[ To Dine For ]
[ Timed to the day after this. ]
It hadn't been that bad.
Nero had fiddled, but Rome hadn't burned beyond recognition and by the time Castle got back to his apartment, the party was waning. No busted chandeliers; no farm animals in the living room. The baby grand showed signs of being shifted, but a bouquet of half-emptied champagne glasses on the lid suggested that the movers must have given up shortly into the endeavor.
Overall, Martha Castle had considered it a successful evening.
Castle had sulked for a while and then dragged himself to his daughter's bedroom to see how she'd weathered the storm. He found her with a physics textbook propped open on her stomach, a Maglite shining the way for protons, electrons and whatever else Castle guessed you found in a physics textbook that his Liberal Arts education did not provide for.
He dropped a kiss to the top of her head.
"You know, I used to read other things by flashlight after I thought Gram had gone to bed."
"The New York Times Book Review, right?"
"Something like that." He deposited himself in a chair. "Sorry about tonight. I should have been here to stop the floor show."
Alexis Castle made a bookmark of her index finger and shut the textbook on her lap. "It's okay," she said. Drew her legs up to her chest. "I'm sorry I pulled you away from Detective Beckett. I know what it's like, when..." She trailed off.
Castle pitched forward. "You 'know what it's like when' what?"
"Come on, dad. I'm in high school."
"Oh god. Please don't tell me --"
His daughter held up her hand, sliding off the edge of the mattress. She crossed to her father and hung off his neck in a warm, happy loop. "Relax." She patted his chest. "I meant that I know what it's like when you like someone and you're not sure if they like you back, so things get weird and --"
"Do you like someone? Who do you like?"
"Daa-aad." She squeezed her arms around his neck until Castle laughed and relented, swinging his arm around her middle to reel her in for a fierce bear hug. "You know, it is dis-gus-ting how much I love you," Castle told her. His daughter smiled. "Love you, too." She kissed his cheek and got back into bed. Castle clicked on her bedside light and, off her look, said, "You'll ruin your eyes the other way." He could trade in parentisms when he wanted.
Castle didn't see Beckett at all the next day. He'd gotten caught in a late lunch with Gina, who had wanted to see the first three chapters of the Heat Wave sequel, and Castle had broken breadsticks into tiny pieces and groused about 'genius' and 'deadlines' and how neither of them made good bedfellows. In the end, he had promised two firm chapters and an outline for the rest of the novel, thus securing his ex-wife/publicist's temporary pardon. He was still checking his body for ants when he left the restaurant.
He had left a message for Beckett at about five thirty and she'd confirmed that they were still on for dinner. He thought about shoehorning in a meal at Le Cirque, but even his star power wasn't enough to get an eight o'clock table. On the other hand, Atelier was reasonably quiet midweek, and its proximity to Central Park meant that Castle didn't have to splurge for a cab. Plus, the decor and menu -- French provincial -- wasn't too overwhelming to the uninitiated. Even so, Castle was looking forward to translating some of the more consonant-heavy menu items for Beckett's benefit.
He's in good spirits when he winds up on her doorstep. No tuxedo, but definitely some thorough polishing going on. A nice tie has even found its way around his neck.
He pushes her buzzer with his thumb.
It hadn't been that bad.
Nero had fiddled, but Rome hadn't burned beyond recognition and by the time Castle got back to his apartment, the party was waning. No busted chandeliers; no farm animals in the living room. The baby grand showed signs of being shifted, but a bouquet of half-emptied champagne glasses on the lid suggested that the movers must have given up shortly into the endeavor.
Overall, Martha Castle had considered it a successful evening.
Castle had sulked for a while and then dragged himself to his daughter's bedroom to see how she'd weathered the storm. He found her with a physics textbook propped open on her stomach, a Maglite shining the way for protons, electrons and whatever else Castle guessed you found in a physics textbook that his Liberal Arts education did not provide for.
He dropped a kiss to the top of her head.
"You know, I used to read other things by flashlight after I thought Gram had gone to bed."
"The New York Times Book Review, right?"
"Something like that." He deposited himself in a chair. "Sorry about tonight. I should have been here to stop the floor show."
Alexis Castle made a bookmark of her index finger and shut the textbook on her lap. "It's okay," she said. Drew her legs up to her chest. "I'm sorry I pulled you away from Detective Beckett. I know what it's like, when..." She trailed off.
Castle pitched forward. "You 'know what it's like when' what?"
"Come on, dad. I'm in high school."
"Oh god. Please don't tell me --"
His daughter held up her hand, sliding off the edge of the mattress. She crossed to her father and hung off his neck in a warm, happy loop. "Relax." She patted his chest. "I meant that I know what it's like when you like someone and you're not sure if they like you back, so things get weird and --"
"Do you like someone? Who do you like?"
"Daa-aad." She squeezed her arms around his neck until Castle laughed and relented, swinging his arm around her middle to reel her in for a fierce bear hug. "You know, it is dis-gus-ting how much I love you," Castle told her. His daughter smiled. "Love you, too." She kissed his cheek and got back into bed. Castle clicked on her bedside light and, off her look, said, "You'll ruin your eyes the other way." He could trade in parentisms when he wanted.
Castle didn't see Beckett at all the next day. He'd gotten caught in a late lunch with Gina, who had wanted to see the first three chapters of the Heat Wave sequel, and Castle had broken breadsticks into tiny pieces and groused about 'genius' and 'deadlines' and how neither of them made good bedfellows. In the end, he had promised two firm chapters and an outline for the rest of the novel, thus securing his ex-wife/publicist's temporary pardon. He was still checking his body for ants when he left the restaurant.
He had left a message for Beckett at about five thirty and she'd confirmed that they were still on for dinner. He thought about shoehorning in a meal at Le Cirque, but even his star power wasn't enough to get an eight o'clock table. On the other hand, Atelier was reasonably quiet midweek, and its proximity to Central Park meant that Castle didn't have to splurge for a cab. Plus, the decor and menu -- French provincial -- wasn't too overwhelming to the uninitiated. Even so, Castle was looking forward to translating some of the more consonant-heavy menu items for Beckett's benefit.
He's in good spirits when he winds up on her doorstep. No tuxedo, but definitely some thorough polishing going on. A nice tie has even found its way around his neck.
He pushes her buzzer with his thumb.