Chapter 8.
"Trust dreams. Trust your heart, and trust your story." Neil Gaiman
The days grow long and languorous as summer approaches. The surf has flattened off, and even the wind seems lazy, its breath barely ruffling my hair in the late afternoons.
And yet, by contrast, this usually sleepy beachside town is bustling and vibrant as tourists start to roll through on their way down the coast. The beach at my backdoor is dotted with people. There are families with their colorful umbrellas studding the beach like pinwheels, shading their small children as they build their sandcastles. Sun-browned teens sprawl on their towels, soaking in the sunshine but rarely approaching the surf, and elderly couples take their strolls, hand-in-hand, into the sunset.
I avoid the vacationing crowds as best I can, feeling on edge as I'm jostled in the pedestrian-crowded streets, hemmed in by the people setting up their towels too close to the stairs that connect my house to the beach.
It's more than that, though, if I'm being honest. Immersed as I am in Isabella and Edward's story, I move through the days in a trance, loath to lose his presence, conjured so easily each time I sit down to write. He speaks so clearly, moves so vividly through my imagination that I feel I'm caught up in a waking dream. When reality pries me from its grip, it's an unpleasant shock, like a glass of ice-cold water spilling into my lap.
"Favorite ice-cream flavor?"
Edward had suggested they take a walk between dinner and dessert, and the game they had been playing over their meal had continued out of the restaurant, and across the sands towards the long jetty reaching out into the sea.
"Strawberry. Peanut butter and chocolate. Liquorice." Edward jogged up the stairs onto the jetty.
Isabella laughed. "Easy. Peanut butter and chocolate."
"How did you guess that?" Edward turned to face her as she made her way up the stairs behind him.
"Well—firstly, peanut butter and chocolate is obviously the greatest flavor combination ever invented. And secondly, you chose too-simple alternatives. You should have picked like, mint-choc chip, another combination, if you wanted to stump me."
"Clever. All right, favorite flower?"
"Star Jasmine. Bird of Paradise. Red roses."
Edward folded his arms across his chest, trying to picture each of the flowers.
"Jasmine."
Her face gave nothing away. "What makes you think that?"
"Well, the other two are certainly stunning to look at. But the scent of jasmine on a summer evening, that is far more beautiful."
Isabella blinked. "Um, yeah … I mean yes, I agree. And you're exactly right. It's the fragrance that makes it my favorite."
Edward smiled, pleased that he'd guessed correctly, that he was making inroads in understanding the curious creature walking beside him in the evening light.
"Okay. It's my turn," Isabella declared. "How old were you when you had your first kiss?"
Edward's lips twitched. "Eight. Eleven. Sixteen."
Isabella couldn't help herself. Speaking of kissing demanded she look at his mouth. She'd felt his lips against her cheek, but she was desperate to feel them, soft and plump, against her own.
She considered the answers he'd given her as they continued to make their way along the salt-smoothed wood.
"There's no way you weren't kissed before sixteen, so that's out."
Edward winked at her. "Maybe I was a late bloomer."
She giggled. "Nope. I don't believe it. Your mouth is far too pretty to have gone that long unkissed. I'm going to guess … eleven."
Edward blinked at her, his mind still caught up on her comments about his mouth. "Huh?"
"Eleven."
He nodded. "Yep. I was in fifth grade. Her name was Makenna Franklin. It was my friend Connor Sutton's birthday party and we were playing spin the bottle."
Isabella smiled, trying to picture an eleven-year-old version of the man standing beside her.
"My turn," he said, nudging her with his shoulder. "Same question."
"Um. Ten. Twelve. Fourteen."
Reaching the end of the pier, Edward sat down, slipping his shoes and socks off, and rolling up the hems of his jeans. Swinging his legs over the edge, he wriggled his toes in relief as the cool water rushed around them. Isabella turned her face to hide her smile, stepped out of her shoes, hitched up her dress, sat beside him and followed suit. It was almost dark, but the air was still warm and heavy, and the water was pleasantly cool as she paddled her legs.
"Twelve."
Isabella shook her head, the apples of her cheeks lifting with her smile.
"Ten?!"
"Fourteen," she said, her eyes on the ripples her feet were making. "I told you, I was a really shy kid. I spent most of my childhood hiding in books, in worlds that were so much more intriguing than my own."
Edward leaned back on his hands as his feet continued to swish through the water. "In that case … How old were you when you imagined your first kiss?"
Isabella was a little taken aback by the question, by his insight into her.
