He's reading the dust jacket description for Unholy Storm when she reappears -- a pared down, relaxed version of herself. It's nice. A change. Her slender arms are pale, with just the barest constellation of freckles over the backs of her wrists. Her mouth is pink and unpainted, as soft-looking as a figure in a Ruben. He smiles and turns the book over in his hands.

"Guess I made an impression," he says, then winces when he sees the photo of himself on the back of the dust jacket. "I mean, look at me --" he holds up the book, a younger, more Top Gun haircut'd Richard Castle staring back at her "-- were we ever so young? Or into Soundgarden?"

He slides the book back onto the shelf.

"Nice jim-jams, by the way."