Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I don't.
This is a repost of my very first FF with about 1,800 more words.
As this was already beta'd once, forgive my mistakes with my new additions.
Enjoy.
It's a New Dawn. It's a New Year.
Throngs of screeching, high-pitched, girly keens enter my mildly buzzing sanctuary. This is not how I envisioned spending my New Year's Eve Day, especially at this time of the morning! How do they get this close? Where is security? This is why I pay extra for first class. There are just too many damned celebrities in this city disrupting others' lives. I keep telling myself I need to get out of here for good but always concede. After all, if I left, who would help them? I just want some peace and quiet while vacationing before my symposium. Is that too much to ask?
Ahs I glance over my glass, I note that the shrilly squealing continues echoing through the lounge's open door. The commotion appears as though it's for some tall, smiling, autograph-signing, trench-coat-wearing, guitar-carrying, copper-haired, famed talent, maybe in his late twenties or early thirties. But I pay it—the drama—no mind. It's all been played out before. New fame brings much fortune then hardship. Money cleans people up really well out here, but it also crushes them. I know. I've seen it before. I've heard their stories.
Clearly burdened, the man lumbers over to the bar and eases down his guitar and duffel bag before pushing out his chest to straighten his back. With perfect posture, he slides himself into the padded swivel, closest to the door, leaving vacant the seat between us. His carefully maintained façade withers as he relaxes. I recognize him from somewhere, TV, a concert, or perhaps a movie, but I can't place him.
"I'll have a Grey Goose Bloody Mary with a salted rim and extra horseradish . . . please."
He mumbles something unintelligibly while removing the Ray Bans from atop his damp, messy hair before squeezing the bridge of his nose, no doubt pinching equanimity back into his brain. He looks like someone who's had a rough night—one of many, judging by his pin-pointy pupils and receding eyes, eyes displaying darkened circles below them.
In a rare moment, I'm feel sorry for this man. I don't think he's brought this upon himself. He looks so old, so wise beyond his years. He reminds me of someone else. I can't imagine what he's seen, heard, or let others do to him. Well, actually, I can. I've heard it many times before and not just because I've been paid to listen. Yet, something about him strikes me differently. I find myself wanting to care what it is—what's troubling him. Totally out of my apathetic character, I shake my head and speak.
"You poor man. How do you put up with it?" I catch him mid-sip.
"Excuse me?"
"You carry yourself with the poise and grace of a noble royal. Yet, clearly, you are as beaten and withered as a storm-battered shore. Look, you're even turning up debris."
I point out a girl's photograph, peeking out of one pocket, and a phone numbered post-it, sticking out of the other. My snarky remark earns me a few sweetened smirks, a slight "huh," and a flushed face. He's embarrassed but amused. He shakes his head and gently pulls the fan ephemera from himself, placing it hesitantly on the bar. I get the feeling he thinks I will judge him somehow for wanting to leave it there.
Again, with no sieve filtering my words, I voice. "Don't concern yourself with what I think. No one's judgment should matter but your own." Considering my words he motions, signaling our purveyor of good cheer, and gestures for the bartender to dispose of his young fangirls' leavings.
Angling toward me, he gives his appreciation. "Thank you. I always worry about my actions and fear how they'll be construed. I really dislike living under the public's scrutiny all the time. I feel I can't ever truly be myself."
"And who might that be?"
"Well, I'm really not comfortable with any of this: fan outbursts, selfie solicitations, ear-piercing screams, and paparazzi stalkings, but I feel obligated, making myself available to the public because I wouldn't be here if it weren't for them. In reality, I'm a quiet man who just tolerates it . . . I guess." Thinking he's already divulged too much, he runs his hands over his face, hiding his eyes and distorting his features.
"Well, thank you for that poignant glimpse into your troubled conscience, but I was actually referring to whom you might be. Embarrassingly, I honestly can't place you."
With his face still covered, he tilts his head in my direction, and splays his index finger widening the gap between his digits, lessening the obstruction over his right eye, effectively "peekaboo-ing" me. "Really? You don't know who I am?"
