Three weeks into March, the warmth is creeping up a little more every day. I still haven't quite packed away my winter clothes, but most days, a sweatshirt thrown over my t-shirt and jeans is enough. A pair of thick socks keeps a lingering chill off my toes as I reluctantly kiss Sam goodbye in the early hours of the morning. He's working a special event all weekend, which means his hours not on duty are going to be extremely slim. If I know him as well as I'm sure I do, he's going to be catching what little fragments of sleep are available to him either on a cot in the back of the station or curled under a blanket in his squad car when he doesn't have the time to get all the way there. That means I'm not going to see him until Monday.
But I won’t be alone. I'm taking advantage of the days the best I can by having Bellamy visit for the weekend. It's been months since we've spent more than a couple of hours together. After her participation in Jonah’s and Anson’s apprehensions came to light, she got even busier at work. The Bureau always underestimated her a little. Now that they understand how valuable she is, they are putting her on more cases and getting her more involved. She says she wants nothing to do with being an agent. She doesn’t want to go out into the field on a regular basis and definitely wants nothing to do with going undercover. But her consultant work is plenty to keep her constantly busy. I'm looking forward to some quality time with my best friend, even if I am already feeling a little sniffly over Sam’s leaving.
I must still have that look on my face an hour later when Bellamy pulls up into the driveway. I'm outside waiting for her on my porch glider, wrapped up in a blanket and holding a mug of hot tea. She hops out of her car, looking excited, but as soon as she and her three overly stuffed duffel bags make it halfway up the sidewalk, her expression changes.
“Are you seriously pouting?” she asks.
“I am not pouting,” I protest.
“Yes you are,” she argues. “There is absolute pouting going on in this area.”
She circles one fingertip around her eyes.
“I'm not pouting,” I repeat.
“What happened to the Emma Griffin, kick ass, independent woman who didn't need a man in her life? All of a sudden, your boyfriend is gone for a couple of days, and you get all weepy over it?”
“I can still kick ass and be independent and also be in love with a man I happen to miss when he's not around. A very important authority taught me that,” I fire back.
“Who's that?” she asks.
“Disney,” I tell her.
Bellamy laughs.
“Alright, I'll give you that. As long as you don't suddenly start bursting into song, we'll be fine. Actually, no. You can definitely burst into song, but you have to teach me the choreography first. I don't want to be left out of anything.”
I stand up with a grin and pull her into a hug.
“I promise I won't leave you out,” I tell her. “I'm glad you're here.”
“Me, too,” she smiles. “We are long past due for a girls' night. Three of them in a row should start to lessen the deficit. Let's get inside.”
Tilting my head to the side, I look at the bags in her hands.
“Is that all you packed?” I ask.
“I can never be too prepared,” Bellamy says. “A very important authority taught me that, too.”
“Girl Scouts?”
“Phyllis Nefler.”
Laughing again, I wrap my arm around her shoulders and lead her inside. When she has unpacked everything in the guest room, Bellamy comes back into the kitchen.
“Are you hungry?” I ask. “That was a long drive for you to do so early in the morning. Did you have breakfast?”
“Not yet. I didn't know what kind of debauchery we had planned for the weekend, and didn't want to spoil my appetite,” she answers.
“How does cinnamon rolls sound for debauchery?” I offer.
“Talk doughy to me,” she sasses.
“Perfect,” I tell her. “I'll make up a batch, and we can swing some by the station for Sam’s.”
Bellamy shakes her head adamantly.
“Nope,” she says. “No men. You get to have phone calls and text messages, but that's it. I came down here under the promise of a weekend without boys, bras, or bad guys, and I'm holding you to it.”
"I don't think we ever discussed the whole bralessness thing," I point out.
“It's understood,” Bellamy insists.
“Fair enough,” I shrug. “I will make a double batch, but I will put his in the freezer to bake them for him next week.”
“Now we're talking,” she says. “How about dinner? If we're going to really be serious about the sheer volume of gossiping and celebrity trash talk we're going to be doing over at the next three days, we need to be properly fueled for the challenge.”
“We are two highly educated, self-sufficient women who have had impressive careers in the FBI, aided in the dismantling of terrorist groups and organized crime, and taken down serial killers. And what you want to do is spend our weekend together gossiping and talking trash about the highly fabricated lives of celebrities?” I ask.
“Absolutely,” she replies with a glint in her eye.
“As long as we're on the same page,” I agree. “What sounds good to you for dinner?”
“Let's revisit college,” she suggests. “Like we used to when we were studying. We'll get a bunch of appetizers and snack foods and just spread them out to munch on all day and night.”
“That sounds amazing,” I grin. I walk back into the living room and get my bag. Digging in it, I pull out my wallet and hand her my customer rewards
