I posted a new chapter of my WIP last night and my number of reviews was quite disappointing...so I decided to post this. I've had this written for months. It has just been waiting for me to post it. Hopefully I'll get more reviews. (wink)

Warning: lemons ahead.

Rule #1 for the "real world" that every teenager hears about: Never show your potential employer that you're intimidated.

I draw in a deep breath before knocking on the door. I am shy, painfully shy, and the lump in my throat makes me want to turn and run away. But I want this job even more. A journalist job while I'm still a journalism student?

My empty resume's dream come true.

The door opens, and an extremely handsome forty-something blond man stands there, his blue eyes and white teeth shining. "You must be Miss Swan," he says kindly, shaking my hand warmly. "I'm Carlisle Cullen, the owner of the newspaper. Call me Carlisle. Come on in, dear."

Rule #2: Never awkwardly gawk at your potential employer, no matter how hot he looks.

"Thank you," I say as I follow him into his office. "Please, call me Bella."

"Bella," he smiles at me. "It's so nice to meet you. Come have a seat."

I try not to stare as he walks behind the mahogany table. But as he takes a seat across from me, my eyes land on a young man who is even more beautiful than Carlisle. He's closer to my age, with a lot of bronze hair that looks to be ruffled and ransacked by his long fingers. His green eyes stare at me harshly, and I feel a little intimidated.

By his sexiness.

Rule #3: Never awkwardly gawk at your potential employer's friend, no matter how delectably fuckable he looks.

"This is our paper's editor-in-chief," Carlisle explains. "Edward Masen. He's in his senior year. A journalism major as well. If we decide to hire you, Edward will be your supervisor of sorts."

"Hi," I say shyly, extending my hand. "I'm Bella Swan."

Edward shakes my hand, still staring at me coldly. "Let's get down to business, shall we?"

Rule #4: Never let your smile falter when facing your potential supervisor. Even if he is as warm as a Canadian winter.

"Sure," I say nervously.

Luckily, Carlisle smiles at me. "Well, Bella, I must say you performed a miracle by sending us a portfolio ahead of time. We examined all of your articles, page layouts, photos, and advertisements, and we were very impressed with how professional you are."

Edward cuts in then, and his musical voice is stern. Disappointed. "But all of your items are for a high school newspaper."

"Yes," I say, my throat dry, still forcing that smile. "I just graduated high school, actually. However, I did mark the items that won awards in statewide high school journalism competitions-"

"Nothing national," Edward remarks arrogantly.

"I'm from an extremely small town and financially-limited school district. We couldn't afford to go to national competitions."

"Of course," Carlisle says. "Still, you've mastered the art of a high school newspaper. What technology did you use?"

Ah, this I can brag about. "My school used Windows programs on Dell PCs, but as the editor-in-chief, I reedited everything on my Mac at home. I used Quark and Fireworks. Occasionally InDesign."

"That's extremely impressive," Carlisle compliments me. "How many hours did that take?"

"Our paper was monthly, so I spent at least two hours a day on it, not counting the class time our staff had." I see now that Carlisle is pleased, so my smile widens. "I, er, had to take rain checks on a lot of dates and fun."

"You still lack experience," Edward says devastatingly, and my confident smile slips. "No internships, and you've only been a journalism student for a month."

Rule #5: Never, ever look like you know you're unqualified for the job.

"But I'm passionate about journalism," I counter. "I want to learn more, and I want to know the field better. I honestly feel that this newspaper could benefit me just as much as I could benefit it. I have a letter of recommendation from one of my professors, Dr. Meyer-"

"One of the most respected professors at the university," Carlisle admits. "She praised you quite lavishly."

The rest of the interview continues in the same manner. Carlisle is flawlessly polite and continuously compliments me. Edward is cold, hard, and harsh. No compliments whatsoever.
Finally, when I feel like I may pass out after Edward's insults and cuts, Carlisle dismisses me.

"We're very impressed," he assures me. "You obviously have plenty of passion and talent. We will call you within the next week to let you know our decision."

"Thank you," I say, feeling a bit relieved. I stand up and accept his parting handshake.

Edward takes my hand gingerly, running his other hand through that beautiful tousled hair. "We still have to consider your inexperience and youth," he says flatly. "Don't expect butterflies and rainbows just yet, Isabella."

All of that relief is wiped out.

Rule #6: Always conduct yourself in a professional manner in case your potential employer happens to see or hear you.

My phone rings, interrupting my study break. My roommates Alice, Rosalie, and I are sharing Oreos and milk to fuel our brains. I don't recognize the number, so I go straight into business mode.

"Bella Swan," I say as I answer it.

"Bella!" says a familiar voice. "It's Carlisle Cullen."

"Oh, hi, Carlisle," I say shyly, my stomach knotting. "How may I help you?"

"Well, Edward and I have pored over every job application and we feel that you are our best bet. Honestly, your interview was so impressive that I'm not surprised."

No, you feel that I'm your best bet. The little ray of sunshine named Edward Masen hates me. "That's great," I say slowly. He hasn't offered me the job just yet.