"Well, I haven't been living in a cave, donning a fur bra and loin cloth." There goes that blush again. "I do recognize you from somewhere, but I really don't know who you are."
That earns me a full-blown smile accompanied by his bloodshot, though sparkling, seductive gaze complete with with droopy lids and tiny creases at the corners.
Whoa! I guess I really can see his appeal.
His glistening gray-blue-green eyes are rather hypnotic, maybe even chameleonic, changing color as his body moves under the lights over the bar or when he turns to glance at the tarmac as cumulus clouds drift past the shining sun. His stare is fascinating. I could probably watch it for hours, second guessing his thoughts, always seeing something different.
"Hmm . . . Wow! Uh, it's just very rare not being known. I'm Edward. Edward Cullen."
I snap out of my digression at his greeting. I'm never arrested by anyone.
"Nice to meet you, Edward. Edward Cullen. I'm Bella Swan."
"Wow . . . the one and only, Bella Swan, celebrity psychoanalyst? You're a legend among my kind. You're like L.A.'s most famous psychiatrist. You've helped so many people I know. I'm kind of humbled to be in your presence and a little taken aback, too. I didn't know you were so . . . young, and forgive me for being so forward, hot."
Affronted by his derogatory remark suggesting I should be an old hag, I respond. "What did you expect,maybe a navy blue suited, prescription-pad wielding, horn-rimmed-glasses wearing, fully-graying spinster?"
The tips of his ears redden as I lose my impulse control while my id barks. Ugh! Why do I feel compelled to defend myself in front of him? My ego should have kept me in check. Why did his comment unnerve me? I'm a professional! Deep down, I think I like his appraisal. He said I'm hot. His assessment has me feeling warm all when I should be feeling objectified instead. He was just admiring my looks so I shouldn't have snapped at him. Shame on me. Now I feel the need to bury my head as my superego is telling me to feel guilty over my outburst.
"Well, no, not exactly. It's just that I didn't have this vision of you. When my friends and coworkers sang your praises, I just envisioned someone older and not as . . ."
Hot? I choose to redirect the conversation, fending off disclosing things about me needing self-analysis. "Wise-assed? Sorry, I couldn't resist. Please continue." Stupid id needs to learn how to behave and stop acting childish!
"Attractive, I was about to say."
He simultaneously uses his fetching hands and enticing eyes, gesturing that I'm well put-together. With any other man, I would continue assaulting him with beating brows and biting quips, but with him, I just back down and accept his compliment. Finally my ego is doing its job! I shouldn't fault him for being so candid and sweet. I sense it's quite difficult for him to speak this honestly so I shouldn't discourage him any further.
He deflects the tension now apparent in our conversation by embracing a jesting tone, holding his celery stick before biting it. "Please forgive me—I had no time for breakfast—but, the latter works, too . . . crunch . . . you being a wise-ass, that is—as would you wearing the hot librarian glasses."
Ooh, he did not just go there. My id can't miss this opportunity!
Snidely, I remark, "You don't say? That's good to know. I actually keep a pair in my desk for dirty male patients' fantasies."
He snort-spits while taking a sip of the pungent tomato mixture and starts choking.
Score! Ouch! Horseradish is bad enough in general, but up the nose it's dreadful. He's suffered enough. Because of the good sport I am and belief I caused his affliction, I lean over the empty seat and softly pat his back, progressing to mildly scratching it. Tensing at first, he quickly melts under my hand. Hmm. He's pretty solid.
As I stop leaning and move over, easing into the once vacant seat between us, I turn on my million "Bellawatt" smile in apology then finish the last of my Mimosa.
Still feeling the effects of the harsh condiment, he points at my flute and rasps, "May I get you another?"
"Sure. I don't board for another fifteen minutes."
After clearing his throat enough to talk, he waves down the bartender for another round.
"Really? Me, too. Where are you headed?"
