This is a new story I've been working on for quite some time now. Inspiration came from the music video for Marry Me by Train - if you have not watched it I suggest you do so soon - it's marvellous. This will be a multi-chapter story and I'm not sure if it's good or if it will pan out well in the end but hey, woman can try right. It is rated T for now, but it may change at a later date. Once you've read this short chapter I'd love to hear what you think - whether you like it and continue it?

At half past two on a very warm Saturday afternoon, the departure longue of LAX was packed – bustling with tourists in straw hats, shorts and sunglasses looking very burnt, who sat with magazines in their hands, fanning at their faces, and the occasional gentleman in a dark suit and patterned tie, rushing towards their gate – their black luggage rolled noisily along behind them.

Behind a layer of Plexiglas, city names and times shone in a luminous green.

'Paris Charles de Gaulle – Departed.'
London, Heathrow – Proceed to Gate 13.'

A short way away a beautiful lady sat, her auburn hair gleaming in the sunlight, an indignant snarl of sorts displayed on her pretty face.

'Seattle, Sea-Tac – Delayed.'

Typical, she thought to herself, shaking the glass before her – a little too hard, so the one, solitary ice cube rattled annoyingly against the side of the glass. She pushed it away, ordering the gentleman behind the bar to bring her something a little stronger, before pulling out a laptop from her first bag and a wonderfully developed blueprint from the other – spreading them both on the bar before her she produced a small, but deathly sharp, pencil from behind her ear.

She looked at the barman; he looked a little under twenty-two, probably a college student – just younger than her – with the unmistakeable bleached hair of a Californian. With an expert flick of the wrist, he screwed the lid back onto the wine bottle before carrying over the red zinfandel she had asked for, setting it down just to the left of her on a white, folded napkin.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, madam?" he asked, his white teeth gleaming a little.

Shaking her head, no, she passed him a ten dollar bill before erasing a short pencil line that just did not look right where it was situated. Popping the pencil into her mouth – her teeth chewing on the wood – she swivelled, just so, in her sear so she could watch the gradually empting longue.

Over the rim of her wine glass, her emerald green eyes looked back up towards the board that displayed each and every flight that was to depart. And still, her flight sat at the bottom.

Seattle Sea-Tac. Delayed. Now 16:00.

Onto the polished, wooden bar she placed her ticket, followed by her cell and took a lasting gulp from her glass.

"Is anyone sitting here?" she heard quietly from beside her elbow.

"No, not at all," she replied, removing her laptop bag from the seat next to her and looking up at the stranger with a slight smile.

"Thank you," he turned slightly in his chair and extended his hand towards the young woman, "Carlisle Cullen."

"Esme Platt," she returned. Taking his hand, she looked up at him. He wore a shirt of pale blue, two of his buttons undone; his Adam's apple sat just delicately above the straight edge of his collar, with a pair of beige slacks. His blonde hair was professionally slicked back around his temples, a slight fringe brushing softly against his forehead. A pair of lovely grey eyes took the centrepiece of his face and he carried a slightly large, black briefcase. He caught the attention of the barman and signalled for two drinks.

"So Esme Platt, you're off to Seattle too?" he wondered, taking a fleeting look towards her ticket that still sat on the bar.

"I am."

"Well," Carlisle said, picking up one of the two tumblers before him and nudging one towards her, "here's to the wait."

They clinked their glasses together and Esme took a gulp of the amber coloured liquor and felt a burn in the back of her throat. She looked towards the stranger and saw that his eyes were devouring her work, he took in every line, every description before flicking down to her signature on the bottom left of the paper.

"Wait, you're Esme Platt? The Esme Platt," he asked with amazement. "You designed a house for my father on the Calawah River in Forks just last year."

Esme remembered that house. The man in question had told her he wanted wood, glass and for it to be modern and left her to her own devices. Money was no question. He had told her that he had a son, who was in his final year at Harvard studying medicine, and a daughter, who was at Julliard. This was her first house, her first commission, after she finished Princeton that fall but he assured her that he had been informed she was a protégé, brilliant. She had been just twenty-two when she had finished the blueprints and had passed it on to a very happy gentleman – the construction started one month after and was finished by that spring with thanks to some very effective builders and an unseasonably warm winter. She had never seen the house again, but thanks to it she had been catapulted into greatness and her work could be seen throughout the Olympic Peninsula and beyond.

"You're George's son? I should have recognized your accent – London. How has he been?"

"Just great. He talks about you a lot, he's so incredibly thankful for the 'beauty that built my dream house.' I live with him now, actually. I work in Forks General – I'm a doctor."

"Yes, I remember him saying – he was so proud of you. How is my baby looking?"

Carlisle smiled, it could be said that fate was pushing them together. "Better by the day."

'This is a call for all passengers for the service to Sea-Tac, Seattle. All passengers can now board at Gate 12.'

Folding up the blue paper quickly but carefully and placing her laptop back into the case, she turned back to Carlisle, who was already holding his briefcase in one hand and their tickets in the other.

"So what brought you to Los Angeles?" he asked as they joined to queue of other passengers travelling to the North West.

"I had a job interview; I could ask you the same question?" She replied as she gave the attendant a ticket and turned back to wait for him.

"I was visiting a old college friend of mine," he pressed a hand against her elbow to help her onto the aeroplane before handing the ticket stub to the second attendant who promptly showed him to his seat. "Do you think you'll get that job?"

"I do not know," her red hair cascaded down her back and a small sliver of skin appeared from beneath her white blouse as she lifted up to place one of her bags in the overhead locker. "It's a great opportunity, but I love Washington."

Carlisle knew that he was standing in the gangway, gawking at her, and he could not bring his legs to move. A handful of annoyed passengers pushed their ways past them, a few hitting him with their baggage, none of them expressing their apologies or even saying 'Excuse me.'

"Is this your seat?" he asked. When she turned around and nodded, he once again extended his hand. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Esme Platt."

After brushing his thumb slowly over each of her knuckles, he released her hand and walked ten or so rows back, settling himself between an elderly lady and a teenager. His heart skipped a slight beat when he saw her look behind her – she found his eyes and her lips pulled up at the corner.

He had fallen hard.