The Last Seduction
She feels like she's about to combust, her whole body exploding with heat. And it's only been a couple minutes. One of her hands sneaks under his untucked dress shirt to skim his abdomen.
"You're killing me," he groans.
"You know, if you play your cards right, you might get lucky. It is prom night, after all," she teases breathlessly.
Suddenly, there's cool air between them, his body no longer pressing firmly against hers.
She immediately mourns the loss of contact.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he says quickly. His face fills with something indecipherable. "It's just…I don't want this to be a one-time thing. I…"
Because I love you, Kate.
It should scare her. But she's strangely calm.
She just wants him.
"I was kind of hoping it would be more than once," she says with a playful smile.
"You were hoping? More than—? With—?" he splutters. It's adorable how tongue-tied he is. But she wants to go back to the part where he's kissing her senseless. She reaches for him, her mouth chasing after his, but he stops her before their lips touch. "Well, wait." He cradles her jaw in his hand, staring at her intently. "I want to take you on a proper date. I want you to put on an outfit, thinking of me."
"Who says I haven't already?"
"Jesus," he chokes out. "You're making this very—"
"Hard?" she fills in, her hand dipping toward his groin.
He promptly grabs both of her wrists and slams her arms above her head. She gasps, extremely turned on by this side of him. By him taking control.
"Stop that," he growls.
"In fact, I put my underwear on just for you," she reveals with a naughty grin.
He curses under his breath and takes a step back, releasing her, needing to physically restrain himself. It sends a thrill through her at how completely undone he is. How affected he is by her.
"Damnit, Kate," he snaps, "This isn't some flight of fancy for me."
"Flight of fancy?" she says with a small laugh.
"Beckett."
The slap of her surname sobers her. She's never seen him look so serious before.
Or so nervous.
"Castle," she beseeches. Her fingers snag the lip of his pants and tug him back to her. "I don't want to keep ignoring this."
"So you've thought about it, too?" he asks, moving strands of hair away from her face so he can see her better. "Us?" He clarifies. "Together?"
How does she say it's practically the only thing she thinks about these days without sounding completely pathetic?
Her nose nudges the slope of his. "Can't get you out of my head, Writer Boy."
That sends him back to her, erasing the space between them, kissing her again, hot and deep and toe-curling. Finally.
She matches him kiss for kiss, just as greedy, just as hungry.
And then his tongue is doing sinful things to the sensitive spot behind her ear. Oh, fuck. "Rick," she gasps. "Hallway." The last thing she needs is Mrs. Bukowski from 2D catching her in flagrante.
He doesn't stop, but he finds her mouth again, tempering his exploration, kissing her with a tenderness, so delicate and aching, her heart stutters.
His forehead lays against hers after.
"That was amazing," he breathes out softly.
"Yeah," she murmurs, a slow grin splitting her face as she relishes in the afterglow. Wow. "Would you like to come inside?"
A tortured expression consumes his features.
"You don't know how much I want to say yes," he rasps.
Her lips twist upward, acutely aware of his want pressing into her thigh.
"But I don't want the memory of anything else that could happen between us tonight to be overshadowed by the memory of your ex's special day. I just—" he stops and suddenly grabs one of her hands, placing it on his chest over his heart. She feels the beat of it meet her palm, hard and fast. "I just want to do this right. Especially with you."
It's sweet. So incredibly sweet and overwhelming, it makes her whole body shiver slightly. As if Will could overshadow him. But Castle can't help but play the romantic, can he? Always the writer.
It's one of her favorite things about him—how he makes little moments special and makes a point to celebrate the big ones.
And this was a hell of a moment, wasn't it?
She can give him his grand gesture.
"Okay, Romeo," she concedes with a radiant grin. "What do you have in mind for this proper date?"
He beams.
"What are you doing tomorrow?"
He leaves her standing in front of her door, all tight and wound up and her heart racing out of control.
It makes her fall for him a little more.
But she also hates him for it.
Because now she knows what it's like with him, and it's better than she imagined. Her fingertips trace her lips, still feeling the burn of him. Her whole body, flush from his touch, the taste of him seared on her tongue.
Oh, God.
They just made out like two hormone-addled teenagers.