"Paris."
The glorious grin, back in place on his face, tells me everything. He's on the same flight, and since this is the first class lounge, most likely in my section. If I didn't know his type, I might be interested. He truly is a very handsome man, but looks do not equate to substance. If I had to choose between beauty, brawn, brains, or bravery, the nerd would trump every time. However, if "befittingness" were an acceptable word in our language, it would also be a contender for my consideration.
.
.
.
With our continued small talk I learn that he's done a little of everything regarding entertainment, but I would probably best know him from movies or professional ad campaigns. I also uncover that he plays the guitar as a hobby and is an avid reader, such as I. Additionally, I ascertain he's primarily self-taught, receiving numerous college credits through university correspondence and online coursework. He's also researched random topics of interest and garnered much knowledge from delving into the roles he's played. I'm really quite impressed; he's not at all as I pegged him. I don't know whether to be pleased for my sake that he's not a dreg or disappointed with myself for not sizing him up properly.
Further examination reveals he was born and schooled in Chicago but avoids O'Hare as if plagued. Wholeheartedly agreeing, I guess we're lucky we're refueling at JFK! While in Paris, he plans on spending a few weeks, resting before teaming up with a film crew in the French Riviera where he'll be shooting some movie scenes and a few commercials. Afterward, he's planning on vacationing with his two sisters, Rose and Alice, both in college, a mother, Esme, who designs interiors, and a father, Carlisle, who's a renowned surgeon.
He also hates early morning, transatlantic flights, partied a little too much with his compatriot friends last evening, and would rather be home right now, cuddling in bed with his dog.
Ordinarily that last bit would be a little too much information. However, I see his need for unconditional canine-companionship as a placeholder for the human affection he craves but can't achieve because of his distrust in others. This need is further complicated by his feelings of unworthiness toward a long-term commitment due to his hectic lifestyle, but regardless of his present situation, he still yearns for a permanent relationship. As do most.
"British Airways flight 6699 now boarding at gate 8."
He sputters, coughing a bit while turning red at the sexual connotation of our flight number. Finding his fluster amusing, I rub and pat his back again. He's like wax in my warm hands.
"Sorry. I fly so frequently. They just tell me when to be ready and send a driver. I don't even bother looking at my boarding pass or flight numbers anymore. This number, however, caught me off guard."
His rosy coloring is still quite evident, so I surmise if he were that much of a lounge lizard, he would have probably waggled his eyebrows or slipped in a crude remark when the call was first announced. Maybe he is that reserved and mannered. That's a novel thought.
I speak up, "I guess that's us."
He turns to my side to help me off of my seat, but my heel is stuck on the stool's rung. Chivalrously, he bends forward to ease my foot free.
"Thank you." I say it somewhat discomposed, trying to hide my embarrassment.
"Well, if I don't see you again, have a great flight. Um, it was a pleasure meeting you, Bella."
He offers his hand for me to shake but when I grasp it, he gently rotates it, horizontally, and clasps my fingers, raising the back of my hand up to his mouth.
I'm stunned. No one's ever kissed my hand before. I feel rather awkward, but it feels kind of nice. His lips are very soft and even with a slight beard, his facial hair feels good. Gee, am I the one now blushing?
I transition from the surprise with hope for a seamless recovery. I don't need him thinking he has that effect on me. "It was very nice meeting you, too, Edward. I hope we see each other again sometime, in a non-professional way, of course. Also, thank you for the drink."
"You're welcome. Thank you for the company and for your back rubs." His parting grin and wink leaves me much warmer than the alcohol.
I grab my carry-on while Edward motions for me to go ahead of him."Ladies first."
I'll say this, his parents have trained him well. He's very much the gentleman and genuinely looks disappointed he doesn't have a third hand to carry my tote. I'm rather disappointed, too.
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.
.