"Yes. But you must understand that the job opening was left by a fantastic journalist. You can't get much better than Victoria. However, she was picked up by a news network, and now we want you to fill her shoes, as hard as it will be."

"I'd be honored," I gush.

"But since you are a bit inexperienced, we want you to do a training period," he finishes.

No, Edward wants me to do a training period.

"Okay," I mumble.

"You'll be working with Edward," Carlisle explains. "He'll show you the ropes. Starting tomorrow."

Oh, joy.

Rule #7: Always be prompt and on time.

Since I am a full-time student like the other reporters, Carlisle is kind enough to let me work around my class schedule. Sadly, Edward's class schedule seems to be remarkably close to mine, so most of my work-time is spent with him.

Bummer.

Alice has dressed me to the nines in a deep blue dress that screams Jackie Kennedy, and modest but beautiful white patent heels. My hair is loosely curled and my makeup heightens my natural blush. I look...well, pretty.

I'm supposed to report to work on Saturday at nine AM. I show up at eight forty-five.

Edward's office is on the top floor of the newspaper headquarters. I try not to slip as I walk up the stairs. When I make it to his door-regally labeled Editor-in-Chief-I hesitate. Should I just walk in, or knock?

Finally I decide to just knock. I rap my knuckles briskly on the door.

Edward immediately says, "Intrude."

Smartass.

I open the door. He's typing on his computer at an unbelievably fast rate. He glances up at me, and his eyes widen for just an instant. I'm flattered for half a second until he snaps back into asshole mode.

"You're early. Trying to impress, Isabella?"

"You know how traffic is on this campus," I say coolly. "And isn't it my job to make deadlines?"

He snorts. "I hope so. I would love some coffee right about now."

"Pardon?"

He glares at me. "Down the hall, last door on the left. Cream and sugar."

Rule #8: Swallow your pride and accept every task gracefully and efficiently, no matter how demeaning.

I march down the hall and go to the room, which looks like a break room. I pour Edward a Styrofoam cup of coffee, making it look creamy and beige with his ingredients, and then make myself a cup. Black, like I learned to drink in high school when my reporters wouldn't make deadline and I would be stuck editing the damn articles with an hour to spare.

"Here you are," I say as I walk back into his office. He takes the cup without a thank you and keeps typing with one hand as he sips at it.

"May I help with anything?" I ask him. "Writing? Editing? Photoshopping?" I haven't received a run-down of expectations and duties from Edward or Carlisle.

He sighs, like my gracious request is putting him out. "Of course you have duties, Isabella. Log on to that laptop right there—" He points across the room to a small table with a little Macbook. "The password for the computer and the email account is Debussy, capital D. Find a letter to the editor that looks promising and print it out for me."

I'm a reporter, you prick, not a secretary. Luckily, I've been reading the paper like mad since I accepted my journalism scholarship to this university. I'm familiar with which articles would strike a chord with readers. The one on the war in Iraq was a particularly good one. I find a letter that takes a conservative view of the war. Do I agree with it? I can't say. I'm a journalist. I only appreciate facts and well-written prose. But it's a nice change for a very blue state.

"Oh, Isabella? Avoid Iraq," Edward pipes up just as I'm about to hit print.

Rule #9: Never admit to your supervisor's supervisor that you hate the job he has so kindly given you.

It's nine PM when I'm leaving the building. My feet are sore from those damned heels. I pull them off as I'm about to get on the elevator.

The doors open, and Carlisle Cullen smiles at me as he sees me. "Why are you still here, dear?"

I point to Edward's office. "Edward is putting the last touches on the issue."

"And he made you stay?" Carlisle asks in frank surprise.

"Yes, sir," I reply, wishing I were in my bed.

"What duties has he given you?"

I clear my throat uncomfortably, unsure of how to reply. Fetching coffee, a sandwich, and Chinese takeout…

Carlisle cringes. "Damn it all. Come to my office, Bella."

I trip barefoot to his office. He has a leather couch that he gestures to. "Make yourself comfortable," he invites me. "My wife has issues with high heels, too."

I smile at the caramel-haired woman staring from the framed portrait on the wall. She's gorgeous. "Is that your wife?"

He beams, a cute little blush on his cheeks. "That's my Esme. My wife, my best friend, my reason for existence."

"She's beautiful."

"I know." He sits in the chair in front of his desk before scooting it over so he's closer to me. "What exactly did Edward assign you to today?"

How do I phrase this nicely and professionally? "I, uh, assisted him with letters to the editor. I made sure he was refreshed while he worked. I made copies and did secretarial work."

Carlisle lets out a harsh breath. "Damn it. That's Edward Masen for you. He's completely arrogant, but a damned good editor. The Wall Street Journal is already looking at him."

"Wow," I say, for lack of a better response.

Carlisle shrugs. "He'll never get far if he doesn't learn how to work as a team. I'll tell you what: I'll train you. You need to get your feet wet. You aren't a secretary and you aren't a catering company. Did he send you to New Hunan to get lo mein?"

"How did you know?" I ask softly.

"Good intuition," he replies, tapping his temple. "In fact, I have a story that I need you to start scoping out for me. How familiar are you with the campus's recycling policy?"

