The largest ballroom in Forks is still pretty small by general standards and tonight, it feels like the size of a tin can. Somebody is singing "Jingle Bell Rock" at the top of their lungs, proving that peppermint Schnapps in the punch bowl was a very, very bad idea.
His collar itches. His tie, too. And when he thinks no one is looking, Edward gives both a good tug, reaching below the polyester uniform to neutralize the itchy sensation at the base of his throat. Of course, that's the instant Charlie Swan's daughter chooses to walk up.
The department holiday party is crowded, but mercifully free of kids… except for Bella and her little friend, the Hale girl. They're both dressed in red dresses trimmed with white lace. And Santa hats, for Christ's sake. Earlier, they were passing out candy canes like Santa's elves.
While people like Mrs. Cope seem to adore them, Edward just wishes they would go away. They've got trouble written all over their angelic little faces. In fact, Edward would put money on Rosalie Hale being the person who smuggled in the Schnapps.
"Feeling the noose tighten, Officer?" Bella's smile is bright and sunny, but her eyes are shrewd. Smarter than her years. She's seventeen going on forty, her father had warned him when he started his first week at the police department, adding, "Don't let her get one over on you, because she'll never let you forget it."
"Is that a little gallows humor?" he wonders, matching her tone, and quickly letting his hand fall to his side. Itch be damned. Her eyebrows arch in surprise. She probably thinks he's some dumb hick.
"You hate these things." It's an observation, not a question. And how she's managed to learn that about him, he doesn't know. "So why are you even here?"
"I'm new," he reminds. "It's all about making a good impression. Shaking hands, kissing babies. Wishing people a merry Christmas and a happy New Year. You know how it is."
Bella follows the path of his gaze, glancing around the room. "There are no babies to kiss. Whatever shall you do? I guess you'll just have to find a substitute. The next best thing." She sounds like a stripper. Except with a better vocabulary. It's a come on. Jesus.
All of a sudden, the itch is back with a vengeance, and Edward feels himself choking. Trouble. He'd known the girls would be trouble. And here it is, right at his doorstep. "Rosalie put you up to this, didn't she?" he accuses. "You're hazing the new guy or something."
"Or something." She grins again, and he wonders why Charlie let her out of the house wearing lipstick that red. It's indecent for a girl her age. "Rosalie pointed out that you're standing right under the mistletoe, Officer. And she wanted to be the one to come over."
He looks up. Damn. Sure enough, there is a sprig of the godforsaken kiss magnet crap hanging right above his head. And he doesn't want to think about why two teenage girls are the only ones who thought of doing something about it. "So you're the alternative? How is that better?"
Bella shocks him by sliding her arm through his. Like they're old pals. She crooks her finger at him and, instinctively, he bends his head. "It's better because we're in a room full of cops and I won't get you arrested for statutory rape," she whispers. "Rosalie has, shall we say, impulse control issues."
Across the room, Rosalie is helping herself to some punch. When she catches him watching, she raises her cup in a mock toast. She slowly, emphatically, licks her lips after she takes a lusty swallow. He shudders. There is nothing in the world worth that risk. Mayor Hale would have his badge for even thinking about it. As for Charlie…
"And you're not impulsive at all?" He nods, pointedly, to where Bella still has a hold of his arm.
"Nope. I'm logical to a fault," she chirps, with an endearing shrug. "So, you want to get this over with, Officer?"
He hates Christmas parties. He really, really hates them. "Do I get any last words? Maybe a last meal?"
Bella laughs, and she studies him with the precision of a future detective. Or a future man-eater. Possibly both. "It's best to just do it quickly," she advises solemnly, like someone has dubbed her the authority on all things kiss-related. "Like ripping off a Band-Aid." Of course, it's shitty advice and he hopes that, when she's legal, someone will teach her the value of taking it slow. That someone could be him.
Edward seriously considers welshing on this mistletoe business, hightailing it out of the party, and spending the rest of the night getting wasted at the only bar in town. Screw good impressions. But before he can put that idea into practice, Bella is rising up on her toes. Christ, she's all eyes and long hair and he yelps, "Assault! Assault!" to the amusement of the people around them — including Charlie — while she brushes his cheek with her lips.
His cheek. And it's over in a blink. While his defensive theatrics are still going on. Bella giggles at his no doubt thunderstruck expression, wrinkling her nose and going, "Did you really think it was going to be the lips? Ew, Officer Cullen. Just…ew."
He manages to laugh and call her a minx, before playfully shoving her back towards her scheming little friend. Bella has proved herself perfectly capable of eating him alive. And then he moves a good twenty feet away from the mistletoe, making conversation with the secretarial pool and helping himself to holiday treats.
It's not until he ends up in the men's room with a paper cup of club soda, trying to get green cake frosting off his tie, that he sees there's a perfect, mouth-shaped lipstick print on his cheek. It's garish. Indecent for a girl Bella's age. And probably why Mrs. Cope was laughing the entire time he was talking to her. Edward stares at it for a few seconds, traces over it with his fingertips, before he scrubs it away.
'Don't let her get one over on you, because she'll never let you forget it.'
Bella was wrong, he thinks, tossing wadded up paper towels in the trash. Rosalie Hale may be all Lolita wiles and no limits, but that doesn't make Bella the safer option at all. And he pities the poor bastard who's going to have the bad luck to fall in love with her. That's going to be a hell of a hanging.
Edward glances in the mirror one more time to make sure that all traces of her lipstick are gone. Then, he heads back out for some holiday cheer. And when Charlie tells him the girls have gone home for the night, "to do what craven, unmentionable things that teenage girls do," he pretends he's not just the tiniest bit disappointed. He unknots his tie, unbuttons his collar, and takes a deep, unrestricted breath. But he doesn't scratch his itch. It's probably better for everyone if he doesn't.