I rummage through my bag to retrieve my boarding pass as I move across the ramp. Navigating my way through first class I glance back to see Edward but, regretfully, I don't. I actually feel a small loss and slight pang in my chest. We were on our way to becoming . . . friends? I walk carefully to ensure that I won't trip in my black Mary Jane Louboutins—death traps that they are—and take my window seat, digressing. Sometimes vanity gets in the way of practicality. It's just that I can't see myself arriving in France in tennis shoes. I certainly wouldn't be caught dead in Converse, either. Those days are long gone. I reason I'll be sitting throughout the flight so I can tough it out for the time it takes to there.
I didn't check to see if the seat next to me was purchased. If I had thought enough ahead, I would have booked the pair. It would be worth it not to have a passenger next to me with chronic halitosis or sleep apnea. An incessant chatterbox would be even worse! One by one, I tick off the possible medical conditions of the unknown person sharing my row, potentially bothering me in flight. As I consider the possible annoyances of that individual, I hear the stowing of items in the overhead bin behind me before seeing him.
"I believe you'll need to move your purse a bit, miss, as this is my seat."
I hear that melodic, velvet-like voice before I see his lady-killing smile. The one lady-killing me. I look over to fully see the gorgeousness of my early morning drinking partner and feel every bit as frightened as a lost, thirteen-year-old virgin, stumbling into a room full of aroused, heterosexual pedophiles.
Why am I so nervous?
I redirect my anxiety by doing what comes naturally. "We've got to stop meeting like this. People will most likely talk, Tweet, or upload us onto You Tube."
"You joke, Bella, but I bet there are at least a dozen posts already on the internet with regards to our last hour together."
"Wow, that's pretty . . . unsettling."
"Actually, it's pretty normal for my life."
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.
.
We continue our mildly flirtatious banter for the next few hours learning a great deal more about each other and also discovering we are both the same age with me being a cougar by ten months. Wait, am I actually entertaining the idea of something else with him, something else that's something more?
We continue sharing our precocity. I mention solving crime cases for my dad at age ten then enrolling in college courses at fourteen to appease my mom. He discloses bouncing from one mundane boarding school to the next, breezing through his classes, and ending up with lackluster private tutors while beginning his career in film at age nine. There is a contented easiness between us. It's pleasing. I really enjoy his company, and I assess he's enjoying mine. I even feel a little giddy.
We get up switching seats and stretching our legs then make use of the facilities. I figure the time spent off my feet will lessen the pain and pinching, but the short walk to the ladies' room tells me otherwise as the narrowness of my pumps continue abrading my toes. I consider my social circle and put on a good front, enduring the pain, but he senses my discomfort in choosing inappropriate footwear right away.
Before I boarded, I had winced every now and then, walking through the terminal, but here, now, with swelling from inactivity, it's hard for me to disguise the throbbing.
Forgive me. I say inwardly, while thinking unethically, as I manipulate Edward into to removing my now-despised foot coverings.
"You changed your shoes, and you're wearing socks." Gone are his dark leather wing-tips and bare ankles. In their place are fuchsia cheeks and florid ears.
"You noticed. I didn't have time to change them this morning. I crashed at one of my friend's places and took a quick shower. When I came out, my socks were gone."
Sensing my perplexity, he continues.
"My friend's cat, Boots, is known as somewhat of a sock monster. I've probably lost five pairs to him. He steals them from the floor and runs off. He even stole the clean ones out of my bag. My personal assistant already had everything packed and in the limo before my driver came, so although I had access to my sneakers, I didn't have access to any other socks. Not wanting to chance a meeting with more fans, I paid the concierge to get me a pair from the gift shop but waited until you got up to change my shoes. It just didn't seem proper—doing it in front of you." The outcome is this, the Chucks—now with socks—on my feet.
I was right; he is a well-mannered gentleman.
"May I?" He asks this as he points to my right shoe.
Now I'm the one feeling improper but am still elated my plan is working. I'm not sure about the intimacy of this, but the moment he touches my stockinged-calf, I cave. His fingers are long and strong but delicate when touching me. With no reservations, I let him take my leg and secure it over his lap. He gently grasps my pump and gingerly tugs the strap, releasing it from the buckle.
