And Here He Comes
BPOV
My fingers tap rapidly in the pine desk, my blunt nails creating a quickly clicking sound. I expect my fidgeting to create a dent in the wood. But when I look, no dent is there.
My brown eye shift once again to the digital clock in the corner of my computer screen. It's four-nineteen.
He's four minutes late.
He's never been late before.
I grow unbearably anxious.
What if he's not coming this week? What if he's not coming again, because he found another better, bigger book store? What if the cashier there was a blonde, beautiful, woman who he was falling madly in love with right now? Or worse, what if she's not a cashier at all, but a gorgeous Swedish supermodel? It would have to be a super model—he was too good for anything less than that, especially a cashier.
It was yet another reason he could never be with me.
Of course, I wasn't actually a cashier, but he didn't know that.
I owned this small, unknown book store. It was my pride and joy.
I loved the way it made me feel—like each cell of my body was tingling with warm, the taste of a hot snicker doodle melting in my mouth and spreading through my body.
It was six months ago that my unreliable—but completely lovable—best friend Alice had bailed on her shift behind the counter. I had been upset about in at first, but then he stepped inside, out of the wet Seattle weather.
All I could do at first was stare.
He was beautiful.
Not model, airbrush beautiful, but genuinely amazing.
His hair was a honey, coppered color that hung in his eyes, water dripping off the tips and down his face.
His chiseled Michel Di Angelo face. He had a sharp, square jaw that I wanted to run my finger tips over, to feel the smooth skin beneath mine. His nose was pointed and angular, not too long or too short.
His lips looked soft and sweet and I wanted nothing more in that second then to taste them against mine.
And his eyes.
They were pools of green, so emerald I couldn't even describe it properly.
I wanted to drown in them.
It was the most frightening experience I had ever had.
And then he looked at me.
His eyes—gems placed on an angel's face—turned towards me. And then away.
He didn't look at me again after that.
I was devastated by this mysterious man I didn't know.
I wanted to see him again, although I know I shouldn't.
The next Tuesday, I voluntarily took the counter position.
I knew it was stupid—after all, what were the chances he would come back to my rinky-dink nobody book store?
Apparently, better than I thought.
He came back.
Every week.
Every Tuesday at four-fifteen.
I snap back to the present, glancing back at the clock yet again.
Four-twenty one.
He's not coming today, I tell myself. You're not important to him. He wouldn't come here for you.
I have never felt lonelier in my entire life.
His weekly visit is the one thing I looked forward too. I need my time with him.
I let the despair crush over my small, weak form.
He's left me.
What am I supposed to do?
Can I find him? Why would he want me too?
I don't even know his name.
I fear a large tear building up in my right eye, release and then fall slowly over my cheek, dropping onto the dirty carpet beneath my feet.
I reach my hand up, wiping away the next tears threaten to fall. Crying would do absolutely no good.
I am determined not to be that girl.
I'm a rational, practical person. I don't fawn over men. I stand on my own two feet. I built this store from the ground up.
I need to work. To distract myself from his absence.
His first absence in six months.
I pick up a small cardboard box of books, the weight heavy beneath my hands, and carry it over to one of the back shelves. Carefully stepping up onto the ladder—and knowing full well how much it hurts to fall off—I take a handful of books and begin to place them on the shelf. I'm in the more modern section, so I'm not aware of most of the titles. Personally, I happen to be a classical fan.
Then, the bell chiming throughout the air, vibrating unnaturally loudly in my ear, the door opens.
I don't look at first.
I cannot get my hopes up.
He's not here, I tell myself. He's not.
But, of course, I'm a glutton for punishment.
He's there.
I see his glorious face and body, the muscles in his arms and chest easy to see even under his coat.
I watch him, seeing as he looks at my desk. A punker forms in his beautiful forehead, his luscious mouth turning downwards.
He is unhappy.
A frown—most likely not nearly as attracting—takes over my face as well.
He's too beautiful to be sad.
He continues staring at my desk, his frown deepening every minute.
He looks like he's in pain.
I want to help him.
I need to help him. I'm powerless to do anything else.
I start to climb down the ladder.
In my haste, I forget that I'm hopelessly clumsy. My foot catches on the second to last peg and I tumble backward. I fall on my back, my head thumping painfully against the uncomfortable carpet. The ladder has fallen down beside me, a booming thump still echoing through air from the clash.
I wait for a moment, my ears stretching out as far as they could.
Quietly, I hear the sound of footsteps.
And here he comes.
I throw my hands over my eyes, locking my legs together at the knees. I'm trying, however futile the effort, to make this a little less embarrassing. It's not going to work, I can already tell.
My cheeks are flaming hot and I know I must be bright red.
I hear a low chuckle and the blush intensifies dramatically. I can't but let the small groan of mortification pass through my lips.
Then a voice calls out, the sound caressing my ears, and I drown in it. Drown in him.
The sound is the smoothest, softest thing I had ever heard. It's like music. I can practically hear the violin playing a soft, romantic tune, the notes spinning themselves in a sensual layer of dripping chocolate and then laying in the warmth of a velvet curtain.
Only an Adonis would have voice as perfect as that.
I take a moment to process the words.
He asked me if I was alright.
I can't prolong the inevitable any longer.
I sit up, dropping my arms.
We make eye contact.
I drown again.
His gorgeous eyes are even more beautiful—impossibly—when they are looking back at mine. The bright emerald in them sparkles blindingly. I can make out the different undertones in the vast green ocean.
He's too much.
Too wonderful. Almost too much to bare. \
I realize, with another surge of blush racing to my face that I have yet to answer his incredibly simple question. He must think I'm an idiot.
"I'm fine."
My voice comes out higher than usual. More blushing takes over.