She picks up her keys and enters her apartment with a besotted smile and a pink blush to her cheeks. She falls onto her couch with a contented sigh, letting herself cool as she admires the corsage on her wrist. It's a little worse for wear, a couple petals missing. He loves me. He loves me not. She plucks another one. He loves me.
Fuck, she's kind of stupidly in love with him, isn't she? Picking at a flower like a child, girlish hope blooming in her chest. No boy or man has ever made her feel so shy and giddy.
She toes her heels off, rises to her feet, and approaches her bookshelf, running a hand over the spines of his novels before stopping and selecting Flowers For Your Grave.
She cracks it open, her eyes flitting over the dedication.
To my daughter, the light of my life.
And then to the message inscribed underneath, thinking of the day he'd signed it almost a decade ago.
She'd been around twenty-five and she'd just gone undercover on her first case in Vice. It had gone south very quickly and her superiors had jumped down her throat; blamed her for letting the suspect get away when they'd been the ones to give her the wrong intel. She'd spent an hour crying in the bathroom and left afterwards, wandering the streets, drained and demoralized, wondering if she was cut out to be a cop.
A line winding out of the Union Square Barnes & Noble had caught her eye and when she saw why, she immediately joined the throng. It took over an hour before she reached him, but it gave her time to clean up her tear-stained face and figure out what she wanted to say to him. He was between marriages then and every other woman had been shamelessly flirting and flashing their chests at him.
She'd had to purchase the new release, something called Hell Hath No Fury, and she'd started reading it, but she gave him her coffee-stained and dog-eared copy of Flowers For Your Grave from her purse instead. She liked to re-read it on her breaks.
"Who can I make it out to?" he asks on autopilot, not even looking up.
"Uh, Johanna. With an 'h'. Two 'n's. My mom. She's a huge fan," she rambles, completely forgetting whatever smooth thing she planned on saying. "You're her favorite author."
He lifts his head and meets her eye, intrigue flaring in a sea of cerulean.
"What about you?"
She has no idea what possesses her, but what she says next flies out of her without thought.
"I don't know." She motions with her copy of Hell Hath No Fury. "Angry wiccans out for blood? Isn't that a little cliché? Not to mention, pretty reductive?"
He huffs a surprised laugh and embarrassment heats her cheeks.
"I'm sorry. That was incredibly rude."
"No, no. Don't apologize. It was incredibly refreshing actually."
She ducks her head and tucks some hair behind her ear.
"Well, uh, that one is a gift for my mom. She's had a bad day and could really use the pick me up."
She swallows hard around the sudden lump in her throat, fresh tears threatening to spill over.
His gaze softens and his fingers feather the well-worn edges of her book. He takes a moment and then scribbles something down, passing it back to her with a warm and genuine smile. Nothing like the cocky playboy grin she expected.
"I'll try and put in a little more effort on the next one. I'd hate to disappoint again."
She chokes on a small laugh and manages a watery Thank you before someone ushers her away.
Outside the store, she'd eagerly scanned his neat scrawl.
Johanna—
Even on the worst days, there's a possibility for joy.
P.S. Your daughter is hot.
She couldn't stop smiling for a long time after. And she'd resolved not to quit her job, to not let one bad day drown her, his words buoying her; keeping her head above water.
She presses the daisy corsage between the pages and returns the book to its spot.
Her gaze drifts and lands on her copy of Frostbite splayed open on the coffee table.
Hmm.
She could use a bubble bath.
She stays up late, finishing in the middle of the night, laying in bed, moonlight spilling over her in the dim-lit room, her hair long since air-dried into kinky waves, her chest aching and her eyes damp.
She can't believe it.
He wrote her a love story.
And it absolutely wrecked her.
It isn't some cheap and pulpy action thriller with a thin plot, hastily propped up by some raunchy sex scenes. No…he wrote her as a justice-avenging hero who, despite her flaws and deep-seated trauma, got to be in love.
She might be biased, but she thinks it's the best thing he's ever written.
In the morning, Lanie calls her, hoping to hear some hot gossip, but Beckett's evasive, not ready to share any new developments just yet.
"He was the perfect gentleman," she claims.
"Okay, now I know you're lying," Lanie exasperates.
"If there was something to tell you, I would," Beckett protests.
"I need details. If I find out you've been holding out on me, so help me—"
"We'll talk tomorrow," Beckett interrupts.
