For AccioBourbon

We don't own Twilight.

The first wine bottle sat empty on the counter top. Rosalie and Esme were diligently working through the second, sitting across from one another at the island in the kitchen, their laughter echoing through the otherwise quiet house. The kitchen window was open and Rosalie could hear the quiet roar of the ocean not far away. The salt was strong in the air tonight and she felt calm and content for the first time in two days.

She was still thinking about Moondoggie and what he'd said to her on Saturday. She'd stared after him, mouth agape, watching his rigid body squeeze through the front door. His car had come to life with a roar and then he was gone, leaving a deafening silence and kicked-up dust in his wake. The shriek of a child behind her had snapped her out of it and she'd turned to Jessica in disbelief.

"What just happened?"

Jessica's wide eyes had darted from the door back to her. She pulled a pen from behind her ear and shrugged, looking almost as shell-shocked as Rosalie felt. "I don't know, he's…I don't know."

She'd looked down at the crossword puzzle for a long time, his words ringing in her ears. Then, with a shaking hand, she'd written in those seven letters.

Utopia.

That word had sparked something deep inside of her. She'd worked so hard to create her own utopia in New York. She'd built everything up so carefully, collected every component that she thought made up the perfect life – the job, the clothes, the friends and the relationship. She'd left all of those things behind so easily, though, had just walked away. What did that mean? Had her idea of happiness been wrong all along? And what had possessed her to follow the possibility of another kind of happiness, the kind she hadn't felt since she was a child, all the way down to South Carolina? She wasn't sure utopia existed at all anymore, in any form. The thought that she could be chasing an impossible wish scared her, and the fact that it was some stranger, some local slacker who'd stirred that thought infuriated her.

Who was this man to question her? To make her question herself?

That thought fanned the spark, turning it into something white-hot and molten. It moved slowly through her veins and coagulated underneath her skin, setting her quietly on fire.

Rosalie didn't give a shit what anyone thought about her. They would all draw their own conclusions anyway based on the way she looked or the car she drove or how she dressed. The men at her office had treated her with derision, had called her a bitch behind her back because she didn't take their bullshit. She knew they'd laughed at her when her resignation was announced, saying she couldn't handle the pressure of what was essentially an all boys' club.

She hadn't cared then, being so blatantly misrepresented. So why did she care so much now? The idea that he thought she reveled in the attention given to her by men, that she was some sort of ice queen that got off on turning men down, forced a veil of red in front of her eyes.

She couldn't forget what he'd said to her, though. It gets lonely when everyone wants you but no one needs you. Those words echoed in her mind, twisted in her chest uncomfortably, rose above the anger and indignation.

He doesn't know me, she'd repeated to herself over and over again. But her words hadn't drowned his out.

She'd been wanted for the majority of her life. It was simple fact, something she wasn't afraid to admit to herself or others. It wasn't an ego stroke, merely something she'd been aware of since the boys at her school had stopped thinking girls carried the fatal disease commonly known as cooties. Had she ever been needed, though? She couldn't remember Royce ever needing her beyond the superficial or obvious – a hand to hold at parties, a face and body (and mind, when it benefited his purpose) to show off, a partner who'd at one point shared the same beliefs and goals as he had, who was as focused on achieving those goals as he was. Their relationship had been based on practicality, had been bordering on downright clinical. It had nothing to do with need. Hell, it barely had anything to do with want.

No, need was passion and fire. It was a deeply rooted, fundamental desire. Rosalie knew, though it pained her to admit Moondoggie was right, that the particular type of need she thought of, the type that she somehow knew he was talking about, had never been directed at her.

She spent the rest of the weekend cleaning in preparation for her appointment with Esme on Monday. She'd furiously attacked the grout in the shower upstairs. God knew why; it wasn't like Esme would be using it. Still, it made her feel better. She reveled in the sting of her arm muscles. She felt like she was scrubbing him and his assumptions of who she was away.

When Esme arrived Monday afternoon, Rosalie walked her through the house, focusing on the living room and kitchen, which her mother was most concerned about updating. Esme had taken notes and given suggestions off the cuff. Her smile was warm and encouraging and she'd pulled Rosalie out of her shell before she knew what was happening. She felt like an old friend, like a true one, and she found herself inviting her to stay for dinner and a glass of wine. They'd done more talking than eating, and even more drinking than talking, and Rosalie couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so relaxed.

