Extreme Sensitivity… as an unexpected surprise. – A Women’s Murder Club Series, part 22

TITLE: Extreme Sensitivity… as an unexpected surprise. (22/?)
PAIRING: Lindsay/Cindy
DISCLAIMER: Women’s Murder Club does not belong to me. The characters do not belong to me. They are the property of James Patterson, 20th Century Fox Television and ABC. (Well, not anymore. Jackasses.) I have no problems with that as long as I can borrow them for short bursts and use them in pursuit of my own enjoyment. I am not trying to infringe. Though, I don’t know why anyone has a problem with fan fic. After all, it really is a compliment. If anyone wants to write fan fiction about my book, feel free.

(Cindy’s POV)

She was headed for a serious warning, the type that usually preceded a discussion of how much she really wanted her job. Every time she went to type a word into her current article that started with an ‘L’, her fingers automatically keyed out ‘Lindsay’ before she could stop them. Then she would sit and stare at the name with a ridiculously stupid smile for a good thirty seconds before she could snap out of it. Every. Single. Time. It was making for one incredibly long writing process, and, at the rate she was moving, she would never make her deadline less than an hour away.

And just when she thought her raven-haired hottie couldn’t possibly serve as any more of a distraction, Cindy’s cell rang and the picture she’d snapped of Lindsay during one of their late nights at Papa Joe’s when Lindsay drank enough that her reflexes were too slow to stop it, and that she had sworn to erase, popped up. With an excited smile at her leather-clad inspector, Cindy giddily flipped open the phone.

“Hey,” she softly greeted.

“Hey yourself,” Lindsay returned.

“Lindsay, take care of this would you?” an unexpected voice rumbled across the line.

“Sure,” Lindsay returned, sounding utterly annoyed, before her voice softened again. “Sorry about that.”

“Was that Tom?” Cindy asked in confusion.

“Yeah,” Lindsay answered. “Apparently the phone in my hand is invisible.”

“You’re at work?”

“Don’t worry. It’s all desk stuff. Technically I’m still off-duty.'”

“Good,” Cindy responded. “I don’t want you getting yourself gravely injured before I get to seduce you.”

There was a profound pause, after which Lindsay gently cleared her throat, bestowing Cindy with a supreme sense of satisfaction.

“You’ve seduced me plenty,” Lindsay murmured. “It’s the follow-through we’re having some trouble with. And trust me, I’m not about to do anything to mess that up.”

Feeling the lump rise to her own throat in reaction, Cindy swallowed so hard she was certain Lindsay had to hear it.

“So,” Lindsay’s husky voice affected her like a caress, and Cindy knew that she was going to miss her deadline for the first time ever. There was no way in hell she’d recover from this phone call fast enough. “Are you coming over tonight?”

Lindsay shouldn’t have even bothered with the question. There was only one possible answer. Cindy would have canceled on Jesus Christ, Himself, if she had dinner plans with Him.

“I guess that means I’m invited over tonight?” she nonchalantly queried nevertheless.

“Guess it does,” Lindsay countered.

“Alright then,” Cindy replied, trying not to sound overeager and failing miserably at it.

“So you’re not sick of me yet?”

The speedy process that her brain utilized in the midst of playful banter, that always provided her a witty retort, went off without a hitch. But Cindy tucked away the comeback about playing doctor for future use and went with honesty.

“I don’t see that ever happening,” she declared softly.

Lindsay breathed deeply into the phone, almost a sigh, just barely audible. “Seven o’clock?”

“That’s good for me.”

“I’ll see you tonight.”

“See you tonight.”

There was a long moment of silence, in which neither of them wanted to be the first to hang up, finally broken up by Lindsay’s quiet chuckle. “Bye,” she said.

“Bye,” Cindy said in response, hanging up, and clamping down on the unreal urge to jump up and dance around her desk.

When her boss appeared out of nowhere a half a second later, she was really glad she had managed to refrain.

“Thomas.”

“Yeah?” Cindy grinned up at him.

He looked almost offended.

“What are you so happy about?”

“Nothing,” Cindy replied, forcing her face into a more workplace-friendly scowl of ultimate concentration. “Sorry.”

The boss eyed her suspiciously for several seconds, at last letting it go with a small shrug.

“Good news,” he informed her. “Scott has food poisoning.”

“Um… yay?” Cindy offered.

“Well, it’s not good for him,” the boss acknowledged. “But it is good for you.”

“It is?”

“Yeah. You know the murder out in Napa?”

“The couple this afternoon?” Cindy nodded. “That was freaky.”

“I am really hoping you won’t describe it that way in your article,” the boss stated, gazing down at her with professional concern.

“Wait,” Cindy backtracked. “It’s my story?”

“Yes. As previously mentioned, Scott got food poisoning on the way. We have a room booked at the hotel where the murder occurred for three nights so we can get the whole story. I need you to get out there.”

“No,” Cindy responded automatically.

“What?”

Cindy grimaced at the sharp reply.

“No… problem,” she recovered quickly. “I am so all over this.”

Her boss’ apprehension was now openly on display, and she suspected if he had any other alternative, he would be rushing off to find it.

“Here’s all the information you need,” he gave in and handed her a stack of papers. “You need to leave soon.”

“What about my…”

“Give the article you’re working on to Ben.”

It took all of her willpower not to smile triumphantly. Poor Ben certainly did have his work cut out for him, between meeting what was, by this point, an impossible deadline to editing out any random “Lindsay”s that may still be hiding within.

“And whatever you do, don’t stop at the Fiesta Cafe on the way.”

“Yes sir,” Cindy replied, watching him walk off.

She had to look on the bright side. This was an amazing opportunity. It was only three nights. Until very recently she’d spent most of her nights without Lindsay. It wouldn’t kill her. Just as long as she didn’t think about Lindsay sitting alone on the couch in her apartment, unable to get away because she was still on the mend. Or think about how many promises had been prevalent in Lindsay’s tone just minutes ago. Or think about Lindsay’s hair. Or skin. Or lips.

Oh God. It would kill her. It would absolutely freaking kill her.

She was supposed to spend her evening, if not her whole night, at Lindsay’s, doing things with Lindsay that she used to fantasize about on a regular basis. Instead, she would be alone, reporting on a murder, in, ironically, one of the most romantic spots in the entire state. And, because the universe wanted to screw with her, staying in what was apparently one of the most luxurious suites in the area if there was truth in the hotel’s advertising.

Cindy ceased her miserable flipping through the brochure and tossed it on her desk with a sigh. The sales pitch, in its large, easy-to-read font, stared mockingly up at her.

Spend a night in romantic bliss.

Yes, well, that would be ideal, wouldn’t it?

Eyes locked on the scenic vineyards, Cindy reached for her phone, calling Lindsay on autopilot.

“Miss me already?” Lindsay answered.

Fire coiling inside of her at the question, Cindy was struck by the fact that she didn’t want to spend three nights away from Lindsay right now. After which she was struck by the atypical fact that she didn’t necessarily have to.

“So, since you are technically off-duty does that mean you don’t technically have to be there?” she asked.

“Pretty much,” Lindsay replied. “Why?”

“Want to go to Napa?”