She quickly hangs up before the medical examiner can pester her further. And then her phone buzzes with an incoming text.
It's from him.
Her heart skips a beat.
Good morning, Captain. Last night wasn't a dream, right? We still on for later?
A soft smile paints her lips as she types out her response.
No, you definitely weren't dreaming. And looking forward to it, handsome.
So you do think I'm handsome?
She puffs a laugh, so clearly visualizing the smug look on his face, and rolls her eyes.
Don't gloat, okay? It's really unattractive.
I will never gloat again.
She giggles.
(God, when was the last time she actually giggled?)
They exchange a few more barbs, flirtatious and teasing, and then she asks what she should wear and he suggests something formal. A nice outfit, but not necessarily black tie.
Or any one of those sexy pantsuits you wear to your budget meetings.
She snorts a small laugh. The bigwigs at 1PP were always so stuffy. And the pantsuits gave her a psychological edge.
But she has something else planned for him. Something that will drive him crazy.
Something that she hopes will end up on the floor by the end of the night.
Oh, yeah.
She's going to wreck him right back.
She calls a favor into a hair stylist, an old family friend who used to be her mother's go-to before a big court case. Jean-Luc clears the day for her, elated for the opportunity to make her over. She shows him a couple reference pictures for what she has in mind and he jumps in with enthusiasm, chattering away in French.
Hours later, she has golden highlights and her hair is styled in waves of curls like Rita Hayworth in Gilda. She'd wanted to do something classic, but less June Cleaver or Donna Reed and more femme fatale.
"C'est magnifique," Jean-Luc crows, proud of his creation. "Just like ta mère."
And it's like having a small piece of her mother with her, helping her get ready for her big date. Her eyes water as she gives Jean-Luc's hand a grateful squeeze.
Back at her apartment, she digs out the dress she'd happened upon the week before when she was checking out a new coffee shop that had recently opened down the block. A pop-up sale had been on the sidewalk. A rack of vintage dresses. And one of them was an exact replica of Grace Kelly's famous dress in Rear Window.
She didn't think she'd have reason to wear it so soon, but she'd bought it because of him, fantasizing of the day she could surprise him with it. The black velvet bodice is a perfect and snug fit. The deep v-neck and slightly off-shoulder short-sleeves, accentuating the ridge of her collarbones. The white tulle skirt flares out from her hips enticingly and floats prettily around the middle of her calves.
For her make-up, she applies a neutral eyeshadow, some blush, a sleek cat-eye, and a dark red lip, using a stain that will last for hours and won't leave streaks or smears.
She knows he likes how tall she is, so she slips on a pair of black kitten-toed shoes with spiky four-inch heels.
Once she clasps her mother's pearl necklace around her throat, she admires her appearance in her floor-length mirror, a wicked gleam in her eyes, delicious anticipation coursing through her and excitement fluttering in her chest.
There's a knock on her door fifteen minutes before 6 p.m.
"You're early," she says, letting the door open while she finishes putting on her earrings.
"I couldn't—" he stops mid-sentence, his entire face going slack with awe. "Wait," he finishes, dazed. "You…you're—wow," he fumbles.
She grins impishly, inordinately pleased.
"Where have you been all my life?" he says hoarsely.
Heat rushes over her skin, fast and searing. Just a look, a few words, and she's already burning.
Get a grip.
But it's so hard, especially when it's her turn to check him out. She drinks in the freshly-polished dress shoes, the well-fitted suit pants, the dark brown jacket (a soft, buttery leather), and his deep blue button-down open at the throat with no tie.
His hair is coiffed as usual but a little mussed, a few strands rebelliously falling onto his forehead, and he'd left some scruff on his jaw and chin. Want curls in her abdomen. He's the very picture of a dashing rogue. Not a knight in shining armor, but a knight errant; a maverick Prince Charming.
And so good-looking, it actually makes her heart hurt a little.
"You didn't shave," she notes, a little flustered.
He grins, leaning in, the scent of his familiar cologne hitting her. God, she loves how he smells.
"Don't think I haven't noticed how your eyes linger when I leave some stubble."
A laugh tumbles from her lips, only to be interrupted by the press of his mouth, soft yet insistent. He brings a hand to her jaw, deepening the kiss, his tongue dancing with hers.