"I know that my favorite recycling bin has disappeared from the cafeteria," I say lightly.

His blue eyes light up. "Really? You're that observant?"

I just raise an eyebrow at him. "Why?"

"They're slowly cutting out recycling," he tells me. "They claim it's too expensive. It sounds like a crap story, but considering we're in a liberal state with a supposedly green university…"

"No, it's a scandal," I interrupt quickly. "That's awful that we're claiming to be something we're not. And we're abusing this planet-"

A sly grin covers his face. "Are you a columnist, by chance?"

I laugh softly. "I was a columnist before I became managing editor of my high school paper, and then editor-in-chief. I don't let my opinion bleed into straight-up news pieces, however."

"Obviously. Well, since you're passionate about recycling, you're on the story." He stands up and goes to his desk, opening a drawer. He brings me a small silver tape recorder and a white reporter's notebook. "Here are your welcome-to-the-paper gifts."

Rule #10: Never get overexcited. It is unprofessional.

Needless to say, it's hard to contain myself.

The following Monday, I walk into the building with a certain high. I have spent my weekend filling up my tape recorder and reporter's notebooks with quotes from cafeteria workers, professors, students, and maintenance. I'm representing both sides of the issue.

"Good morning, Bella," Carlisle greets me as I walk into his office. He's typing furiously. "You can have the desk when I'm finished. I'm about to have to run for a dental appointment."

"No rush," I tell him. "I'm about to call and make an appointment myself."

Rule #11: It's okay to flaunt your efficiency in front of your boss, as long as you maintain a sense of humbleness.

Carlisle is very pleased when he hears my call to the university's president's office.

"Hi, is this Dr. Volturi's office?...Hi, my name is Bella Swan, and I'm a reporter with the campus newspaper. I was wondering if I could make an appointment to interview Dr. Volturi?...Ma'am, this is of utmost importance…Are you sure there's nothing you can do to give me a fifteen-minute appointment?...Can I set up a phone interview?...Can you put Dr. Volturi on the phone now?...Ma'am, is that Dr. Volturi I hear in the background?...Can you please ask him if he's willing to dedicate fifteen minutes to the newspaper?...Tell him that I'm a new reporter and I'm dying to have the honor of interviewing him….Thank you, ma'am….Hi, Dr. Volturi, this is Bella Swan…"

After I snag the interview, Carlisle pats me on the back. "Flattery always works," he winks at me. "Good persistence skills, Bella."

Once he leaves, I type up a skeleton of the article. All I need is some meat from Dr. Volturi and a Seattle official from the Department of Waste. That is easily insert-able.

And I haven't even had my first cup of coffee. I bet Edward is on his fourth.

By lunchtime, I've already met with one of the photographers and explained the essence of the article to her. Angela is wonderful; she knows exactly what kind of pictures I need.

I'm on my way to the refrigerator in the breakroom, where my chicken salad sandwich is. I pull it out and pour myself a cup of coffee for some extra sugar in my system.

I hear the voice I have had the pleasure of not hearing for the past few days.

"Isabella? Care to pour me a cup?"

"It's Bella," I reply, trying to be polite. "I don't like the name Isabella."

"Cream and sugar."

I roll my eyes when he turns his head and pour him up a cup, handing him the condiments. If he is no longer my trainer, I'm not dealing with his shit.

"Fine, I'll add the cream and sugar," he rolls his eyes.

"I'm not training with you anymore," I inform him. "I'm under Carlisle now. So you can get your own coffee. I have an interview with Dr. Volturi, anyway."

He stares at me in frank surprise, his gorgeous eyes wide and his mouth open. "You got an interview with Dr. V already? And for today? Did Carlisle call him?"

"No," I brag proudly. "I'm covering the recycling story, and I just called Dr. Volturi a few minutes ago. I'm interviewing him shortly."

"The recycling story will be front page," he says, eyes distant, voice astounded. "Carlisle gave it to you? Why was I not informed of this?"

I shrug. I almost tell him that maybe he should speak with Carlisle, but I don't want him to convince anyone that I'm not ready for this. "I don't know," I say lightly. "But I really have to run." I resist the urge to look at my invisible watch.

He starts to mumble under his breath. "I'll talk to Carlisle about this fucking—" His words grow unintelligible after that.

I really have no idea what I've done to piss him off.

Rule #12: After you brag about your efficiency, be sure to use it when you're actually working.

I'm on my third weekday of perfecting this article. I have many quotes from Dr. V that will make the environmentally-conscious students angry, and plenty of opinion quotes from various joes on the campus that show both sides. I also have facts about how much it costs to supply recycling bins and how much it costs for the university to actually recycle the goods. Angela has taken the perfect pictures for me. I even have a headline suggestion for Edward Masen. He probably won't use it, but it's a damned good headline.

I'm using Carlisle's office and my own laptop to type. I'm alone and the door is shut so I can be in my best frame of thought. Carlisle really is an angel about letting me do my best. He's also an angel to his wife for taking her out for a very long lunch date.

I'm eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich from my dorm as I tweak my article again. I find myself reading the words out loud, which is a bad habit I got into as a child. But for some reason, it helps my writing, so I really don't mind it.

