious.
"Thank you for being brave enough to say something," he says. "You're my knight in shining armor."
She smiles at that.
"And you, my Holy Grail."
His heart skips three beats.
"Shit, Kate. I'm supposed to be the romantic one."
"Yeah, well, you're not the only one who's a sucker for fairytales."
He's so, so in love with her.
"Are we sure about no kisses on the lips?"
"Can't resist me, huh?" she teases.
"Hmm." He leans close. "No lips, but maybe…" He tilts her chin up and kisses the underside of her jaw. "Here?"
She gulps. "Uh—"
He moves his mouth down her neck. "Or here?" And suckles lightly on her pulse point. Oh, God. She tastes like honey. Sweet and earthy and—
"Castle, wait," she gasps and he immediately pulls back, a bit sheepish.
"No neck then?"
"You're gonna give me a hickey!"
"That's kind of the idea."
"What, staking your claim?"
"It's a tradition of the Wild West. And it could be our version of a promise ring." He wiggles his eyebrows. "You know, if you also feel like staking your claim."
"You are ridiculous."
"Is that a no?"
She bites her lip. It's dumb. But she does like the idea of marking her territory. Of marking what's hers. She clocks the sun sinking below the horizon and calculates it's about less than a minute from disappearing completely. What if…
"How about just until it gets dark. Neck only. And then it's no kissing nowhere, got it? Not until—"
"You're a free woman."
"Yeah."
"You got it, Cowgirl."
He stills when she starts loosening his bolero tie and unbuttoning his shirt.
"Might want to pop one more button just in case," he quips.
She frees one more disc, shoves his collar open, and then she's leaning in and claiming his throat with her mouth.
Oh, God.
He tastes incredible. Like the heat of summer and hope and new beginnings.
"Kate," he gasps and she pulls back. She smirks at his dazed expression.
"You're wastin' daylight, Cowboy."
A flashlight clicks on and they squint under the halo of brightness.
"Are those hickeys?"
"Bee stings," Kate says smoothly.
Bea huffs in amusement.
"Got everythin' you need then?"
Bea and Forrest were seeing them off. Her bike was in the caddy and she was riding shotgun for the forty-five minute drive to Amarillo, content to let the writer take the wheel for a little while.
"We've got your special honey. Your number. Everything," Kate confirms. Bea had gifted them a couple jars of her prize-winning stuff. "You've got my address, right?"
She'd scribbled it down for her new aunt, so Bea could send her postcards. Forrest had purchased around-the-world tickets for their honeymoon.
The newlywed nods.
"And you'll come visit sometime?" Kate adds.
"You can count on it, sweet pea," Bea coos. "Rory's movin' to New York in the fall. She's got a job workin' at a fancy fashion magazine, so we'll definitely be there."
"What an extraordinary coincidence," Castle says and Kate rolls her eyes at the wisecrack.
"Awful lot of those lately." Bea smiles, sliding her arm around Forrest's waist. "You two drive safe now."
The writer takes his cue and punches the clutch as he starts the ignition.
But there's no roar of the engine, a cough, or even a hiccup. Just a single loud thunk and then a shudder of the frame…a death-rattle.
"What was that?"
"Lord have mercy." Gene slams the car hood down, waving away white smoke. "She's as good as burnt toast."
"There's nothing you can do to fix it?" Castle queries.
"You got sold a lemon, Pretty Boy. She needs a whole new engine."
"You're kidding."
"As luck would have it, I've got a replacement at my shop. We'll switch it out for you. Lot easier than tryin' to patch this one up anyway. It's a lost cause."
"Really?"
"We'll have her brand-spankin'-new for ya by mornin'."
"You're a godsend."
"Nothin' to it." Gene grins. "And it's on the house."
"Oh, that's not necessary. I can pay."
"It's true. He can pay," Kate affirms.
Gene sighs. "Alright." He points his greasy rag at the writer. "But you're still gettin' the friends and family discount." He wipes his oily fingers. "I'll go make the call."
"Thank you!" Castle shouts after him.
"How are we gonna get there?" Kate asks.
Bea brackets her hands around her mouth and yodels.
"Tildy!"
"Tildy?"
"Well, I ain't gonna tow ya," says Bea.
She hitches onto her husband and hauls him away.
"I've got some bee-stingin' of my own to attend to."
xxx
Fun Fact: The Omega Seamaster watch is actually the watch Castle wears in the show and the same kind James Bond wears in the movies from the 90s.