It's addicting, the heady rush that spears through her, his clever mouth already an expert at drawing moans and sighs from her.
She has to pull away, the intensity of the kiss growing too quickly, her whole body aching with need. "Don't start something you can't finish," she says, short of breath.
"Oh, I can finish."
She arches her brow.
"Thought you were gonna buy me dinner first."
He groans, his head falling against the doorframe.
"How can I control myself when you're torturing me like this? I mean, what the hell is this?" he asks, his fingers catching in her hair. "Payback for last night? Next, you're gonna tell me about the sexy underwear you put on and—"
"Who says I'm wearing any?" she says, smiling deviously.
She loves the way his eyes darken and his knuckles turn white, his grip tightening around the bunch of flowers he brought her. He thrusts them toward her then like a buffer.
"We need to go. Right now."
She accepts the bright and vibrant spray of sunflowers and purple daisies, stilling.
He brought her flowers.
She's been given flowers before. But these aren't the cheap drugstore kind. Or a typical bouquet of roses. These are professionally arranged with plant sprigs and bits of baby's breath mixed in, the whole thing so obviously crafted with care and thought and meaning.
Something straight from the heart.
Her heart pounds and it hits her then—this isn't just about lust and desire. She had a hunch, more of a running theory really… a theory that's been more than corroborated by the supporting evidence and witness statements. But this small gesture is what confirms it for her.
This is more.
This is everything.
She hasn't told him her favorite color, but somehow he knows, or strongly suspects. She used to hate it, the way he'd observe her. It made her feel so exposed, so utterly vulnerable, but now she doesn't mind being seen by him. She'd shown him her scars and he kept coming back.
"These are gorgeous. Thank you," she rasps. "Can you give me a few more minutes?"
(Jesus, why was she so emotional all of a sudden?)
He notices the shift in her tone and softens.
"I'll wait as long as you need," he says with such ease and sincerity, it feels like he means more than just this moment. Like he'd always wait for her. Like he's been waiting for her.
He's going to ruin her.
Because I love you, Kate.
He's already ruined her.
She brushes a whisper of a kiss on his lips before shutting the door on him, needing to retreat; a moment to collect herself.
It scares her how much her heart is already his. But there's no stopping it now. She's too powerless to resist. Especially when it feels this good; this right.
She hunts down a vase for his flowers and carefully arranges them on her kitchen counter so they'll be the first thing she sees when she comes home.
She slips on her black velvet peacoat in the bedroom. It had been unseasonably warm the day before but storm clouds had been gathering in the sky all afternoon.
She gives herself one last spritz of perfume and inhales a large breath, thinking of the man waiting on the other side of her door, and a sudden calm washes over her; a deep knowing.
This is it—her last first date.
"Where are you taking me, anyway?" she asks when she steps back out and locks the door behind her.
"I'm not telling."
"Not telling? Are you forgetting who you're talking to?"
"You may be a master of interrogation, but you're not getting this one out of me," he declares haughtily.
"I think you're underestimating the powers of my persuasion."
"Oh, yeah? How do you plan on persuading me?"
"This is cruel and unusual punishment, Captain," Castle whines from the backseat.
She's sitting in the front, next to Glen, their driver, a stoic man with neatly cropped salt-and-pepper hair, a pressed suit, and a permanently severe look on his face.
"You're the one who can't keep his hands to himself."
"You started it!"
She'd been trying to get him to give up the surprise by slowly unfastening his shirt, button by button, her lips claiming each new small strip of skin that became available to her. He retaliated by sneaking his fingers up her leg, caressing her thigh.
She had to stop the car.
She had to.
She really wasn't wearing any underwear.
"Glen? Where's the button to bring up the partition?"
Castle lunges forward. "Glen, don't do it. Don't show her. You know what a good tipper I am. Would you really want to put that in jeopardy? Think this through."
"He wouldn't stoop that low, Glen."
"Glen, please let me have this. She won't let me kiss her again. Won't let me touch her. I just want to talk to her and tell her she has the kind of face people write songs about. Are you really going to deny me that?"
Damn him and his words.
She's about to raise the white flag of surrender when the divider starts to rise.
She wonders for a moment, if she willed it by accident, until she finds Glen pressing a dial on the center console. Her hand covers her mouth, hiding a surprised laugh.
