Author disclaims: It just aint mine.

Author summarizes: Ok I suck at this, but here goes. Isabella Swan is the Chicago book tycoon, and Edward Cullen is the literary prodigy that never wrote a second book. He is the wildness to her restraint, the spontaneity to her organization, and the answer to all the problems she never knew she had.

Author says:

I'm back! So soon you ask? Because this has been kicking around my head for a while. If you've read my first story, then be warned, this is going to be different. If you haven't, then welcome! I offer you treats in the form of sugar and nicotine patches.

All chapters of this story are going to be in the same format. We start with a flash-forward, then go back to the start of the story. Hopefully it won't be too confusing. The flash-forward will end when you see: ###

Let me know what you think of the first chapter, so I can get a feel for how much reception there may be for the rest of the story.

Enjoy!

Happiness hit her like a train on a track
Coming towards her, stuck still, no turning back
She hid around corners and she hid under beds
She killed it with kisses and from it she fled
With every bubble, she sank with her drink
And washed it away down the kitchen sink

The dog days are over
The dog days are done
The horses are coming
So you better run

Run fast for your mother, run fast for your father
Run for your children, for your sisters and brothers
Leave all your love and your learning behind
You can't carry it with you if you want to survive

The dog days are over
The dog days are done
Can you hear the horses?
'Cause here they come

And I never wanted anything from you
Except everything you had and what was left after that too
Happiness hit her like a bullet in the head
Struck from a great height by someone who should know better than that

The dog days are over
The dog days are done
Can you hear the horses?
'Cause here they come

The dog days are over
The dog days are done
The horses are coming
So you better run

Florence and the Machine – The Dog Days Are Over

Chapter the First – The Dog Days

"Will you marry me?"

We both stared at the small velvet box in horror, like it was going to jump up in some sort of Transformers moment and attack us both, go on a killing spree, destroy the world.

What is he doing? What's happening to me? What is he thinking?

I couldn't believe where we were. I couldn't believe what this meant.

He looked at me in a sort of strange wonder, and I don't know what he saw in my face but it made him smile. I smiled too, and just like that the horror was gone. We smiled at each other. Everything was going to be ok.

"Will you marry me?"

"Yeah, I think I will."

###

August 8

I woke up at four-thirty, like I always did. I did four miles on the treadmill. I made a power breakfast – oatmeal, wheat flakes, milk and orange juice, boiled eggs for protein – and called Alice. I called Dubai, Hong Kong and Moscow by six. I showered and had three espresso shots.

I dressed in the outfit I had penciled in earlier in the month for the eighth. My dress plan was always ready. It would be such a waste of time to stand around wondering what to wear when I had to get to the office. The eighth was a blood red Prada sailor dress under a gray Valentino waistcoat. Sergio Rossi pumps. Bvlgari tote. I put on my Baume & Mercier watch because it was my favorite.

I never did anything with my hair. I spent enough on my stylist once a month to get away without having to do anything time-consuming with it. I had my favorite Swarovski hairclip to keep it out of my eyes, and that was all I needed. Scooping up my Blackberry, my Nokia and my iPhone, I made my way to my car; my very expensive, very fast car. This was almost always my favorite part of the day.

"Good morning, baby," I touched the hood of the Porsche Panamera gently. I was not a woman of extravagant tastes. My wardrobe was a necessary expense for someone in my position, meeting advisors, authors and retailers all day like I did. My house was relatively small for the upscale neighborhood I lived in. I never indulged in extended spa trips or mani-pedis every other day like Rosalie, or obsessively designed my house with priceless art and one-of-a-kind furniture sets like Alice. My indulgence was my car.

I loved it like it loved me. It purred at a touch and obeyed my every command almost before I made it. It was art on wheels.

I was at the office by seven, and Alice was looking bleary-eyed over a cup of coffee. "Morning, Ms. Swan."

"Good morning, Alice." She picked up a stack of messages and followed me into the office, taking my bag and handing me my chai.

"Random House called again, they're still having issues with the pre-orders we filed for them."

"Did you send Demetri to London?"

"He left an hour ago."

"Good. What else?"

"NAPCO wants to know about using our venue for the Literacy in India benefit."

"What does Felix think?"

"It's doable, but we'll have to make a donation of our own."

"Give them eighty thousand out of our European accounts. What else?"

We went through the morning ritual as I started up my computer and opened my inbox. Of course nothing important was awaiting my immediate attention, or my Blackberry would have beeped an alert, but that didn't mean I could ignore the emails that were pending my response.

After lunch there was a whirlwind of activity concerning the release of the new Sandra Brown. I wanted to land her first tour desperately, even though I dreaded dealing with authors that had made movies.