Why does this moment feel as though he's removing more than my shoe?
In a reverse Cinderella moment, he slips off the entombing device and places it in the space between us. Never leaving my gaze, he begins his sinful assault kneading my compressed parts over my arch up to the ball down to the heel and across my toes. Ungh, Although I'm in proverbial heaven, I'll probably go to Hell for tricking him into doing this. But it feels so good.
"Ahhhhhhhhhh. Mmmm. Ohhhhhhh. That feels wuh...under…ful. Uhhhhhh. The hands of this musician are also those of a magician. You're in the wrong profession."
"Thank you, I think." His brow puckers in confusion, but he still smiles.
Now grasping my left foot, he continues with the same ravishment, and it seems as though I'm not the only one getting enjoyment out of this. I feel a dormant part of him awakening under my calf. Sensing his own volcanic activity, he subtly lifts my leg a little higher, closer to his heart. For the first time in my entire life, I find Nirvana. I'm in Elysium, a mythological paradise. How could I ever explain this to my colleagues? How can one foot rub transcend everything in my life? It's simple. He's a deity, casting his will upon me. This majestic man who exudes such a quiet confidence has rendered me, the Bella Swan, into goo, sentimental tripe. Realization finally dawns that I'm actually having a great time with this good man, a good man I don't want to give up, especially for his foot massaging capabilities. This is my revelation. It just became . . . revealed.
What should I do? I don't do relationships.
We lead complicated lives. Could I be with someone like him?
He's gorgeous. I should tap that. Without any guilt.
Of course there will be guilt. I can't just hit him and quit. It's not morally correct.
God, my psyche's parts are scaring me. Maybe I'll just enjoy this flight while it lasts. If nothing else, it's been a joyous flight with a wonderful man. Yeah, that's a wise idea.
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.
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As we are flying somewhere over the Atlantic approaching Europe, I hear our flight attendant . . . "Champagne to toast in the New Year?"
"Sure, why not?"
I turn to Edward who's been quasi-cuddling my shoulder and inconspicuously sniffing my hair for the last hour of Hangover (Of course the irony of showing this movie on New Years' Eve is not lost.) I take my glass from the tray as Edward takes his.
"What shall we toast to?" He says it with hopeful hesitation, probably thinking I'll analyze him for making the suggestion.
"How about a new dawn or a new year, like the beginning of something?"
"Sure, that sounds fitting . . . Fuuuh, I mean crap."
He sounds a bit apprehensive and appears a bit flustered. I recognize this because aside from the "bridge pinching" he sometimes does to cease blood flow to his brain, he combs his hands through his hair, which is what he's doing now.
Although he seems dismayed, I know it's not a major point of anxiety because he only uses one hand instead two—meaning he is more likely embarrassed by something as opposed to being frustrated. It hasn't taken me long to home in on his mannerisms. (I thank my father's investigative law enforcement nature, giving my career aspirations an early start in my teenage years. That, as well as all of my formal education and research, has made me a good judge of body language.)
"What's the matter?" I bat my eyes slightly in interest.
"You're going to think I'm silly."
"No judging, remember?" My sincerity rings through.
"Okay. I'm really hating my agent right now for booking this flight." His face starts flushing again.
"Go on." I say it with no emotion in my voice, but anticipate feeling very crushed if it turns out he regrets my company.
"Well, this is stupid, but it's a superstitious tradition in our family to grab someone to kiss on New Year's Eve; but I don't have anyone this year. It's like that iconic Life magazine moment with the sailor kissing the nurse after V-Jay day in Times Square. My dad did that to my mom when they first met. Corny and clichéd, it was their love at first sight, even though it didn't work out that way for the couple in that picture."
I need to play my cards right.
"Your disappointment makes it sound as though you've had a lot of practice doing that over the years." I say this good-naturedly but really don't want to become just another form of conquest to him.