"I will never forget this, Glen!" shouts Castle as he disappears from view.
"He talks too much, don't you think?" the driver says, staring straight ahead with the barest hint of a smile on his face.
"Oh, Glen. I think we're going to get along very well."
The writer starts bombarding her phone with texts.
Helen of Troy's got nothing on you.
She scoffs, quickly typing out her reply.
You've totally used that line before.
It's not a line if it's the truth.
I'm not one of your bimbettes or celebutantes. Your charm has no effect on me.
The evidence begs to differ.
What evidence?
That hair. That dress. Those sky-high heels. You did all that for me. Face it, Captain. I make you swoon.
How do you know it wasn't for Glen? I'm really into this intimidating silver fox thing he's got going on.
She hears a sudden pounding on the partition and muffled yelling.
"Glen, you better not be sweeping her off her feet! She's supposed to be on a date with me!"
She snickers loudly.
"Was that a laugh? Did you make her laugh? You are so fired, Glen!"
"I'm sorry about him," she chuckles to the driver.
"I'm used to it. Though it's nice seeing someone else keep him on his toes." He throws her an appraising glance. "You're the one he wrote the book about."
"He gave you a copy, too?"
"He knows I don't beat around the bush."
"What'd you think?"
"I think…that's one hell of a love letter he wrote you."
Her jaw drops a little and a slightly stunned laugh falls out, her heart battering against her ribcage at the possibility of her Castle loving her.
Because I love you, Kate.
She'd been holding onto words from another version of him. Words that didn't belong to her.
But he never had her heart.
Not the way the man in the backseat does. Not even close.
"Glen! You're a total softie, aren't you?"
"Don't tell, Mr. Castle. I need to keep up appearances."
She smiles.
"Your secret's safe with me."
Castle sends her a text request a few minutes later, asking her to close her eyes a couple blocks before their arrival. She obliges, feeling a little bad for all the ribbing at his expense.
"Keep 'em closed," he says, helping her out of the car, both hands steadying her.
But she still stumbles into him, her heel catching on something. "Is this really necessary? I know we're at Central Park."
"I landed a hot air balloon here once. Naked."
"Castle."
"Okay, okay. Open 'em," he says, positioning himself behind her, hands on her hips.
A few feet in front of them is a white horse-drawn carriage with red velvet seats. A driver in a tophat sits on his perch, alongside a man with a saxophone. She startles, recognizing—
"Is that—"
"Donny McCaslin, one of the great modern American jazz saxophonists," Castle announces with panache, "I know how much you like listening to Coltrane and Donny just so happened to be in town helping Bowie record his new album."
"Shut the front door," she squeals, hitting him in the chest excitedly. "Since when do you know Ziggy fucking Stardust?"
"I don't. My mother partied with him back in the 70s at Cordova House and Studio 54. The Starman said he was only willing to loan Donny out to us in exchange for Mame house seats and a backstage visit."
"I can't believe you did this."
She approaches the carriage, getting in, and reaches out for a handshake with Donny.
"Hi, I'm Kate," she says, "I'm a huge fan of your work. I appreciate you braving the cold for this."
"It's my pleasure to perform for a woman who clearly has good taste. Though I can't say the same for your choice in men," Donny replies with an easy grin.
She stifles a chuckle.
"You can so forget me naming a character after you in my next book," Castle snipes at Donny as he steps into the carriage.
"Oh, how will he ever go on?" she teases.
"Et tu, Beckett?"
Donny winks at her before wrapping his lips around the reed of his saxophone and blowing into the mouthpiece, eliciting a bright, jazzy tone from the golden instrument.
"Why is everyone trying to steal my date tonight?" Castle grumbles, settling in next to her. He drapes a blanket over their laps and hands her what looks like a pair of mini rubber tongs.
"What's this?"
"Nose clip. I don't trust Ryan and Esposito there," he says, nodding at their horses. "They're always trying to cause a stink."
"I'll take my chances," she says with a laugh.
The writer puts a pair over his nose. "Does it turn you on?" he asks, his voice all nasally.
She giggles. "You do kind of make nerdy sexy."
"Hear that, Donny? She thinks I'm sexy."
Donny plays a complicated riff in response.
"Now, that's sexy."
"I haven't been in one of these since I was a kid."
