A/N: My first ever Twilight fic!

Just a note, before I get attacked - Edward is human in this chapter, so he's all warm and fuzzy.

WOMAN FINDS CROCODILE EGGS IN HER GROCERIES

By Bella Swan

Mrs. Fisher, local resident of Forks, was shocked to discover on Thursday evening that instead of there being average chicken eggs in her groceries, there was in fact crocodile eggs!

"It was extremely odd," remarks Mrs. Fisher, 54. "I just remember thinking: 'These couldn't possibly be free-range!'"

Chapter One

"Bella?"

I lifted one eyelid at the sound of my name, to find my head – which had been propped up by my elbow, last time I was aware – buried in my arms on my desk. I had fallen asleep at work.

How embarrassing.

"Bella?"

The voice was louder now, closer. I sat up – flattening my hair self-consciously with my clammy palm – and saw Angela standing before me, holding a phone apologetically in her hand. I frowned, my conscience still a little hazy from the sleep, and took the phone that she handed me without thinking.

"It's your mom," Angela added, and I dropped the handset onto the desk like it had bitten me. "She wants to know why you haven't called her today."

"Great," I muttered, and put the phone to my ear. "Hi, Mom." My voice was weary. I knew what to expect on the other end of the line.

"Bella, honey," my mom began, a little tentatively. "Isn't four in the afternoon there?" I glanced at the clock on my computer to see that she was right, and also, before I'd fallen asleep, I'd been playing solitaire. I tucked the phone into my neck, securing it beneath my chin, and reached for the mouse, moving the four of spades triumphantly. "Why haven't you called?"

"Sorry, Mom," I said, though I was distracted. "I kinda…" I hesitated, embarrassed. "…fell asleep." I heard my mother sigh at the other end, and paused my game of solitaire, fingers snapping impatiently on the desk. I waited for the inevitable lecture.

"Why do you do this, Bella?" she asked. "Why don't you do something exciting with your life?"

"Being a reporter is exciting, Mom," I insisted, though the fact that I had obviously fallen asleep on the job due to boredom hung unspoken in the air. Being one of several news reporters in a town as small as Forks meant it was hardly rare that there was nothing for you to do. "I'm learning."

My mother sounded unconvinced. "I read your article," she informed me, and I cringed inwardly. "Charlie mailed it to me. Phil won't come with me to do the grocery shopping any more – he says he's fed up of me checking the egg cartons for crocodile eggs." I was sidetracked again, my eyes on the computer screen and the game of solitaire that I was now sadly losing.

"That's great," I mused, absent-mindedly. My mom's sharp tone that followed, however, jerked me back to attention.

"Bella," she snapped. "I know you like to write, honey, but being a reporter in Forks is hardly challenging your ability." I rolled my eyes. "Why don't you write books? I like books," my mom added, defensively, before I could argue.

I suddenly noticed Lauren standing where Angela had been a minute ago, and covered my mouthpiece, raising an eyebrow. "Yes?" The unfriendliness between Lauren and I – left over from high school – was still present, despite us having graduated nearly four years ago.

"Staff meeting, ten minutes," she told me, coldly. And then she smirked, gesturing with a single, polished fingernail, "You have drool on your chin." I rubbed my face hurriedly, before glaring at her. She didn't take the hint, however, and continued to lurk around my desk.

"Bella, honey?"

I uncovered the mouthpiece, slowly bringing my attention back to my conversation with my mom. "I don't like writing fiction," I argued. "You know that." Lauren was now sat on the corner of my desk, leaning in to listen to my conversation. I sat back in my chair, pushing it further away from the desk.

"Well, alright, honey," my mother said, unsurely. "But don't come crying to me when all the other girls in the office have all left to pursue careers as novelists." I snorted, considering the alternate universe where Lauren had enough brain cells to make up an imagination.

"I won't." I would sooner be best-friends-forever with a blood-sucking vampire than visit hot, muggy, disgusting Arizona. "Bye, Mom." I hung up, shooting Lauren one last disdainful look. "Board meeting, ten minutes," I repeated. "I got it." She got off my desk, looking satisfied.

"Seven and a half," she corrected me, before prising the phone from my fingers and replacing it in its holder. "See you there." I watched her walk away, scowling for the second time that morning.

I turned to look out the window – which were steamed up, due to the central heating being on maximum, despite the fact that it was mid-July – to make out heavy rain falling cascading from the sky. The weather provided the remainder of my solitaire game with a backing track; a symphony of rain-drops pelting the tarmac of the parking lot, and the snapping of hasty umbrella-openings. It was the sound of my childhood, the sound I had fallen asleep to every night; my lullaby.

My whole life, I've lived in Washington. When my parents split after just a few years of marriage, I stayed with my dad in Forks, whilst my mom went to explore the world… or at least Phoenix, Arizona. Even after high school – which I spent in Forks – I didn't venture far, majoring in English at Seattle University, leading me to spend my days at The Ledger, Forks' weekly newsletter, with several of my peers.

"Bella? Are you coming?"

Angela waved a hand across my face; once again forced to wake me from my reverie. I rubbed sleep from my eyes, snatched my notepad from my desk and followed her into the board-room… my own personal hell on Earth.

The décor alone was enough to make me want to turn around and go back to sleep on my desk. The carpet was heavily patterned, mostly a burgundy colour, with large golden swirls sweeping around my feet. The curtains that masked the windows showing the parking lot outside were the same material, and a long, varnished, oak table ran the length of the room, sporting chairs with mismatched cushions.