Silence folds over us.
I search for something to say—just to hear that magical vice ring out again.
Hello, even though I've practically been stalking you, can I get your name?
You were late today. How did I know? Because seeing you is the highlight of my week—or my life.
I'm not crazy, but will you marry me? Or move in with me? Hell, at this point I'll take a romp in the supply closet. I've got the key. I can't get fired.
Everything seemed ridiculous.
Finally, he speaks again.
"I'm Edward."
Edward. It's lovely. Older, mature, romantic. It is beautiful.
And perfect for him.
He takes a step towards me, holding out a large hand.
I freeze, my gaze locking on his rough palm and gentle fingers. He's offering me a touch. I can touch him.
Just his hand, but it's everything to me.
How will I touch him without showing how hopelessly obsessed I am?
He begins to drop it, and I panic.
I grab a hold of him, gripping his hand as tightly as I could. I never wanted to let go of him. I couldn't—it wasn't in my power.
He pulled me up carefully and easily.
He was so strong.
As soon as my feet successfully—and somewhat balanced—positioned themselves on the floor, he practically ripped his grip from mine.
He didn't want me that way.
And yet that way was all I could think about.
His skin ignited a lightning bolt through me, shivers of pleasure threatening to erupt within my very soul. I've never felt this way before. All I want is to feel him running his wonderful hands over my skin. To feel him with me—lips moving together. To feel him in—
I can't think that way.
It was never going to happen; this conversation was all I was ever going to get. I needed to take advantage of it—to treasure it. It is all I will ever get of him.
"It's nice to put a name to the face," I say, impressing myself with the normalcy of the comment.
"I really like this store," he tells me with easy blasé.
His eyes connect with mine again, and the intensity makes a new blush spread over my cheeks.
"I like how it feels," Edward went on. I hoped he hadn't seen my juvile reaction to simple eye contact. "It reminds me of my mom's homemade cookies and snowy days by the fireplace. I like to compare to Christmas," A slight pause, "if that makes any sense."
He gets me.
He gets everything.
He's so perfect. Ridiculously perfect.
"It makes perfect sense." I inform him. And then, because I can't help but ramble onwards, "That was the way I planned it, to feel warm. It was supposed to make people feel…welcome and accepted. To feel like we're a part of something. Of a family, maybe."
Halfway through my explanation, I see his glorious mouth hang open. I want nothing more than to kiss it.
"Do you…" his face showed surprise. Beautiful, wonderful shock. "own this?"
I laughed at him. Honestly, he wasn't the first to underestimate my abilities in business.
"Most people don't believe me either," I told him, shaking my head sadly. "Apparently I don't look capable enough to own a store."
He looked sheepish, as if he was upset that he offended me somehow. Before I reassured him, he spoke up again.
"No, didn't mean it like that, It's just, you work behind the register. I figured most owners wouldn't do that."
I blushed again, because I did know why I worked behind the counter.
Him. It was all because of him.
We grow silent again.
Neither of us know what to say—the air around us is awkward. Every second I fight off the urge to touch him again, to run my hands down Edwards for of perfection.
Suddenly, he leans down, pressing his mouth so lose to my ear I can practically feel the softness of his lips against my lobe. I barely hold back my newest found of pleasurable shivers. He's too much.
Edward overload.
He tells me he's going to look around. I need to run, before I do something incredibly foolish. I step around him—careful to avoid skin to skin contact—and sit back down at my desk. I pull out a book, attempting to distract myself.
It's hopeless.
All I can do is focus on Edward from the corner of my eyes.
He gets to the counter more quickly than usual, and I hope—just for a split second—that he wanted to see me.
He places his book on the table-top and I can't help but smile. He loves the classics too—he almost always gets one.
I look up to met Edward's eyes, braving the abbess of emerald, and then the most amazing thing in the word happens.
He leans in close to me—closer than normal circumstances will allow, and his eyes lock on my lips.
He's going to kiss me.
He wants to. He wants to kiss me.
An want him too. But I can't move. I'm frozen with nerves.
Then, with the slightest, gentlest touch, he kisses me.
Lighter than the wind blowing on my face, and yet it's beautiful—the feel of him. His mouth is soft and sweet and the taste is just out of my reach, and yet just enough. I can smell him too—vanilla mixed with pine. Woodsy and wonderful.
Just before I can push back—to kiss back—he removes his glorious lips. Hit takes me a mount to thaw out, my eyes open. I hadn't realized I closed them.
Our eyes met again and we both blush brightly.
He smiles at me and I smile at him.
We both know this is the perfect moment. We've both waited for this.
He's shown me how he feels in the most lovely of way. I feel I have t do the same. Opening the cover of Picture of Dorian Gray, I scribble down my information before I have the time to change my mind.
I hand it back to him, and he takes, though his eyes have not yet left mine.
"Bella," he whispers in that velvet-chocolate voice. "I'd like to take you out to dinner, f that's all right?"
If that's all right?
If that's all right?
If that's all right?
Of course it's all right!
Yes! Yes! Yes! I feel like shouting it to him, climbing over the counter and dragging into the pre-considered supply closet.
But I don't.
Somehow, impossibly, I manage to keep my cool.
"I'd really like that," I say, controlling my words. I almost roll my eyes at the understatement.
A grin begins to spread over his beautiful face, lighting the magnificent surface. "Friday, at eight?"
I nod.
The grin grows now, and I see that's its crookedly.
Perfect crooked.
More beautiful than anything.
With one long, last lingering gaze, he walks out of the store.
A gasp leaves my chest in a large huff, as f I had been holding it the entire time.
I turn around and sink to the ground, my back against the desk.
I feel exhausted.
And thrilled.
I smile.
Friday.
Perfect.