"I know it's pretty cheesy, but I also know it's been a while since you've treated yourself to something silly and frivolous, so I figured you deserved all the cheese."
He's doing it again. Ruining her. She wants to tell him how endearing she finds it, how she appreciates his need to create a fairytale moment for her. But—
"I can't take you seriously when you sound like that."
"Do you ever take me seriously?" he jokes, but she detects an undercurrent of insecurity in his voice.
"Rick," she murmurs, shifting to face him, her nearest hand surging up to palm his cheek. "I'm serious about this. About you. And I'm here for all the cheese. I think it's really sweet."
He stares at her, a little floored. "You're serious."
Why is he so surprised? Doesn't he know by now? Doesn't he see how much she adores him?
She digs the nose clip he gave her out of her coat pocket and slips it over her nostrils.
"Dead serious," she says in a nasal tone.
His face lights up with her favorite crooked grin before he leans in to kiss her, his lips moving against hers; grateful and reassuring, then, confident and demanding.
"Castle," she chides between breaths, "Don't start. Not in front of Donny."
He chuckles, pressing his smile into her forehead, and winds an arm around her shoulders, trapping her against his chest. She lets her head settle naturally into the curve of his neck and they stay like that for the rest of the ride, reveling in the still-novel yet already familiar closeness of them, accompanied by the melodic crooning of the saxophone and the gentle clop of hoofsteps.
"You smell like oranges."
"I think your nose plug is faulty," she says.
"You're sticking your head in my face."
She peels away from his embrace, a fresh retort ready to fly from her mouth, but it dies in her throat when they turn a corner and she sees their final destination…
The Loeb Boathouse.
The green gabled building with brick walls, creamy roman columns, and white-framed windows is nestled in dark greenery and beautifully lit by brass lanterns lining the stone path toward the entrance, a path scattered with a trail of white rose petals. The lake stretches out behind it, a pool of black ink.
"Is that—Castle, what did you do?"
He exits the carriage without comment, removes his nose clip, straightens his posture with a slight puff to his chest, and holds his hand out for her.
"Milady?"
She resists the urge to roll her eyes, instead letting a soft smile tug at her lips as she takes off her own nose clip and reaches for him.
"Oh, wait," she says, pausing in front of Donny. "Can I get your autograph?"
"How come you've never asked me for my autograph?" Castle pouts.
"Ignore him."
Donny chuckles, setting his saxophone down.
"Where'd you like it?"
"Oh, I don't have anything. Maybe my hand or my che—"
"Take my handkerchief," Castle interjects, pushing a white, embroidered cloth between them.
"You got something to write with?" Donny asks.
Beckett automatically flips her palm open to the writer. Waits, expectant.
He harrumphs in mock petulance as he extracts a sharpie from his inner jacket pocket and passes it to her.
"Don't say I never did anything for you."
"Oh, yeah. You're such a martyr," she deadpans.
She gives it to Donny and he scratches his signature on the cloth, throwing amused glances at them.
"Are you two always like this?" Donny asks.
"Yes," they both reply in sync.
Donny returns the signed handkerchief to Beckett's grasp with a chuckle. "I also do weddings, you know."
"We will keep that in mind," Castle laughs.
"We will be doing nothing of the sort," she counters, stepping out of the carriage and breezing past him.
"Calm down, Beckett, we're just joking!" he consoles, chasing after her.
She whirls toward him. "Did you just tell me to calm down?"
"I—"
The cloudy sky rumbles with thunder above them.
"Why don't we head inside? You can yell at me in there," he sighs.
"Can we forget I said anything? I really didn't mean to upset you," he says, helping her out of her coat in the front lobby.
"I'm not upset," she says.
"You're not?"
No, just…caught off guard by the image that popped in her head at the mention of a wedding—the one of him standing at the end of an aisle, waiting for her with a huge smile. And now she's suddenly aching with a different kind of want.
"No, I—"
She catches sight of the main space and her stomach flips.
All the tables have been removed except for one and more white petals cover the floor. The overhead restaurant lights have been dimmed and candles have been placed strategically to create a soft warm glow everywhere.
"Oh, Castle," she breathes out. "You did all this in one day?"
"My mother's reach has no end. I wanted to get fireworks, too. But the weather was totally not on my side."
"Your mother helped you a lot, huh? Why would she do that?"
