+18 eps. 17-21 - After a hard case that takes the team to DC in order to catch a blackhat and prevent a bombing, all hell breaks loose on their return to Boston , when the ghost of the Libra killer comes back to torture Brock seven years after the m...
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"Hey, Andy, can you text me the name of the restaurant?"
"Sure, anything up?"
"Mom wants to google it, to be sure what to wear."
"Connor!"
The boy ignored Gillian's furious hiss, and the burning on the back of his neck from her death glare.
"Of course, give me a sec."
"Thanks."
"Sent. We're picking you guys up in an hour."
"Great. See ya."
Connor wore his most innocent face to hand over his phone. Gillian snatched it with one last death glare and fetched her tablet. She browsed some pictures and growled. Of course it was a fancy place in Dupont Circle. Shit. She only had her suit and she couldn't wear that. She bit her thumb's nail, thinking, thinking.
A second later, Connor saw a blur of motion out the door.
Aldana invited Gillian into her room. "You need what?"
"Something nighty, but elegant; formal but not nun-formal."
"Where are you going?"
Shit. Al would mock her for ages. Well, boohoo. Gillian explained and swallowed her surprise when Aldana only nodded.
"Oh, I see." She went to the small closet of her room and opened it wide. "Look, what about this?"
Gillian's face lit up in a happy smile. "Frigging perfect, Al!"
"D'you need shoes?"
* * *
Brock stopped before the entrance to the hotel where Gillian and her team stayed in Arlington, almost around the corner from the Pentagon. Andrea stepped out with him, waved at two people standing out the door and hurried into the backseat. That saved Brock from walking by Gillian and Connor without recognizing them.
The boy wore light jeans, a white shirt and a summer jacket, and looked pretty much like a grown-up. While Gillian wore a chocolate cocktail dress to her knee, a white shawl and classic high heels that emphasized the lines of her toned legs. Her dark hair cascaded down onto her shoulders, and the discreet touch of makeup made her eyes look like sparkling water.
Brock motioned for them to get into his car and opened the passenger door for Gillian, still processing how different she looked from the rogue woman in jeans and flannel he was used to. Even her body language was different as she climbed into the car—elegant, even delicate. He smelled the flower scent he remembered, closed her door and circled the car. Five precious seconds to command himself to keep in mind this unexpectedly breathtaking woman, about to share the evening with him, was still same old Gillian. That one, Brockner. The poster-boy lover.
On their way, Andrea's chattering telling Connor about the city covered the awkward silence from the front seats. Gillian and Brock kept looking ahead, as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.
Enough, Gillian thought. We better get over it, or the kids are gonna spend the worst night of their lives.
"Russell says he already has everything set in Norfolk," she said, trying to sound normal. But her voice was lower than usual, and much softer. "Same from Portland, through Cooper."
"Three addresses here, right?" he asked, calm and controlled, eyes nailed to the road. "How do you wanna do it?"
Another night, another ride with him, another procedure ahead. At least this time they weren't about to have an argument. And this time he'd recognized her without her jeans. Not everything was lost.
"I was thinking pairs. One to sneak in, the other to check the delivery takes as long as we need."
"Do we have assets to fake the mailmen?"
"Chief Cassidy already picked them."
Chief Cassidy, Brock repeated to himself. She could play rebellious around the man, yet she talked about him with respect. He realized she was about to speak and hesitated, so he glanced at her, raising his eyebrows—yes?
"Would you mind teaming up with me tomorrow, sir?" she asked, still hesitating. "I know you must be sick and tired of having me around, even for dinner. But I'm pairing Ron with Fred and Al with Hank, and—"
He cut off her apologetic explanation softly. "Of course, I'll go with you." And make sure you stay out of trouble—well, try to. He glanced at her again. "And I'm not sick and tired of you, Gillian. You should know by now." Don't you dare leave it there, Brockner. "That I like working with you."
She nodded, eyes down, not about to buy it. But it was nice of him, anyway. "Thanks, sir," she muttered.
His scoff made her look up, surprised.
He met her eyes, liquid in the headlights of the cars they crossed, and flashed a mild smile. "Please don't call me that over dinner. It's Brock."
She smiled back. "Don't worry, s..." He let out a sigh, she chuckled. "Brock. Don't worry, I won't."
He nodded, still smiling, and Gillian kicked herself to look ahead again. She was not only savoring this using his name aloud for the first time. She couldn't help feeling like a child with a jar of candies whenever he smiled at her. And that navy blue short-sleeved shirt looked on him even better than a black suit. She'd have to stay sharp, not to stare at him like an idiot.