I'm interrupted by the door swinging open. The auburn-haired hurricane bustles into the office. "Carlisle? I'm seriously about to—"

He stops talking as he sees me behind the desk. "Where is Carlisle?"

"Out with Esme," I murmur as I continue to type. I'm not giving him the time of day if he can't give me a little courtesy.

"God damn it!" he hisses. "Why is he out with his wife when we've been spitting out shitty daily newspapers and Newton has screwed up another one?"

"Who is Newton?" I ask him, impatient with his attitude.

"Mike Newton is the sports editor. He's a scrawny little prick who only likes reporting on the women's volleyball team. Shit!" he groans as his BlackBerry begins to buzz. He presses it to his ear. "I am not covering the damn homeless shelter piece!"

"You really have temper issues," I mutter as he hangs up.

"The homeless shelter piece is a glurge," he snaps. "And you try being the editor-in-chief of a daily campus newspaper when all of the fucking reporters and sub-editors are drunk imbeciles."

"I'd love to," I reply, still typing.

"Your article is due Friday at noon."

"I know."

"I'm setting the deadline early so I can go through and iron out the wrinkles that will surely be there."

"I'm so pleased you have so much faith in me."

"You're a freshman trainee. Of course I know your writing is worth shit."

"Maybe you should try it before you knock it," I snap back. "Carlisle is extremely pleased with my drafts."

"He hasn't sent me any drafts!" Edward exclaims.

I shrug my shoulders and keep typing.

Rule #13: Sexual harassment is nothing to laugh about, but handle it gracefully before you report the harasser.

"Damn it all. He only likes you because you're nice to look at."

"Thanks for the compliment. And I highly doubt that is the case, since he gets to go home every night to her." I point at the extraordinarily beautiful portrait on the wall.

Rule #14: Handle compliments from the opposite sex gracefully and professionally.

"You look just as pretty as Esme," Edward remarks, and I look up at him in surprise.

"Thank you," I say quietly. "But you're wrong about Carlisle. He's a good man."

Edward lets out an impatient breath. "I'm going to castrate Newton if he doesn't quit ignoring deadlines. And Stanley can't fucking write her fashion column. Try to retain your brain cells when you become more than a contributing writer, alright?"

I cop a mock salute, eyes still on my computer.

"Fucking attitude," he mutters, leaving.

"I could say the same for you!" I call as he slams the door.

Rule #15: Don't be afraid to suggest your ideas.

On Thursday, I sit quietly on the couch in Carlisle's office, still working on my article, while he and Edward panic over a server failure that wiped out the newly-designed winter advertisements. Since advertisements fund the paper, they're truly freaking out. Edward is calling the advertising managers "fucking dumbasses" and Carlisle is trying to come up with solutions so the winter ads can make their debut this week.

"Why don't you just—" I begin to say, but Edward cuts me off.

"Isabella, we're being serious here."

"Wait," Carlisle contradicts him. "Bella, what is your suggestion?"

"Change the colors and fonts of the fall ads," I explain. "Swap the layouts around. It'll take three minutes per ad, tops. The business owners will think it's a fresh advertisement, and then you can use the next week to make new winter ads. They'll think they got more layouts at a cheap price, and they'll want to renew the sales."

Edward is staring at me with wide eyes.

"Genius," Carlisle approves.

Edward nods. "Clever marketing, Isabella."

"It's Bel—"

"I'll call the advertising room," Edward interrupts me, picking up his BlackBerry and dialing.

He leaves a little while later. The air is less tense as soon as he exits. Working with Carlisle is so much easier.

"He admires you, you know," Carlisle states quietly.

"Sir?"

"He likes you much more than he lets on."

I shake my head. "I don't think so."

"I've been working with him for three years," Carlisle argues. "Trust me, I know him."

"He thinks I'm unqualified."

"He thinks you're going to be an amazing journalist. Speaking of, how is the article?"

"Draft five," I answer. "I think it's finally coming together."

"Five?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, then. Edward is obviously right."

If only Carlisle could be right about Edward.

Rule #16: The early bird gets the worm.

"Where do I turn in the article?" I ask Angela on Thursday as we sit in the breakroom, sharing a Snickers bar. Jessica Stanley, the fashion columnist, is criticizing our unhealthy food habits while she drinks a Slim-Fast.

"To Edward," she rolls her eyes.

"Great."

She giggles. "I guess you've been acquainted with the Masen charm?"

"Yes, and I think I like my college algebra professor better," I sigh.

"He's a jerk, but a very sexy jerk," Jessica interjects.

Angela shrugs, and her voice drops to a whisper. "Between Carlisle and Edward, we're very well-managed and very sexually frustrated."

"Mike is pretty hot, too," Jessica observes.

Angela wrinkles her nose. "Ugh, Jess. He's so…generic. Now Edward Masen…he is a fine specimen."

"He's still a jerk, though," I point out. "I don't think I could ever be attracted to him."

"I don't know," Jessica points out. "There's something about him…I bet he's rough in bed."

