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Cindy has a knack of asking questions at the worst time. Sometimes Lindsay wonders how the girl ever makes it as a reporter. If she wasn't so fond of her, she'd probably find it annoying. Some days she finds it annoying anyway.
The reporter will wait until the middle of the day when Lindsay's sitting at her desk, piled sky high with a mountain of paperwork that can no longer legally be ignored, to plop herself down in a chair and say: "Tell me about Texas." She says it so sweetly, her face filled with such a pure, childish curiosity, that Lindsay can't really find it in her heart to tell her to go away. So instead she says: "Trust me, darlin', you don't want to hear about Texas. It'll bore you to sleep." This, sometimes, is a worse option than actually giving into the redhead's whims, because then Lindsay has to try to ignore the look of disappointment on Cindy's face that makes her feel like she just told a five year old that Santa doesn't exist.
Later that night, when they're lying in Lindsay's bed (because it's always Lindsay's bed), and Cindy's drawing nonsensical patterns across the bare skin of Lindsay's stomach with her fingertips, Lindsay will stare at the ceiling and launch into stories about farms and fields, Friday night football, and Thanksgiving dinners so big that you could feed the entire U.S. military. Cindy watches her with rapt attention, reveling in the far off look in the inspector's dark eyes, and the deepening of her accent. "Someday you'll take me there, right?" she asks, and Lindsay just smiles because she's not sure if Texas is quite ready for Cindy Thomas. "Someday," she replies, and she knows that she will because her memories would be so much better with Cindy in them.
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