"You're kidding, right? She's been telling me for weeks to get on with it. You know, kiss you while we're both still young."
"You really should listen to your mother, Castle."
"I was too scared you'd shoot me if I tried anything."
She laughs.
"And I was more afraid you wouldn't want me back. That you only saw me as the guy on Page Six."
He continues before she can open her mouth to respond.
"I just don't want you to worry about who I used to be. Or about there being any other women." He engulfs her jaw with his palm. "It's just you."
"So you're not buying out whole restaurants for other women?" she teases lightly.
He hesitates and her heart constricts.
"I'm not gonna deny I've tried to impress other women by buying out whole restaurants in the past. But not like this. Not this place," he admits, playing with the strands of her hair. He pauses, tucking a section behind her ear and his thumb strokes the slash of her cheekbone. "Because none of them were you."
Her heart stops.
She knows she isn't just another one of his conquests. But it seizes her, the hugeness of his words, what it means…this isn't some flight of fancy.
This is real.
And they're actually doing this.
She smiles at him, big and wide, as her hand slips into his. She squeezes his fingers and leads him toward the candle-lit table for two.
Dinner is a filet mignon cooked to medium rare perfection, fluffy potatoes that fall apart in her mouth, and charred asparagus soaked in butter and coated in sea salt. Castle is kind and complimentary toward the waitstaff and they kill two bottles of 2000 Châteauneuf-du-Pape, the conversation flowing as easily as the rich, red wine.
"Oh, c'mon! It would be so fun. I could name him Sherlock, get him a little hat, and bring him to crime scenes. Have him sniff out clues."
"I'm not allowing a pet dog past the tape under any circumstance."
"But do you think I should get one?"
"It would be your dog. Why should I have a say?" she chuckles.
He quiets and her heart leaps into her throat when he earnestly replies, "I want you to have a say. Especially if you're going to start coming over more often."
Shit, Castle.
"I…"
"I don't mean to assume, I just…" His brow furrows. "A pet is a big commitment and I want you to have a say. I want you to know that you have a say with me. Veto power, if you will."
The subtext of his statement is not lost on her. A relationship is a big commitment, too. But she's ready. This is it for her.
After all, she's a one-and-done type of girl.
It's why she and Tom didn't last, why she couldn't accept Josh's ring and never got back together with Will. They were never serious candidates.
They weren't him.
"Well, I'm more of a cat person," she says after a moment. "I love dogs, too, but they're a lot of responsibility and we both spend more time at the precinct than anywhere else. And cats are more self-reliant. I grew up with one that was black-and-white all over and had this really long tongue. My mom named him Gene Simmons."
He brightens.
"No way! I dressed up as him for Halloween once."
"Get out of here—me, too."
They smile at each other with goofy grins. Yeah, she's ready. So, so ready.
"Have you ever had a pet?" she asks. Are you ready?
"My mother could barely handle the responsibility of caring for a child, let alone a pet. And with Alexis, she begged for a dog, but I was too focused on raising her and trying not to screw up. Plus, Meredith and Gina had allergies, so it was never really on the table."
"But now you're seriously considering it?"
Seriously considering me?
"Edgar Allen Poe had a cat, actually. Her name was Catterina and he'd write with her curled up on his shoulders."
"That's so cute!"
"You did not just call the Master of the Macabre cute."
"Downright adorable."
Amusement dances in his eyes.
"A cat it is, then." I'm ready, too. "Oo, or a raven! Now that's an id—"
"Absolutely not."
"I could train it to deliver messages. Oh, pretty please!"
"Veto, Castle. Major veto."
She's loose and liquid and warm, humming pleasantly around the spoon of Tiramisu she's letting him feed her, the flavor of vanilla custard and coffee crumble bursting on her tongue.
"Kate?"
"Hmm?"
"Can we talk about this? About what we're doing…if it isn't too much?"
She pops free from the utensil.
"Now you're worried about being too much?" she asks with a muffled laugh, covering her mouth and swallowing her bite of dessert.
A self-deprecating smile quirks at his lips. He reaches for her hand on the table.
"I just want to make sure you're comfortable. I know I can be a lot."
He's nervous again, and her heart twinges. She's become accustomed to his arrogant confidence, but here, with her, in the shimmer of candlelight, he's all soft and sweet. It's wholly irresistible.