The blood pounds in my face. "Uh…right. Does Edward have a special format for the articles?"

"AP, of course," Jessica rolls her eyes. "He's been badgering me to get an AP Stylebook for the past year. I'm just like, when you pay me more, I will buy the book."

"Isn't the AP Stylebook like, required to be a journalist?" I ask. "Isn't it like taking your Bible to church?"

Angela sneaks me a grin that says, Yeah, Jessica is an idiot.

"I wouldn't know," Jessica snaps, standing up. "I've never been to church."

After she leaves, Angela turns to me. "So, you know that the deadline isn't until tomorrow, right?"

"I know," I smile confidently, "but I'm trying to score some Cullen and Masen points so I can have a more permanent spot than contributing writer. I can't wait to have a great byline."

"Suck-up," Angela chuckles. "Luckily, Edward loves to be sucked."

I'm not sure if she intended to add the very erotic double meaning, but it certainly catches my attention.

After I finish my bite of the Snickers bar, I toss a breath mint into my mouth and run to Carlisle's office to print my article. I double-check the spelling, grammar, and format, completely untrusting of the computer's skills. When I am sure it is perfect, I hit print, staple it together, and march confidently to Edward's office. The clicks of my heels alert him to my presence since I don't knock.

"Isabella," he says after his beautiful eyes flicker to me. "What have we here?"

"My article," I smile, handing it to him.

He raises an eyebrow at me. "Have you misplaced your calendar or are you simply trying to kiss my ass?"

"I'm clearing my schedule so I can study for my Spanish test," I lie. "So since I've turned in my article, I'm going to my dorm so I can do exactly that."

"I still expect to see you here tomorrow."

"Of course."

I turn on my heel and trot out of his office, giving my hips an extra swing just for the hell of it.

I feel Edward's eyes on me the whole time.

Rule #17: There is nothing wrong with working a little bit of overtime.

It's Friday night, and Carlisle has been long gone. He has entrusted me with the key to his office so I can finish editing the "new and improved" advertisements. It's not my job, but I volunteered for it.

I'm locking the door as I'm leaving at nine PM. I'm trying to sneak past Edward's door until I hear his familiar, "Fucking hell!"

I think about ignoring it and going home, but then I realize that this could be my big opportunity to impress the editor-in-chief. I'm not sure why, but it seems important. So I walk to Edward's office and let myself in.

He has huge sheets of paper taped to the walls. Each sheet is a blown-up version of each page in the issue we have been working so diligently on. Edward has a large red Sharpie and is murdering an article.

He hears me and turns to me with a glare. "What is it, Isabella?"

"I was wondering if you needed help," I say softly.

He rolls his eyes. "Are you good with spelling, grammar, and AP style?"

"Considering I made perfect fives on both of my Advanced Placement English exams, I'm great with spelling and grammar. And yeah, I'm very familiar with AP formatting, but just in case of emergency, I have my trusty stylebook." I pull my tattered copy out of my purse. I actually never go anywhere without it, but I'm not going to bring that up.

"Good," he says in relief. "Lauren Mallory has let me down again. She's about to lose her job."

"Lauren Mallory?"

"The type editor. There's a green Sharpie on my desk. Get started on that page over there." He points to the farthest page from him. "We'll meet in the middle."

I grab the Sharpie and follow his commands. There aren't many grammatical errors, but I do have to circle a lot of one-liners. I'm quick about it, used to editing every single page of the high school paper. But I leave the front page to him. I am not about to edit my own article.

Once I finish, I glance over at him. He's on the front page, but not working on my very large, very dominant article. I decide to let him stew on it and go to sit on his desk.

"I after E, except after C," he whispers, and a giggle escapes my lips.

A glare turns to me. "I'm dyslexic, you know," he snaps.

Okay, that is embarrassing. My mouth falls open and my heart rate rises. Cheeks flaming and ears burning, I yank off my cardigan, revealing my thin camisole. "I am so sorry—"

"I'm kidding," he snorts, turning back to the paper. "And you think I don't have a sense of humor. Isabella, Isabella, Isabella…"

"I think I learned that little rule in first grade," I reply sassily.

"And I think that you have a C in college algebra," he remarks.

My mouth is open again. "H-how do you know that?"

"I heard you mention it to Angela. I'm a journalist, you know. I sniff out information."

"As do I."

"You don't have any information on me."

"I do know that the Wall Street Journal is looking at you, but your political views are just a tad too liberal for their tastes, so you'll probably turn them down," I say, swinging my legs. "And I also know that if I know your political views, then you have somehow failed as a journalist."

"What do you know about my political views?" he asks, flashing his eyes to me. They rake down my legs for a few seconds.

"Let's see…pro-gay marriage, pro-environment, you're a bit of a pacifist even if you are a confrontational prick in real life, you believe that censorship is of the devil…oh, and you think that the Patriot Act was a mistake yet you support President Obama's attempts to nose into our personal lives. Yet you sympathize with pro-life causes, even though you know that a society without abortion is no longer possible in America, and you think that the healthcare bill is a terrible, terrible thing. Possibly because your father, Edward Masen, Sr., is a doctor and he's funding your education. Can't bear to let Pops lose some of your precious money, huh?"