I was on the phone with her agent arguing signing deals when Alice knocked timidly on my door. "Ms. Swan, it's almost six."

I raised my eyebrows and motioned her to go ahead and leave. She chewed her lip, frowning in concentration and I sighed and wrapped up my call with the agent, promising to pick this up the next day. "I can manage without you if you have prior engagements, Ms. Brandon."

She shook her head. "You forgot."

"Forgot?" I never forgot.

"The gallery opening tonight. You said you'd come."

I groaned, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Is this really necessary?"

"You promised, Bella." She was giving me a wounded puppy expression and I rolled my eyes, disappointed she didn't know me better.

"I did. What time?"

"Seven."

I glanced at the clock. "I'll meet you there then."

"Aren't you going to go home and change?"

"You said this wasn't a set up."

"It isn't! I just thought you might want to dress up."

"I am dressed up."

"Traffic hits in fifteen minutes."

"Oh for crying out loud," I growled, standing up and gathering my things as Alice squealed with delight and handed me my tote. I rolled my eyes again, and ignored her on the elevator, but she was looking too pleased with herself to be affected.

"I'm bringing Jenkin. You're going to love him."

"I doubt I will."

She gave a small squeak of indignation, but said nothing until we reached the basement parking lot. She asked if I knew where the gallery was and I waved away her offers for directions, eager to be back in my Panamera and remind myself of all the good things in my life that made it worth putting up with nuances like Alice.

I took the longest possible route to the gallery, looking especially for stretches of empty roads so I could shift gears and hear my baby growl beneath me. By the time I got to the gallery I was feeling ready to persevere, immediately grabbing a champagne flute and trying to mingle with the brainless zombies that floated around these events.

Within an hour I was sickeningly bored and had managed to trap myself into the longest conversation on Earth when Sam Uley caught me to talk about the new book his wife was writing, and he was sure if I passed it along to one of my publisher friends it would be big, and I looked fantastic by the way and would I like to call Emily later in the week to talk about it?

Through the grace of a phone call from his stockbroker, he released me and I wandered aimlessly around the gallery, killing time before I could say I had kept my promise and get the hell out of there. I wasn't really drinking so much as holding my champagne flute and occasionally wetting my lips. The champagne was quite atrocious. The artwork? Likely thrown together by a band of chimps on hallucinogens. The people? Godawful boring. Bankers and investors, lawyers and advertisers and suits in all shapes and sizes, every one of them here with some first-grade bimbo on their arm, the men toting around cookie cutouts of Paris Hilton, the women with their arms linked with some Don Juan pool boy that spoke no English. I would kill Alice later for dragging me down here.

I passed out tight smiles and small nods when I had to, mostly hoping that no one I recognized would come up to me to try to make another conversation. I hated these functions mostly because of the kind of mentally stunted money bags that attended them. I couldn't hold still for too long or I'd be inviting conversation. Navigating the gallery was like crawling through a minefield.

Michael Newton was talking about sports with some generic oil men. I skittered around that group in a hurry. Tanya Denali was enthralling some advertising bigwigs with stories of her trip to the Himalayas. I nearly ran by that one. Jacob Black was deep in conversation with a bored-looking Eric Yorkie about his newest car. I turned right around and went in the opposite direction of that one.

All Alice had said to me was that there was someone that would be here that I would want to meet. She had sworn up and down on her life and on her favorite Gucci peep-toes that it wasn't a set up or a date, but I had remained unconvinced and was wondering again why I had let her talk me into this. As though thinking of her was a cue, she appeared by my side suddenly, her tiny hand on the elbow of a Don Juan of her own, tall and tan and wonderfully built. She chattered at him in something that may or may not have been Flemmish, and I rolled my eyes and turned away to try and make an escape.

Her steely little fingers were on my wrist, and I groaned in defeat. "Bella, have you met Jenkin?" I grimaced at the boy meat and held out my hand.

"Charmed, I'm sure."

He kissed my knuckles, smiling a dazzlingly stupid smile at me and I rolled my eyes some more. It was all just so vulgar.

"Alice, thank you again for your kind invitation to this event – I've had a wonderful time, but I think it's time I get going. Those twenty thousand books we ordered are grounded at Arizona because of that electrical storm and I need to find alternate means of shipment, so if you'll excuse me-"

"Bella, you'll really want to meet this guy." I bit the inside of my cheek before I could retort to that.