"Just squint and you'll be fine," Angela reminded me, as I tried not to think about how much the carpet looked like blood. I nodded, making an effort to swallow, and took my seat in between her and Lauren, who was still wearing her smug expression from earlier. I ignored her, putting her jubilance down to the fact that she'd broken in her latest pair of mock-designer shoes.

"O.K, then." My boss, Billy Black - a man of Native-American descent – cleared his throat, and silence fell on the board-room. "Everyone here?" I did a quick scan to see that every member of staff was present – and every one of them looked as bored as I did… besides Lauren. "Good, good." He coughed – the result of many years heaving smoking. "Do we have our latest figures?"

Mike Newton – a friend from high school – stood up nervously with a carefully drawn pie-chart and a clipboard tucked under his arm. He presented our figures – the math meant nothing to me – and then sat down again, flushed. Apparently the numbers were low.

"We need a new feature," Billy decided, finally, and I bowed my head, praying he wouldn't pick on me. "A comic strip, an obituary page…" I raised an eyebrow as out of the corner of my eye I saw Lauren raise her hand. All heads turned in her direction out of interest.

"A fiction page?" she offered, reading aloud from the girlish script on her notepad. "Once a week, a short story. Or installments of a longer one." Her head turned slightly in my direction. "Possibly one of our local reporters could help us out?"

Oh, dear God. No.

"Bella?" she continued. "I hear your latest article was... interesting." A round of sniggers swept through the board-room. "Crocodile eggs, wasn't it?"

I ignored her, continuing to circle with my pen across my paper.

"Swan?" Billy was obviously a fan of Lauren's idea. Or of her legs, anyhow.

Angela nudged me with her elbow. I pulled an awkward face, making a mental note to later force Lauren into the bathroom and lock her in a cubicle without food or water. I surveyed all the eager faces awaiting my reaction, and grumbled.

"Fine." I caught an audible giggle from Lauren, and stabbed my notepad with my bed, angrily.

She must die. Hopefully in a painful and long way.

"Ugh," was all I had to say, once I was finally free of the board-room, its rusty carpets and all that it entailed. "A fiction page." We had reached my desk, and I plucked my jacket from the back of my chair, clutching it to my chest like a security blanket.

Angela shrugged. "That's not so bad," she replied, but I begged to differ. There was a reason I hated fiction with a passion – my imagination was, and always had been, non-existent. As in, nothing to work with.

At all.

I refrained from complaining aloud further, and instead tried to vain to scrape together the makings of a story – any kind – as we walked in silence towards the double doors which opened to the cold air, to freedom.

"Wait," said Angela, as a buzzing sounded, and she reached inside her purse for her phone. I hesitated, moments away from reaching the doors and pulled a face as I heard the voice of Ben – Angela's fiancé – on the other end of the phone. This conversation could last for hours.

"You know what?" I asked, edging towards the doors backwards, still facing her. "I think I'm just going to – ouch…"

I had collided with something muscular, something warm. A loud thump sounded as a refill for the water cooler hit the floor at my feet, soaking them with cold water. I felt a breeze tickle my ear as somebody behind me groaned. I jumped, whirling around to face them.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, but I hardly heard the words. I was too entranced by the lips that had formed the sound; perfect pink curves that stretched into a rueful smile as I continued to stare at him. I dragged my eyes from his mouth, followed the sweep of his nose to his eyes… and nearly collapsed onto the floor. "Are you O.K?" His hands were on my arms now, clutching me gently. The eyes that had been apologetic moments before were now concerned. "Miss?"

"Bella?" Angela had obviously hung up the phone; she was at my side, looking as worried as the Adonis before me. She shook the boy off – his young face suggested he could not possibly be older than me – and her face suddenly blocked his from view. "Bella?"

I shook my head, trying to force some kind of reasoning back into my mind. The boy had been so beautiful; the sight of him had rooted me to the spot, made my mind go blank. He stood behind Angela now, his face flushed with embarrassment.

"I'm sorry…" he tried again, but I shook my head once more, hoping some sound would come out as I opened my mouth.

"I'm… fine…" I murmured, before looking at the half-empty cooler refill that sat at my feet. "Your water bottle…" He was on the floor within seconds, lifting it upright.

"I have to go," he announced, straightening with the large bottle in his arms. "This thing should be getting inside."

"It should also be full," I remarked, before stifling a giggle. I was relieved that I managed to blurt out something coherent, despite the humiliating giggle that followed. He shot me a dazzling smile before nodding, and walking past me into the office. I blinked – once, twice – before I was able to start walking again.

Once Angela and I had exchanged goodbyes in the parking lot, I sat in my truck – and oldie, fire-engine red and sturdy, safe – with my head filled with thoughts of the mysterious water-cooler boy. I struggled to put a name to his face, but every idea that came to me was too nondescript, too plain. It didn't do his unbelievable handsome face justice. I followed again in my mind the shape of his angular face, the single copper hairs on his head.

And then, inspiration struck.

I reached into my purse for something to write on, to find in dismay that I had left my notepad in the board-room. I dismissed the idea of me returning there before tomorrow immediately, and settled for a used chewing-gum wrapper at the bottom of my bag. I found a pen, jabbed it against my lower arm to bring up the point, and started writing.