Quick note: Some of you may have already read some of this and I apologize for abandoning this story. I don't remember what happened, but I'm sure it was all very dramatic in my mind at the time. Good news it that I'm gonna dust this old thing off and try again. Better news is that it's going to be a much cleaner version than the original. I was a newbie at the time I first tried this and it showed. Even better news still is that I have an idea of where I want to go with it so updates should be fairly regular. Feel free to shower me with all the love and affection (read: reviews) if you are a fan of this story. They really do boost the confidence and encourage me to write more when I'm stuck in the throws of "Writing 1st person is HARD and I want to play Candy Crush instead!"

Note #2: Turns out, I'm adding and changing quite a bit. Completely fresh material starting at around chapter 9, but it's ALL getting a major overhaul.

He had first started coming here late at night.

Almost twenty years ago, I realize with a wince and note to myself that it's been a while since I had my roots touched up. When I was just a starving art student and he was just a struggling writer, he had come here trying to stave off a hangover; a caffeinated nightcap and a day old muffin, after a night spent drinking and writing elsewhere in town.

I had been a barista then. The lowest of the low on the totem pole. Relegated to shifts late at night, the early mornings and all weekend long. I didn't mind though because I got to do what I loved most; watch people and make notes in my journal. Concoct little stories in my head about what kind of lives they led while I perfected the layered macchiato, or the consummate bean to water ratio for a short black.

The overnight shift also left me with plenty of time to indulge in my other passion. Reading. It was me with my head stuck in a book and him with a cheeky clearing of his throat and eyebrow raise to grab my attention that had first started our somewhat odd relationship. He'd asked what I was reading and I'd winced at my current choice of literature. A cheap dime store novel involving heaving bosoms and pirates. Fabio might have even been on the cover.

"It's not the best," I had said. "But it passes the time. And this way I'm not mad if I'm interrupted by a customer for their fourth refill.." I'd trailed off with a smile and an exaggerated sigh.

He ignored my jab with a smile and spoke. "When I get mine published," he'd said, his eyes dreamy and faraway, "I'll bring you a copy."

"It's on the house," I had replied as I handed over his cup, skeptical. "Make sure you do that."

That was the first night I'd ever read anything by him but it soon became our late night routine. He'd arrive and order a cappuccino, I'd comp him the next two or three, and by the time the first lights of dawn would start tickling their way through the skyscraper's overbearing shadows he would pull whatever I was reading out of my hand and slip his latest scene or chapter into it's place. I'd give him an honest review, and he'd thank me for not sugar coating the flaws. And then he'd thank me again, unknowingly, by returning the next night to show me more.

Ten months and innumerable cups of coffee later, to my complete surprise he had delivered on his promise. His first novel, full of mystery, action and intrigue; it had me hooked from the first paragraph. I'd asked him to sign it, so that when he became too famous to converse with his lowly barista, I'd have proof that I knew him way back when. He'd laughed but obliged with a bow and a flourish of his pen.

Jess,

I will never be too famous for a perfect cappuccino and better company. Write more, work less.

R.R.

I still have no idea how he had known about my secretive writing projects. I had made it a point not to share, being far to nervous to let any but my own eyes see my work. He had kept his word though and now, twenty years, three marriages (two for him, one for me) and many long nights later, we still catch up while I make him his cappuccino and give him a loving but brutal critique of his work.

He still brings me his books the first week they come out. Unfortunately, I don't get my hands on the rough drafts nearly as often as I'd like anymore. He has editors and publicists to worry about. He does occasionally oblige me though by leaving his laptop open while he takes an extended trip to the bathroom.

I still pretend I'm not a huge fan. He still pretends to believe me.

He doesn't show up as often as he used to, my famous regular; none other than Richard Castle, Master of the Macabre. He's killed off Derrick Storm and I haven't seen him since he had dropped off Storm Fall.

The inscription had read: I'm sorry. I know you loved him. Rick.

I could strangle him for the spoiler that inscription had left me with.

As he makes his way over to the counter, with his hands raised in surrender and a plea not to kill him on his lips, I notice a light in his eyes and a spring in his step that has been missing for a good long while.

He looks good, he's wearing dark jeans and a deep red dress shirt that hugs him in all the right places. A black sport coat is slung over his arm and a gray scarf adorns his neck. He could model for GQ, or maybe some high-end, overpriced cologne that sports the name of the latest celebrity of note. It's a definite step up from his more recent attire. While he always looks dashing at media events, the Rick Castle I know is more likely of late to be seen in jeans a little too baggy and shirts a little too worn even for him to pull off as sexy.

Frankly, I'd been worried about him. I'd read the stories on page six, seen the droop to his shoulders and heard the heavy sighs as he sat with his laptop at the corner table, the white of a blank document reflecting on his tired looking face.

"Well, Mr Rogers! It's a beautiful day in this neighbor hood," I say as I wave my barista away to serve him myself.

"Jess, a neighborly day for a beauty. Would you be mine?"