"I'm extremely impressed," he says, and for once, he sounds sincerely nice. "How do you know all this?"

"I've read your articles for a few years now," I admit.

He smirks as he suddenly crosses out my headline with his red marker. "Terrible headline for the article, Isabella."

My smile falters.

But he purses his lips. "Yet I don't have one complaint about the article itself. Congratulations—you might keep me from biting all of my nails off tonight."

"Was that actually a compliment?"

Rule #18: Don't. Flirt. With. Your. Supervisor. But if you do…know your limits.

"Mmm, yes," he says, turning to face me again. He very deliberately drags his tongue over his lips, making my stomach curl. He really is quite fuckable…

"Maybe you should pay me one," he says a bit darkly.

As much as I'm noticing the sexy way his throat ripples as he swallows, I'm not ready to give in. "Hmm…you have hair like Albert Einstein."

He rolls his eyes and closes his Sharpie. "Thanks. So, are you willing to assist me in repairing the computer files so I can send it to press? Or would you rather go home?"

I'm dead tired, but I'm still trying to impress him even more. "I'm game for a little repairing. I'll do even page numbers."

"Sounds great," he decides quietly, pulling the papers off the walls and gathering them together. He hands me the even numbers.

We walk to one of the computer labs. He has a huge Mac monitor with his fucking name emblazoned on it. I'm so jealous of the beautiful graphics that pop up on the screen.

I sit at the comparatively tiny Mac next to him and pull up the server. I select Page Two and start editing on Quark. But it's dark in the computer lab, and it's cold, and I'm growing sleepy. Yawning, I pull up Safari and go to Slacker Radio, pulling up my personal radio station.

"Cake," he snorts as the first song starts to play. "Do you always listen to modern stoner music?"

"Do you really consider Cake to be stoner music? I think they're quite alert and eloquent compared to, say, MGMT."

"What is wrong with MGMT?" he asks, sounding offended.

"Well, just so you know, I don't consider anything made since the death of Kurt Cobain to be stoner music, but as far as the new millennium goes, I think that MGMT has the hazy sound effects and psychedelic videos down. Seriously, their music could put me straight to sleep."

"On the contrary, Isabella," he replies, giving me a sly glance. "Their music wakes me up."

"Oh? You have a thing for Andrew Vanwyngarden?"

"For who?"

"The lead singer, jackass," I reply, rolling my eyes. "You're clearly not a fan if you don't know that."

"I don't keep up with the personal lives of male celebrities," he shoots back. "And how can you listen to 'Electric Feel' and not want to fuck like rabbits?"

Oh, fuck. He said 'fuck.' And not in a way that is meant to insult someone's intelligence. I swallow hard and meet his eyes. "Uh…MGMT isn't a good aphrodisiac for me."

"Who do you listen to?"

"Marcy Playground?" I say weakly, even though I don't. "Sex and Candy" is just the first song to come to mind.

"That's original," he snorts, turning back to his article. "Why not just say Hot Chocolate?"

"Who the fuck is Hot Chocolate?" I reply, totally confused.

"Obviously you're a young one."

"You're only like three years older than me," I remind him.

"I guess your parents don't listen to cheesy disco and R&B, then."

"No…they don't. They're relatively young as well." He turns back to his article and starts correcting error at a surprisingly fast speed. Just to irk him, I pull up YouTube and start playing the official video for MGMT's "Electric Feel."

"Isabella…" he groans, giving me a sideways glance. "That's not funny."

"I'm just seeing what the appeal is," I tease. "And the effect."

He stares at me, and I swear his eyes smolder. "We have a paper to send to press. They have to be delivered by seven AM tomorrow morning."

"And it's only ten PM."

"And you're not showing me that you're a very efficient worker."

Ah, my prickish supervisor is back. Honestly, I don't know why I'm teasing him or flirting with him…except that it's nighttime, he's wearing a delicious-looking button-down shirt…and well, everything else about him is delicious…and did I mention that we're alone? And so close to his office that desk sex is a huge possibility?

Well…those are pretty good reasons…but I could lose my job over this. So I decide to be a good girl and turn off the incriminating music, switching Cake back on. "Comfort Eagle" starts to play, and it's a pretty angry-sounding song that has nothing to do with sex, so it helps clear my head. I continue to work quietly, humming along with the music.

"You know," he says after a couple of harmless songs, "I'm kind of glad that you can express your opinion about something other than the paper and your editor-in-chief, even if you only get passionate about music. I think it's good that you want to keep your demeanor unbiased, but if you don't feel passionate about something, how will you ever write a compelling article?"

I'm getting sleepy and his prodding is making me grouchy. "I think I'm a very compelling writer," I reply tartly, still editing. "But when I speak, I try to use as much grace, tact, and eloquence as I can muster up. Maybe you should take notes, Masen."

"Yes, but honestly, you've let me run all over you," he nearly whispers. "That makes me think you need to grow some balls. You're going to be forced to, if you want to survive in the media."

I stare at him in disbelief. "I only ignore you and dismiss your general bitchiness because I don't want to jeopardize the health of my resume."