"So you've claimed for the past three days. Now I came here because you bugged me into it, and I'm bored and would like to leave now. So if you'll excuse me-"

She gripped my wrist again while Jenkin looked around him with polite interest on his face. He might have understood English, or he might have been as stupid as he played at. I glared at Alice and waited for her to explain herself because I would really kill her later at this rate. "Please, Bella, please.I promise you it's going to be worth your while, just please say you'll wait for him."

"Fine. I'll wait for another hour."

A grin split her face, and with a new level excitement she led Jenkin away towards where Jessica Stanley stood with a ridiculously over-groomed peacock of a man. Insufferable, really. Were these people really my friends?

I was staring in disbelief at a group of Irish collectors praising a twisted misshapen child's mobile as a statement on youth's insubordinance when I felt my entire body tingle with something akin to alarm. It was almost like I had suddenly been submerged in water, a heaviness on my skin making me feel anxious and uneasy. I was making my mind up on whether I should run or stand very still when I heard a voice speak over my shoulder, smooth and electric.

"They're so boring aren't they?"

I turned to look at the speaker, and unthinkingly my lips parted and I gasped. So quietly, I didn't think he heard.

The man's hair was the most unusual auburn, a coppery bronze that somehow didn't look like it came out of a tube though it almost certainly did, and his eyes were a glowing cat-like green that made me feel he could see directly into my soul. But as soon as I could collect my breath enough to look at anything else I noticed his chin and jaw were speckled with stubble, his suit wrinkled and too large so that it smothered his frame in a most unflattering fashion. He had worn a tie, but it hung loose around his neck. His shirt buttons were undone. His blazer was in need of a press. His hair! Untamed and wild and practically fire in the light of the gallery. And on his feet, he wore dirty sportswear, scruffy with the stitching coming undone in some places. He looked so thrown together, so careless. It was outrageous! He was staring at the Irish collectors with contempt. "How people voluntarily go to these things I'll never understand, it's downright criminal. DaVinci is sobbing in the heavens."

"I'm sorry, do I know you?"

He smiled at me, a crooked half-grin that had my heart racing in my chest, and I strictly scolded myself for letting some pretty eyes and a dazzling smile affect me like this. "No. But I know you. You're Isabella Swan, aren't you?"

I bit my lip, an old nervous habit from my childhood.

My nerves seemed to delight him and he continued. "Founder, owner and CEO of Charlie's Books. Started out in a little outlet in a small town in Washington reselling vintage copies of the classics and now running a highly successful multi-million dollar chain, if I'm not mistaken. You are 'driven, intelligent, and deceivingly young, with a passion for-"

"-all facets of literature and business', yes, I remember. People?"

"The Economist." He smirked and I laughed, causing him to laugh as well, a sound like velvet being stretched over silk. I offered him my hand.

"It seems unfair that you would know all about me and I don't even know your name."

He took my hand and kissed the knuckles, and a jolt of electricity shot up my elbow. It was so intense I jerked my hand from his grip, and the look of surprise on his face told me he felt it, too. He eyed me as though reconsidering me, then smiled a cocky crooked smile that even greater women would have had trouble resisting. "Interesting."

"Edward."

I turned to the tall blond who had interrupted us, and immediately felt a sense of calm and ease. He was statuesque with his well-groomed curls and piercing blue eyes, looking for all intents and purposes like he had just thrown on the Armani suit that fit him like a glove. He had an air of confidence that teetered on arrogance, and a slow lazy smile that would send lesser women's hearts a-pattering.

"Aren't you going to introduce me to your new friend?" He eyed me then, and his eyebrows rose in recognition.

"Jasper, this is Isabella Swan. Ms. Swan, my brother, Jasper Cullen. He owns the gallery."

Jasper took my knuckles and kissed them the way his brother had, and suddenly my mental faculties kicked in. "Cullen?" I turned again to the fire-haired man that had put me off and drawn me in simultaneously. "You're Edward Cullen?"

For a moment he seemed panicked, then his devil-may-care demeanor was back in full-force and he smiled. "You know of me?"

I swallowed then adopted my own attitude of indifference. "Pen-name Edward Masen. Author of The Insipid Doctor, initially a junior English class project, published at the age of nineteen. The book was overwhelmingly well-received, and Edward Masen was dubbed a literary prodigy. But there was no second book, and twelve years later, you, Mr. Cullen, are just as obscure as the rest of us." I smiled in triumph at his expression of reluctant respect.

"To be fair, you are anything but obscure, Ms. Swan."

My heart raced but I nodded graciously and wet my lips again with the champagne flute. "Tell me, Mr. Cullen, what has the greatest literary mind of our generation been doing for the past decade, then?"

The brothers exchanged looks, and Jasper smiled a calming smile at me. "Edward teaches high school English."