Their conversation invariably meandered to the subject of men. Rosalie had deflected Esme's initial questions, insisting that she wanted to hear about her husband Carlisle instead. Esme had indulged her for a while, but raised an eyebrow at her now, her tone business-like. "So."

"So?"

"Come on, give up the goods, Rosalie," Esme cajoled. "Has anyone caught your eye down here?"

"Yes," she said automatically and then backtracked. "No. I'm not sure."

Esme smiled against her wine glass. "That sounds about right."

"It's just…this guy is not my type at all. He's gorgeous, don't get me wrong," she sighed the last part out, leaning heavily against the counter. Esme grinned, looking both amused and intrigued. "Really gorgeous. But he's…" she trailed off, struggling to find a reason why she couldn't, or maybe wouldn't, like him. There were so many thoughts on the tip of her tongue: he's not ambitious enough and he's not educated enough and he's not successful enough. But she really didn't know if any of this was fact or merely conclusions she'd drawn about him because of his easy demeanor, casual clothes and the surf board sticking out of his SUV. She didn't know much about him at all and the realization that she'd molded him into something that he might not be after all secretly shamed her. Wasn't that what she was so angry at him for doing?

It was possible she was right about him. Maybe he was just some beach bum trying to get into her pants. But maybe he wasn't. She hadn't even given him a chance to show her who he was.

"He keeps giving me answers to my crossword puzzles," she blurted out finally. She wanted to find a reason to be right about him, a reason that she wasn't possibly made up in her head, and that was what she came up with?

Esme's face creased with confusion, her head tilted. And then she threw back her head and let loose a peal of laughter. It was infectious, full-bodied and delighted, nothing like the polite and restrained laughter of the people she'd acquainted herself with in New York, and she found herself laughing, too. She laughed until tears sprang to her eyes and she was doubled over the island.

"It's infuriating!" she moaned around giggles. She couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed so hard. "Actually, he'sinfuriating."

Esme reached across the island, her eyes still sparkling from laughter, and they were an especially bright blue-green. They looked so similar to his and she groaned to herself. Was she looking for signs of him everywhere now? If so, she was in more trouble than she thought.

"They all are, sweetie," Esme said, squeezing her hand. "But if that's the worst of your grievances, you're in good shape."

"No, it's not the worst of mine," Rosalie sighed, her laughter tapering off as she thought of their last meeting and what he'd said, the things he'd assumed about her. She felt a flash of anger. "And it's definitely not the worst of his."

"What do you mean?"

"I haven't exactly invited conversation with him. He's tried a few times and I know I've been…cold. Anyway, we got into it on Saturday at the diner. Or he got into it with me." She waved her hand, pretending to be unaffected, though a confusing maelstrom of emotions coursed through her. "So that's that. End of story."

"It doesn't have to be," Esme said. "Next time you see him, strike up a conversation. Show him this side of you."

Rosalie pursed her lips and shrugged. "I don't know, maybe I'll just leave it be. Like I said, he's not my type and I'm fairly certain I'm not his. Plus, I don't even know how long I'm going to be here. I don't really want to start down that road."

"Ever heard of a little something called a fling?" Esme asked playfully.

"No flings," Rosalie said, shaking her head vigorously. "Especially not with this guy."

Esme held up her hands in supplication, seeming to sense that she wouldn't get any further on the subject and Rosalie took a gulp of wine, feeling suddenly restless.

If she was being truthful with herself, which she wasn't sure she wanted to be when it came to this man, she didn't know what to make of him. She would think she had him figured out and then he'd go left when she'd anticipate him going right. All she did know was that he sparked a scarily passionate and increasingly out of control response in her and that she hated.

"Well, men aside, I must say that I think this," Esme gestured between the two of them, "is the start of a beautiful relationship."

"I agree," Rosalie replied, lightly touching her wine glass to Esme's.

"And if things with the crossword puzzle terrorist don't work out, I've got a very available and hunky cousin who would gladly take you out on a date."

Rosalie rolled her eyes and laughed, steering the conversation in a new direction. But the glint in Esme's eyes told her the subject was far from dead and buried.

We're inching closer and closer…We'll be hearing from Emmett tomorrow and then these two need a break over the weekend to cool their tempers. ;)

Lightstardust is the bee's knees and we love her. If she was single and we had a hunky cousin, we'd totally hook her up.

See you tomorrow!