I smile in greeting.

"So, how goes the coffee business?" he asks.

"Business is booming, as you can see," I smile, waving my hands in the general direction of my bustling cafe's seating area. "Doesn't leave much time for anything else, but it pays the bills. It probably helps that I'm pushing the fifth most addictive drug in the world." I add with a wink.

"Write more, Jess. Work less." he replies.

He makes sure to drop that line into every conversation we have. I get the feeling sometimes that he's trying to assure himself that he's the same man who wrote it to me all those years ago. Other times, I'm certain it's just his dig that I still haven't let him see any of my own musings, let alone had the nerve to try and publish.

"Says the man who killed off my favorite character with not even a hint of anything new to come. Tell me you have something exciting up your sleeve? As much as you crave my caffeine, it pains me to admit that I just as heartily crave your overly dramatic tomes."

"Not a word on the fan sites," he says with a knowing smirk and a hushed voice, "but I may have recently found my new muse." His eyebrows raise. "Wait..overly dramatic? You wound me, woman!"

"Pfft!" I huff. "As if. I have more important things to be doing than flailing with your legions of fangirls on the internet. And really Rick..."

I pause for a moment to study his face, really wanting to know, but not wanting to hurt him.

But this is our usual schtick and he definitely has a certain twinkle in his eyes. He's a big boy, he can take it. We have a sibling-like relationship and I feel it's my duty as his overbearing yet lovable, adopted older sister to give him a little jab.

"That final scene in Storm Fall? Not your best work. So... You wanna tell me what happened to make you give up on that long-running cash cow?"

I hand over his brew and wave off the cash he's trying to offer me. He stuffs the twenty in the tip jar anyway and motions for me to join him in his regular spot. I sink happily into the overstuffed, antique chair, grateful to be off my feet and wait for him to talk. During the course of our friendship it has become our routine. I make him his drink and poke fun at his work; he invites me to sit with him and he digs at me for not having the guts to share mine. He gives me grief on my seriously lacking love-life, and I give it back about his over-publicized affairs.

He sips at his drink and purses his lips into a tight grin.

"I'm shadowing a homicide detective," he starts. Ignoring my dig about Derrick for the moment and skipping over the part where he usually prods me for a peek at my journal.

I'm picturing a balding, middle-aged man with a little too much girth around the waist. I'm wondering what has him so obviously in a better mood since dead bodies and donuts doesn't seem like it would fit the bill.

"Fine then, don't tell me about Derrick."

He sighs, shrugs and leans back into the chair. "Derrick had become.. rote," he says. "I could probably spit out twenty more novels in my sleep but it had become incredibly boring. I'd lost my passion, you know?"

Wow. Rick without a passion for writing is not a Rick I'm familiar with. It's been the one constant through all the ups and downs of the past twenty odd years.

"And now?" I ask gently, hoping the new-found sense of style is a hopeful sign.

"It may be back."

He smiles enigmatically and I feel an overwhelming urge to grill him until he gives me all the juicy little details. Tit for tat. It's only fair. It has not escaped my notice that some of the more humiliating adventures of my dating life have ended up making not so veiled appearances throughout his books.

Of course I'd forgiven him it all when he'd killed off my cheating ex-husband by way of a mob of angry cultists and with a dagger to the heart.

Unfortunately, the lunch rush is fast overwhelming my two employees and I needed to go assist.

It is at times like this, when angry looking business men and haughty faced women with too much money and not enough patience make me question my sanity, and the spur of the moment decision to buy this little shop over a decade ago. Still, I have grown the Java Hut into a thriving business, through a commitment to taking time to get to know my regulars and by making sure my employees know how to make a proper drink before putting them on the La Marzocco during anything but the midnight shift. I'm proud of the fact that my line of customers regularly outdoes the one at the Starbucks across the street.

Standing slowly, I grind my teeth and steal a deep breath, paste a smile onto my face and prepare to placate the sour looking man currently giving my most diligent employee a filthy look.

He places a hand on mine and gives it a gentle squeeze.

"Take care of them. I'll get out of your hair," he says with a smile, rising and picking up his jacket from the back of the chair.

"I wasn't done hounding you yet," I say, his friendly squeeze easing my nerves just a little.

It's probably a good thing for the man now sipping at his coffee with a look of annoyed distaste on his face. I imagine that he is probably the type so accustomed to cheap drip that he wouldn't know a good espresso bean if it rose up and shot him in the eye.

"You got this, Jess," Rick says with a nod in the direction of the counter.

The smooth and familiar timbre of his voice melts the last of my frustrations away.

"Since when do you rise before noon anyway?" I ask as an afterthought as I make my way back to the counter and offer to remake the no doubt perfect cup of coffee before the suit can cause a scene.

"Since what I'd hoped to be a conquest somehow turned into a crusade."

He leaves with his trademark eyebrow raise and blows me a kiss as he breezes out the door.

The damn man has left me even more intrigued than I was when he had entered.