"And that is playing it safe." He studies my face for a few seconds. "You'll never get anywhere if you just play it safe. I know you have the brains to write a great article—you got the front page on your first assignment!—and I definitely know you have the beauty to get your way in life, but so far I'm not convinced that you have the balls to step on some toes and make a difference. You know, that recycling article…wow. How elegant and well-researched. But how many people are going to send in letters to the editor that actually get fired up about this issue? You took such a people-pleaser angle that it's almost like you're reporting on the stock market. Everybody is right, and yet everybody is wrong. You can't put the blame or praise on anyone. I'm afraid that will be the story of your career in reporting."

"Why do you care?" I snap back.

"Because you're my reporter, and you have such a promising future that I don't want to see you fuck it up," he says simply, his face turning red in the glow of the computer screen.

Rule #19: Always show your supervisor that you can rise to any challenge.

"Okay, you want to hear my opinion?" I explode. "Fine, I'll tell you my fucking opinion! I think this is a pathetic little newspaper because Carlisle, as much as I love him, seems to be a 'people-pleaser' as well, and you, as much as I despise you, are only an Edward Masen-pleaser. You can't even control your own staff, much less your own opinion as it leaks into your writing. I think that you are a sorry excuse for a journalist because of that. Sure, you're a great writer with an impressive vocabulary and a keen sense of style, but let's face it, you're clearly cut out for one of these biased mumbo-jumbos you're about to be working for. Papers like The Wall Street Journal don't actually make a difference, you know, unless you're an avid watcher of Fox News and you actually appreciate biased journalism. I think that you know that you're talented but you're still insecure enough to put other people down just to make your pathetic little self feel better. What kind of man is that? And while we're speaking about your manhood, I think that you're a scared little pussy for leading me on with all that talk about how 'Electric Feel' makes you want to, quote, 'fuck like rabbits', end quote. If you truly didn't mean anything by that lewd comment, then you are just a sexually harassing pussy who needs to learn how to talk to women. You know what? You've pissed me off. I'm going to my dorm to get some sleep. Have fun with your precious little newspaper. I dare you to tell me I need to grow some balls after this little speech. I don't think you will, though, because guess what? I intimidate you. I make you feel threatened. Because for once, you are not the most driven one on this staff. So you can just watch me take my threatening ass and drive away."

Furious, I stand up and stomp to his office, where my cardigan is waiting. He just sits in his chair, frozen in shock.

While I pull my cardigan on, he suddenly joins me in his office, arms crossed with a scowl on his face. "Wait, I'm confused, Isabella," he admits. "Why are you so riled up over my comment about 'Electric Feel'? Are you disappointed that I didn't come on to you after I made that comment?"

Okay, that's it. No one says anything about Bella Swan's balls and gets away with it. Prepare to find out just how much of a ballsy chick I can be.

"You want to see balls?" I ask him. "Okay, prepare to see balls."

Rule #20: Don't. Have. Sex. With. Your. Supervisor.

And then I shove him against the wall, pinning him beneath me. My lips crush to his, kissing him forcefully. Angrily. At first, he freezes up…but then he starts to react. His mouth opens, allowing my tongue in, and his hands squeeze my ass. We kiss for an immeasurable moment, and then he bites my lower lip, making me moan and pull away.

"You have so many lessons to learn," he snarls, and it is unbelievably intimidating. Not in a frightening sort of way…but a sexual sort of way. My panties dampen. "You just let your opinion shine through, and I'm insanely proud of you, but guess who calls the shots after the reporter sends the story in? The editors. That's the great thing about the media—the editors decide what is newsworthy, what the public should care about, and most importantly, what the reporters do. And as your editor, I'm calling the shots by telling you to go to my desk and show me once again how bold you can be."

"I am so reporting you for sexual harassment," I lie, but I go and sit on the desk like a good girl. I try to chuck my heels off, but he holds a hand up.

"Leave the heels on, but take that fucking skirt and shirt off," he commands me. "And I never told you to sit on my desk. I want you to bend over my desk. No one calls the editor-in-chief an intimidated pussy and gets away with it."

I gulp—what the hell is he about to do? But I can't just retract my balls at this point. And besides—Edward is actually smart. He isn't going to actually hurt me, because then his name would be in some articles rather than the bylines.

And, judging by the bulge pressing against his pants, he has other ideas on his mind.

So I take my camisole off and unzip my skirt so I'm only wearing heels and my panties. At first I feel quite exposed and self-conscious, but Edward's mouth falls open and his emerald eyes widen. My confidence suddenly shoots through the roof.

"Panties," he continues huskily, stepping toward me. I hold his gaze as I slide my bikini off. He starts to undress for me, and finally, my eyes wander down his body. Holy fuck—he's gorgeous, with a long cock and pronounced muscles.

"Bend. The. Fuck. Over," he instructs me, and I swear I could come from his voice alone. Watching him over my shoulder, I bend over the desk, the cold wood making my nipples grow painfully hard. He strokes his cock as he sees me spread my legs and offer my ass up to him. He makes me stand in that humiliating position for a few minutes, just stroking himself.