"I'm not going anywhere," she says tenderly, her thumb smoothing a slow circle on top of his hand. Her words and the intimacy of her gesture seem to bolster him.
"Some days, I think you can't possibly be real. Even now, after spending all this time with you, I'm…" He swings his gaze to her, his eyes a storm of blue. "I'm still amazed at the depth of your strength, your heart…and your hotness."
She smiles hugely.
"You're not so bad yourself, Castle."
His face crinkles with a grin; his fingers tangle with hers. He quiets for a beat and a firm intensity settles across his features.
"I spent years brooding in misery and chasing after things I didn't really want. It was like wandering down a long and dark and never-ending tunnel. I lost hope that I would ever find a way out. Until I met you and I could finally see the light." He pauses and her heart hammers. "I'm not much of a gambling man anymore, but I want to bet on us, Kate. All in. But if you need to take things slow or anything, if you need time—"
"Rick—"
"God, I'm screwing this up already, aren't I?"
"You're doing just fine," she says with the soft, slow smile that's just for him, her eyes shining. He loves me.
"The gambling line was bad, right?"
She shakes her head. "No, no," she huffs. "It's just—I don't need more time. Or to slow down. I've spent the last sixteen years wandering around in my own dark tunnel. But it's more like I've been standing still, trapped in ice, frozen in the past. It's been…" She snags the edge of her lip with her teeth, "…a long, cold lonely winter. And I don't want to wait anymore. I want to move forward."
She gets up from her seat and tugs him along with her, her arms encircling his neck as she seals her forehead against his and whispers, "I'd bet on us, too."
A wild, naked hope breaks dawn on his face. "Yeah?"
She takes one of his hands and places it over her heart, beating hard and fast for him.
"All in."
"Watching in slow motion as you turn around and say…"
He plays the piano nestled in the far corner of the restaurant, his voice, a melodious and rich tenor. She sits next to him on the bench, leaning into his side, her head on his shoulder.
"Take my breath away…"
She snorts a giggle and he stops, pouting slightly.
"I'm trying to serenade you."
She lifts her head and cradles his jaw in her hand.
"Still too soon, silly."
"It's been like four months!"
"Lung surgery is no laughing matter," she admonishes teasingly.
"Well, it's totally our song."
She skims her thumb over his stubble.
"You're so beautiful," she murmurs.
"That's supposed to be my line."
She doesn't care. She kisses him, slow and earnest, savoring him.
"And that was supposed to be my move. You're messing with the natural order."
A mischievous smile springs over her lips. "What are you gonna do about it?"
He swiftly captures her mouth in response, hard and punishing. God, he was good at that.
His hand finds his way under her skirt and travels up her thigh. She gasps in warning, halting his progress again.
"Castle, I'm really not wearing any underwear."
He pulls back, blinking. "Seriously?"
"Seriously."
He shifts slightly, swallowing a gulp.
"You know, The Plaza is like a fifteen minute walk from here," he says nonchalantly.
But she sees right through him.
"You reserved a room, didn't you?"
"I didn't want to presume…I just like to be ready for any possibility. Like if there's a zombie apocalypse? I'm all set. Attended a six-week training camp and everything. Might never happen but you never really know, right? It's always good to be prepared. Just in case."
Such a fucking dork.
(But a very hot dork).
"That's what you're going with? Zombie apocalypse?"
She slips out of his embrace and heads toward the exit. She turns at the door and finds him still rooted to the piano bench, looking a little lost. Unsure if he's overstepped. Unsure if he's supposed to follow her or not.
She tilts her head.
"You comin', Castle?"
It's all he needs to jump into action and join her by her side.
"Are you sure—we don't have to—"
She shuts him up with a kiss.
She's never been more sure.
"Tell Glen he can pick us up in the morning."
xxx
A/N: Thank you for all the kind and positive reviews!
Fun Fact: Donny McClasin is a real person. I was trying to find someone who was the modern equivalent to Coltrane, lived in New York, and would plausibly be available on short notice. And McClasin just so happens to be a longtime fixture of the New York jazz scene. When I stumbled across his Wikipedia and read that he helped record Bowie's Blackstar album in 2015, it was like fate! Also, EAP's cat Catterina? One of her nicknames was Kate.