Frank Reagan was in trouble. His new assistant was unlike the whip-thin competents he usually saw. She had the curvaceous softness of a classic pinup, a Renaissance painting come to life. Her clothes had the look of quality with edge, and suited her perfectly. She seemed to prefer knee length wrap dresses and skirts and simple outfits, though never pants, as though she'd emerged from some other time when a woman in slacks would cause heart attacks.

The only note he had was her ever-present heels were almost too tall (though she never tripped or slipped and walked with barely a sound) and her skirts hung exactly one inch outside the boundary of workplace propriety. Never a traditional suit, it was rather a well-structured blazer over a tailored blouse, and a snug skirt made of a stretchy matte material. Dancer's clothes and workout gear came to mind whenever he saw it: the kind of fabric designed to move with the wearer and highlight certain aspects. He almost felt like he should mention it or maybe ask her to wear something more conservative. But he didn't want her to feel self-conscious, or admit he'd been noticing (as it probably wasn't the intention of a girl better suited to date Jamie than an aging commish), and when he really admitted it, there was nothing untoward in her appearance or behaviour.

She was good at her job, filling Baker's role admirably given no previous experience working with him. Rapidly attuned to his moods and tastes in a way that seemed inborn, as though she'd been taking care of him for years, she was proving a delight… of unexpected depths. The conversations they'd shared over coffee or takeout lunches made him smile; she refused to talk politics and never offered opinions on how to do his job (she claimed it was because he already knew how, which flattered him yet left him curious about her true feelings) yet the range of topics on which she had proved a knowledgeable and adept conversationalist was staggering in someone so young. There were several things about her that he'd noticed without noticing.

Like the fact that in the 2 weeks she'd been attending him, she'd worn three coats always seeming to depend more on weather than mood. It had been November 8th on her first day of duty, and as any true New Yorker knew, November was the rent you paid for city life the rest of the year. The extreme chill in the air the day she'd walked in had prompted a nubby wool button down in a stunning peacock blue that did not quite match but still highlighted the deep cerulean of her eyes. A classically cut tan trench was the norm for rainy days- a look straight out of Casablanca, although there was no way a girl that young would know. Hell, his parents had gone to see the film during its original theatrical run; that fact alone served to highlight the stark contrast in their ages like a police beacon on a search chopper.

And the third, quite possibly his favorite, was the one she wore on "warmer" days when the temperature stayed in the balmy double digits: a cream colored cashmere and wool peacoat that gave her a slightly angelic air. Although Frank had decided she bore that subtle heavenly stamp no matter what. There wasn't really time to waste speculating or pondering the implications of anything too deeply anyway; in a few days Baker would return and Mara would move on to her next assignment.

But now it was the end of a very long day, closing in on dinnertime, and Frank wanted nothing more than to put the day behind him. 3 separate bomb scares, including one involving Nikki's school, had commanded most of the day. All things had been resolved without incident, but an edict to NIP all calls (restricting access except to necessary involved personnel) had somehow included his daughter Erin's call for reassurance and his son Danny's calls of on-scene updates. When bringing in a file and an outline for a press conference after the second call had come in, she'd given his shoulder a brief squeeze of encouraging support before stepping back out.

Right about now, two fingers of Irish neat with a water back- no. A plate of steaming fettuccine Alfredo and a glass of Merlot sounded like a cure for what ailed him... and he couldn't shake the thought that a spot of pleasant company could make the proposition that much sweeter. The prospect of an empty house held no charm, since the family was scattered until tomorrow. No one waiting around the table tonight but Pop, and he had got a bowling tournament in the Bronx- which would no doubt turn into beers in the Bowery. So Danelli's it was- just as soon as he got out of here.

He took his time packing his briefcase, smoothing every non-existent wrinkle from his overcoat and the silk scarf Erin had given him for his birthday, lingering. Just in case. Because she was still at her desk, finishing paperwork and organizing her desk for the morning, and if he timed it just right, he could escort her to the elevator. And if they talked as they walked out, so much the better. Because if he asked her to dinner, he would be admitting things. On the other hand, if she brought up being hungry, he would just be a nice boss.

A/N: I think the head of the Reagan family could use a little distraction. Everyone needs someone to cuddle when that little nip hits the air.

Tell me what you think. Thus far, I've only got one more chapter to go. If you like it, let me know. Even if you don't... well, you know the drill. Enjoy!