It was late. Very late. Around midnight or so. When most people would be sleeping in their beds, dreaming of bunnies or daffodils or something like that. But Carlisle Cullen, film maker extraordinaire, was not most people. Nope, he was a true artist! He lived with his best friend, Edward Masen, Edward's girlfriend Bella Swan, his other best friend, Emmett McCarty, his other best friend Jasper Whitlock (the III), and the love of his life, Esme Platt.
They were all artists: Edward was a guitar player with rockin' hair. Bella was a painter who used everything but markers in her paintings. Emmett McCarty – wait, he wasn't really an artist. He actually taught, at a university. Jasper was a writer who sometimes wrote screenplays for Carlisle's movies. And Esme – oh, Esme! She was an angel. With light brown locks of hair the color of smooth mud, and pale skin that reminded him of his white security blanket, Esme was a performance artist and the love of his life. She was out that night, and Carlisle was waiting up for her. Like always, he thought as he curled a strand of honeysuckle-colored hair around his finger. But she always made it up to him, calling him Pookie and giving him soft kisses all over his feet.
Finally, after what seemed like hours but was only about 37 minutes and 12.4 seconds, Carlisle heard a knock on the door. Who else could it be but Esme, he thought to himself, heading for the sliding door into their apartment.
When Carlisle opened the door, his jaw dropped. Standing seductively against the frame of the doorway, a short blond bodacious beauty was staring right at him with eyes the color of the emerald necklace she wore around her neck. When she smiled, the brightness of her teeth bounced off of Carlisle's glasses, hurting his eyes a bit.
"Um, hi," he said nervously. He usually wasn't in the company of beautiful women. Except Esme, of course. "Um," he repeated, pushing his thin glasses up his strong and masculine nose, "Who are you?" As happy as he was to have this gorgeous woman in front of his door, he was a little suspicious of this late night caller.
"You don't need to know my name" the stranger replied, pulling Carlisle by his attractive scarf so that his lips met hers, which were as red as rubies. They engaged in a long kiss, so long, that poor Carlisle, who had underdeveloped lungs as a child, passed out.
When he came to, the mysterious vixen was hovering over him in a way that reminded him of his mother.
"Hello, Carlisle," she said. "I made you some warm milk."
Carlisle took the teacup, and was just about to sip from it when he stopped. "Who are you, you mysterious woman?" he demanded, his blue eyes ablaze.
"I told you," she replied, "Neither my name nor my story is important. What I need from you is a book."
"Book? What kind of book would make someone act like a madman – er, woman?"
"I am told that it is in your possession, Carlisle Louis Cullen."
Carlisle gasped. "How is it that you know my name? Are you spying on me?"
"No," now the woman looked a little annoyed. Her eyes were squinting and her mouth was turned down as she said, "This book is something that is very important to my client. It is one she said you stole from her, a while back. In your wild days."
Carlisle smiled. He remembered those days. He used to ride a mountain bike all over town, the wind whipping his hair back to reveal a strong yet sensitive face. People all over his small town of Forks, Washington felt fear whenever the name Carlisle Cohen was uttered. Well, actually, the only people who felt fear were young kids, and that was only when he growled at him, but –
"Hello? Are you still with me?"
"Yeah, sorry," Carlisle replied, realizing how the woman had changed personalities very quickly. "What book do you want?"
"It's red," she started, "And has a magnetic cover with the word 'PRIVATE' on the front. It's a diary," she added, when Carlisle still looked confused.
"A diary? I don't think I own a diary," Carlisle stammered, his face turning the cutest shade of pink. In fact, Carlisle owned two diaries: one periwinkle blue, and the other bright yellow. But a red one? He didn't think he owned a red diary.
"Oh!" Carlisle exclaimed. "I think I know which diary you're looking for! Let me go and get it. Wait," he added, glancing around at the room they were in. "Where are we?"
"Just a place I know downtown. I carried you here. Well, I'm stronger than I look," she said indignantly as Carlisle looked very surprised. "And you're lighter than you look."
"Hey," Carlisle said a little angrily, "Just because as starving artists we all can't eat and therefore are perfect size twos doesn't mean I'm a weakling! I just look sickly so that I will be attractive to women who like that sort of lost puppy dog look, that's all."
"I'll get you back to your apartment," MW (Mysterious Woman was what Carlisle called her), said.
Even though neither had any money, MW and Carlisle managed to get back to the loft just fine without getting mugged or asked for money by the number of harmonizing homeless that were always around.
At the loft, Carlisle went searching for the red diary of MW's. No one in the house woke up, thankfully, because they were all very heavy sleepers, or, in the case of Masen, stoned out of his mind.
Finally, with MW standing by his side, Carlisle found pay dirt. "Eureka!" he exclaimed as he pulled out a red diary, on its cover etched the word 'PRIVATE'. "Here you go," he said, handing it to her.
She took it swiftly, holding it close to her like it was a baby. Or a camera, Carlisle thought to himself.
"Thank you Carlisle," she said. "Is there anything I can do to repay you?"
"Well," he said back, "You can tell me your name."
She walked over with him to the door. "They call me, they call me, Rosalie Hale," she added, before giving a very very surprised Carlisle a kiss on the lips.
"By the way," Rosalie said with a smile growing on her cherry lips. "Thanks for the tango."