"I know this sounds really disturbing, but we always had very large family gatherings on New Year's Eve . . . lots of distant cousins."
The cousin concept is a bit off-putting, but the sailor/nurse image is tempting. I'm intrigued.
"I think I might be able to oblige you . . maybe just this once."
Now, I'm the one who should be pulling my hair. I need to keep my composure. It's just a kiss.
We make our toast clinking our glasses while tipping the bubbling contents back against our now tickling throats. Finishing more hurriedly than proper etiquette usually dictates, we set down our plastic ware.
The countdown begins to ensue.
"Ten . . ."
Our eyes look into one another's, darting slightly left then right. His eyes have been morphing, revealing many hues today but none this intense. They take on this darkened, color. His pupils are almost completely black, as most likely are mine, due to arousal.
"Nine . . ."
We each take a calming breath, acknowledging what we are about to do.
"Eight . . ."
Our mouths part slightly, and Edward gently slides his tongue between his lips moistening them.
"Seven . . . "
I find myself doing the same.
"Six . . ."
He begins to lean in toward me.
"Five . . ."
I meet him halfway.
"Four . . ."
"Thank you," he says sweetly.
"Three . . ."
"You're welcome," I give obligingly.
"Two . . ."
"Oh, what the hell."
He immediately places his hands, on either side, pushing his fingers through my hair, spreading them, cupping my head, cradling my neck while his thumbs lightly press, stroking my cheeks before settling just underneath each earlobe as he closes the distance, placing his lips on mine.
"One."
"Happy New Year!"
His lips are gentle yet controlling. He smells delicious. The back of my head is tingling. Blood is rushing to my face. It is moving to other parts, too. He tugs my upper lip, taking it between his. He introduces me to his tongue. I introduce him to mine. I thread my fingers through his hair. And pull him to me. "Mmmmm." Bliss. My heart's pounding in my ears. I hear the din of others. We pull away and take deep breaths.
"Wow!" He says it first.
"Likewise."
We just stare, taking in the moment, not sure of how things are left between us, but I feel the need in breaking our silence.
"Edward... may I ask you something?
"Certainly."
"Who kissed me?
He looks bewildered as I continue.
"Was it Edward Cullen, the actor . . . or was it the real Edward Cullen?"
An epiphany washes away all playfulness and desire from his face as he earnestly speaks.
"Back at the bar I felt it. I don't know how to describe it, because I've never experienced anything like it before, but I knew I wanted to keep feeling it again. Every time we've touched since then, it's been there. It's a kinetic energy, a continuous dynamic, a chemical reaction between us. At first, I thought I was just responding to your touch. It's . . . been awhile . . . but the more I kept feeling it, the more I understood. That kiss was all me, Edward Anthony Masen Cullen, no one else. I don't know what will happen from here on in or whether you would even consider seeing me again, but, I do know that I don't want it, this feeling to go away. Specifically, I don't want you to go away. Bella, you're special . . . as well as engaging, brilliant, witty, ravishing. You are the first person I have ever felt comfortable opening up to, and I don't think it's just because of your profession. I think it's because of who you are. I don't know if you even feel remotely the same . . . and I get that. If you don't or you can't, then I'll cherish our time and think of this day, as one of the brightest in my life so far and accept it, moving on, praying I will find a fraction of the connection I feel with you, now, should I ever meet someone amazing like you, again . . . though I highly doubt that will ever happen. You are, after all, the one, and only, Bella Swan.
Soulmates.
I'm stunned.
In all of my years, nothing has captured my silence . . . except for this man and his words. I feel the burning in my chest, tearing at my eyes, and quivering of my lips. No one's ever conveyed such beautiful declarations. I would be a fool to let this man walk away.
"Bella, say something, please." Coming out of my daze, I finally tune in, understanding his words. "I'm so sorry if I've offended you. I promise to keep my thoughts to myself, I didn't mean to . . ."