Finally, he steps behind me and starts to palm my ass, his fingers dipping between my thighs to tease my moist heat. It's hard to refrain from humping his hand. "Isabella, don't you know that the editor is usually right?"

"No," I reply defiantly, earning a lovely little smack on my ass that makes my clit twitch.

"Wrong answer," he purrs in my ear. "I am always right. And I mentioned that you just let me run over you. Isn't that what you're doing right now? You're just following my commands…but guess what? You're finally doing something right. And so maybe this—" He suddenly enters me, filling me to the brim with that long, glorious cock, making me squeak. "Will remind you who's your boss, and who is always right."

He isn't technically my boss, just my supervisor of sorts, but I keep that comment to myself because I think my vocal skills have been shot to hell. He plows in and out of me, fucking me over his desk wildly, his balls slapping my ass and his hand slapping my thigh. I wiggle back and forth, meeting his slams, until finally, he reaches under my tout body and pinches a hard nipple. The breast stimulation, along with a sharp bite on my shoulder, makes my walls clench around him, and I come on his cock hard, with a loud moan.

"Not yet, Isabella," he says disapprovingly, giving my clit a little smack underneath us. "I haven't been pleased yet."

He suddenly pulls out of me, and his fingers go to my pussy. I gasp as his fingertips rub some of my lubrication up to my anus. Carefully, he slides a finger in my back opening.

"Nice and tight," he nearly chokes. "Fuck, you're beautiful."

Encouraging him to take me there, I spread my legs even wider. He wastes no time in sliding his cock into my ass. I cry out as my muscles stretch. I've never felt so full before…but then again, being only a college freshman, I've never been with such a…man before. Three school years doesn't seem like much, but there is quite a difference between eighteen and twenty-two.

Finally, he lets out a loud cry, and I feel him grow even harder inside me. He comes inside me—hard—and I feel even fuller. The sheer weight I have in my ass makes me come all over again, the juice dripping down my thighs. He literally collapses on top of me when he finishes. Once he softens, he begrudgingly pulls out, albeit gentler than when he pulled out of my pussy.

"Wow," I whisper as he yanks me down on the industrial carpet next to him. He wraps his arms around me and kisses my forehead tenderly. Huh—who knew Edward Masen could be tender?

"For the record," he says quietly, looking into my eyes, "it took a lot of balls to do that."

"I could say the same for you," I grin at him. "Are you glad you got that little power trip out of your system?"

"You just needed a confidence boost," he attempts to explain. "You act like you have a lot of confidence, but you really don't."

"So dominating me and fucking me in the ass is supposed to empower me?"

"Tell me—how do you feel?"

I bite my lip as I think about this. "Er…satisfied. Sexy. And I kind of feel like I might have you wrapped around my finger after tonight, but that is only a sinking suspicion."

"Only time will tell," he teases me. "But good. Now you know that you can do something that takes a lot of guts. And what would you do if I told you to go make me some coffee with cream and sugar?"

My eyes nearly pop out of my head. "Are you fucking kidding me? You would really put me in that kind of low, kiss-ass position after that? I would tell you to kiss my ass and find a new girl to fetch your damn coffee."

"There we go," he says happily. "You passed the Masen test. Welcome to the paper, Bella. I will give Carlisle only my highest praise."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait." I glare at him, even though I'm pleased that he is suddenly calling me by my preferred name. "I fucked you so I pass the test?"

"No, sweet girl, definitely not. I'm only an asshole to the ones I see real potential in. I want to see how easily and quickly they'll break. You should ask poor Angela Weber how awful I was to her, and she's a fantastic photojournalist. I knew you could handle my anal personality by gritting your teeth and mostly suffering in silence, but I also knew that you would have to learn to be comfortable in your own skin…and in your confidence. I never intended on fucking any of my reporters, but when the opportunity presented itself…why not? You're beautiful and smart and sexy and you have so much to offer. You needed to be assured of that."

"So by throwing me on the desk, smacking my ass, and fucking me in the ass…"

"I showed you just how much you can handle. You're like a teabag—you literally strengthen in hot water."

I giggle quietly. "You did not just use the word teabag."

"And, if you're interested, I would like to pursue a romantic relationship," he suddenly adds. "I've wanted you since I first saw you. I want to take up a large portion of that beautiful mind, I want to own that big heart of yours. And I really want to fuck like rabbits while listening to MGMT."

I softly pat his cheek and kiss his lips. "We'll see where that goes," I assure him. "But as for now, I think I need to clear one thing up. I do strengthen under hot water, but I can put men in hot water, too. So, Edward, I want you between my legs, making me come with that acidic mouth of yours. Or you can forget ever pursuing anything else with me."

A wicked smirk crosses his face.

"Now!" I exclaim, reaching down to smack his ass. "Put that damn mouth to good use!"

And Edward Masen slides down my body and starts to teasingly lick my slit. While I hook my legs on his shoulders and let my high heels dig into his bare back, this college freshman knows one thing.

The only rule about the "real world"?

There are none.

Like all of my stories, I planned for it to be much shorter...and it got out of hand. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Leave a review and let me know, okay?

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