I caught Edward rolling his eyes, but he said nothing. "Is it as fulfilling as you had wanted your life to be?"

He opened his mouth to say something but we were interrupted when suddenly Alice's steely grip was on my wrist. "Ms. Swan, I see you've met Mr. Cullen."

I looked at her with disbelief. "Yes, I have, Alice." No way did little Alice Brandon, the most incompetent assistant of all time, manage to put this together. She had seen and commented on the display case in my office, but I never thought she truly understood how much The Insipid Doctor had truly meant to me. It had been the first book I'd read that had been written since I was born that had truly touched me. I had written off modern fiction as superfluous and frivolous, and then Edward Masen had written something truly spectacular, and everything I thought I knew about books was changed forever. Could the little chatterbox have really known? Could she have possibly had the intelligence to know that he would be here?

Jasper nodded at her, smiling at her, and I could practically see her heartrate accelerate. "You must be Ms. Brandon."

"Yes, we spoke on the phone," she answered breathlessly, and he kissed her knuckles as well.

We stood in awkward silence, and Alice seemed on the verge of bursting into the stratosphere. She was staring at Jasper Cullen with a strange intensity, and he was smiling at her with a confident arrogance. Watching them stare at one another felt almost like an intrusion, and even Jenkin frowned at them, perhaps resentful of the one who had stolen Alice's attention. I was about to make my excuses and leave when Edward cleared his throat, and I watched him warily as he extended his arm to me. "Will you walk with me, Ms. Swan?"

I nodded, handing Alice my champagne flute and slipping my hand into his elbow. Again that surge of electricity shot through me, and we walked silently, neither of us acknowledging it.

"You're a fan, I take it."

I wished I had my champagne flute on me, if just to buy time while doing something with my hands. "A fan of your book, yes."

He nodded, then turned to me with that crooked grin of his. "You must read hundreds of books. If you think so highly of mine I think that's high praise."

It was my turn to nod, and I again wished for something to do with my hands. "I'm sure a writer of your caliber has received higher praise."

"Whatever nice things critics had to say about my book, they were quick to take back when a second didn't follow." He did not sound bitter or angry, only amused and indifferent. I wondered if it was an act. "Of course, most of those critics were failed authors themselves, so I never took particular interest in their opinions one way or the other."

I wasn't sure how appropriate it would have been to respond to such a cutting remark, so I said nothing. We walked by some minimalist paintings and he paused to look them over.

"You want me to make an appearance. Do a signing. A meet and greet to impress all your friends and customers."

I clenched my jaw, counting back from ten to give myself time to calm. "I read The Insipid Doctor several times over. I thought it was special. I was curious about the person behind the work. Furthermore, my assistant arranged this without my knowledge, so I assure you there is no ulterior motive to my admiration."

He chuckled, more of that velvet over silk sound. "I see. Are we going to discuss imagery and metaphor use now? Or should we skip right to the sex?"

I turned to him, my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. I felt the heat rush my face and neck. "I beg your pardon."

He looked at me with an amused expression on his face and eyed me with open appreciation. The way he undressed me with his eyes… so crude. Quickly extricating my hand from the crook of his elbow I wrapped my arms instinctively around myself and he chuckled some more. "Come on. You're not seriously playing that game, are you? It's classic fangirl symptom. You think I'm so brilliant and fantastic, it makes your head spin. Now I'm here, in the flesh, and let's face it, baby, I'm not disfigured or hideous in any shape, way or form. So let's make some nice and then get to the good stuff, shall we?"

I wanted to punch him, except I knew it wouldn't hurt him. I wanted to hurt him except I knew it wasn't done. It was inappropriate and unheard of and all sorts of wrong. I wanted to. I couldn't.

He watched my face for some time, then smiled knowingly, like he knew what I was thinking. "Interesting, indeed. You're very restrained, aren't you?"

I thrust my chin out at him. "You seem to confuse decorum with restraint." I looked him up and down again and felt myself vibrate with anger. Looking the way he looked it was no real surprise he was so vile. "I wouldn't expect someone like you to appreciate self-control."

He snorted. "Someone like me? I thought you were so impressed with someone like me."

"Clearly I was wrong. You disappoint in every sense, Mr. Cullen."

"And you are the most boring stiff in the room."

We glared at each other for a few silent seconds, him with his eyes laughing at me, and I was so infuriated with him. He reached out slowly and brushed some hair away from my forehead, and I felt another surge of electricity at the contact. He sighed, so I knew he felt it too.

"I will see you again, Isabella Swan."

With a stiff nod, I spun on my heel and went to the coat check, determined to be out of here and as far away from Edward Masen as possible.