I place two manicured fingers over his silky lips to quiet his fears while composing myself. He's still unsure, and I still can't speak, but my reaction has me grabbing his collar with both fists and hoisting him over to my awaiting mouth. It sends my message, loud and clear.
I want this.
I want him.
I want us.
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.
Nestled, I awake to a firm heated chest and two encircled arms. I'm much happier listening to his soft thrumming heartbeats in my left ear than I am to the loud droning announcements at my right. No Freudian analysis is needed; it finally clicks that I'm not dreaming. I guess the handsome, gentle stranger I met yesterday, the one becoming a part of my world today, is making me wonder if he'll still be around tomorrow.
"Ladies and gentleman, this is your captain speaking. We have just been cleared to land at Charles de Gaulle International Airport. It is presently 8:30 a.m. Central European Time. The temperature is 6 degrees Celsius; 43 degrees Fahrenheit, and our arrival will be in about fifteen minutes. We hope you had a pleasant flight and New Year's Eve and wish you a safe and happy 2016. Thank you, as always, for flying British Airways."
The flight attendants continue with seating, securing, and seat-belting instructions, but I pay no attention to them while my hands are still touching him. I relish his closeness, scent, heat, and warmth, wishing our flight wasn't over, wanting this feeling forever, hoping what he said last night wasn't just fueled by pleasure-producing endorphins or French white wine.
"Hey." I croak with mussed up hair, a wrinkled dress, and overnight breath; it's all I can give him.
"Hey back." He wakes greeting me with a raspy voice, dopey smile, bedroom eyes, and something else.
Something else I want elsewhere.
"So, what now?" I ask hopeful, but not pleading, not wanting him hearing the high school desperation in my voice.
"I don't know about you, but I could use a stretch, some breakfast, and a good night's sleep preferably in that order." He makes light our heavy moment, testing if anything has changed.
Knowing it hasn't with me, my emboldened mouth speaks with a smirk before I can rein it in. "I know one thing on your list I can help with."
"Oh really, and what might that be?" He squeezes my side, making me yipe, tickling me.
"You'll just have to be patient . . . and see."
He softly kisses my nose and places a loose lock of hair behind my ear. His lips find their way down the side of my eager neck and across my heated collarbone. I want to bury his head in my breasts and help him with his stretching; but now is not the time, and here is not the place.
"Edward?"
"Hmm?"
He pulls away slightly, breathing more heavily.
"Your fans, will they, um, follow you to your hotel?"
Unfortunately, my words seem to jar his thoughts, ceasing all prior actions.
I want to pout.
"Oh, shit, um, yeah, probably."
I summon my deceased grandmother's courage and put on her enormous panties. Frankly, I don't give a damn what Freud would say about this!
"I have my own flat. It has great security. You can stay with me. Call your people. Have them transfer your things . . . into another car to bring to my place." I see his thoughts spinning and a grin emerging.
"Why, Miss Swan, I would be delighted to stay with you."
"Well then . . . Mr. Cullen, I guess I can help you with all three things on your list,
"I'll definitely be looking forward to that, Dr. Swan.
Doctor, hmm? What about the librarian?
He gives me his wide eyes and an arched brow, "If you brought those glasses, I think we could make the best of both professions."
I swat his shoulder and wiggle my butt into his morning problem, making him hiss. Kidding aside, he turns me around, facing out the window.
"Bella, about that toast . . ."
Not yet ready to give up his lap and take my seat, I lean back against the firm planes of his chest and shoulders. While he drapes his cocooning arms around me, we take in an ethereal sunrise. It's all the colors of a child's ice cream sundae not only befitting wondrous France or the dawn of our toast, but a promise of love, whenever, wherever, and however that might be. By just basking in the comfort of each other, I know we will truly have a great and happy new year with hopefully many more to come.
A/N:
Dedicated those with hardships, seeking peace in this new year.
Review me your thoughts.
Thank you Bornonhalloween, Chayasara, and Shawna Elizabeth.
Thank you for reading.
PAD
If you care to, please check out my other stories as well.