I roll my eyes. That's because you have insight into you.
I ignore myself and continue.
"Twelve. I stole one of my mom's romance novels and read it by torchlight under the bedcovers. I didn't understand half of it, but I do remember wondering what it would be like. Er, kissing, I mean."
Edward sat up straight, raising his arms in triumph as Isabella shook her head.
"That doesn't count as a correct answer and you know it."
"And did your first kiss live up to the fantasy?"
"No!" Isabella snorted, then covered her face with her hands. "Of course it didn't," she told him, her voice muffled against her palms.
He reached for her wrist, tugging her hands away as she continued.
"It was disgusting. My friend Angela dragged me to this party because she had her eye on this guy, Ben—he's actually her husband now. But, anyway, there was this other guy there. His name was Paul. He played some kind of sport, I don't know. Apparently, he was a big deal."
Edward chuckled as she shrugged, her hand still in his grasp. He imagined a younger Isabella, her beauty just starting to bloom, wounding some poor, besotted jock's pride by not knowing who he was and what position he played.
"Anyway, he asked Angie if I'd hook up with him. And I thought, why not? I figured he'd at least know what he was doing. Being popular or whatever, I assumed he'd've kissed his fair share of girls."
Edward ignored the pinpricks making their way up his spine. "But …"
"Well, he may have had a lot of experience at licking girls' mouths, I don't know. But he certainly wasn't very nice to kiss."
Edward was torn between wanting to laugh at Isabella's obvious disgust, but also feeling strangely annoyed at the slobbering fool who hadn't known how to make her first kiss live up to whatever she'd imagined it to be.
"Tell me something?"
Isabella pursed her lips, the hand he still cradled moved to his knee, squeezing lightly. "Maybe."
"Tell me how you imagined it should have been?"
"Ahhh. Well, let's see … It would have to be by the water, the sound of the ocean is very important for atmosphere. And it would be at night, of course. Everything is much more romantic when the light is fading."
Isabella paused, her eyes on her hand where it rested on Edward's knee. She took a deep breath and pushed on, hoping she wasn't about to make a fool of herself.
"He'd be gentle, sweet. He'd tuck my hair behind my ears, and hold my chin so carefully, like I was precious. And he'd kiss my cheek first, then just on the corner of my mouth –"
"Isabella."
Heat crept up her throat, her gaze dropping to her lap.
"I've got this."
She could barely feel his fingers as they swept the strands of her hair off her face, so violent was her pulse as it hammered through her veins.
His hands slid slowly up her arms, her shoulders, her neck, until he held her face between them, lifting her chin to make her look at him. Isabella was quite certain swooning was imminent as his lips pressed against her cheek, then trailed to the corner of her mouth, pressing another kiss there.
Edward pulled back, just for a moment, to search her eyes. All the encouragement he needed was there, shining in their depths.
And then his lips were on hers. Once, twice. One more. Soft, sweet kisses—gifts, not demands.
When he started to pull back, he found himself anchored, small hands winding into his hair, unwilling to release him. Lips parted as their kiss moved deep, as tongues tangled and breath was exchanged.
The absurd and completely inconvenient need for oxygen forced them apart, but only briefly, as they both seemed to conclude that kissing was actually much more necessary than breathing.
Mingled sounds of approval slipped from their throats, heady noises of pleasure set against the slow lapping of the waves against the pier.
With a contented sigh, Isabella pulled back, her eyes still closed. Edward's heart thumped double-time as he watched her lips curve up in delight. Leaning forward again, he pressed one more kiss to the highest point of her smile.
"Wow," she sighed, as her eyes finally fluttered open.
Edward felt his insides inflate to the point he suspected he might be in real danger of simply floating away into the starry sky. To anchor himself, he reached for Isabella's hand, twining his fingers between hers.
"Favorite smell?" she asked, inhaling deeply.
"Oh, uh, let's see." Edward shook his head, trying to refocus his mind, as if it were possible when he was still caught up in the feel of Isabella's lips against his own.
"Freshly brewed coffee. Asphalt as the rain starts to fall. And—" He stroked the soft skin just beneath Isabella's ear "—right there."
She giggled. "Oh, too easy. The hours you keep—it's got to be coffee."
"Wrong." Edward murmured, pressing his lips to the place he'd just indicated. "It's a three way tie."
She shook her head, but was unable to wrestle the smile from her lips.
Edward pulled away and cleared his throat. "My turn. Same question."
Isabella smiled, splashing her feet a little. She sighed, but when she looked up at him, her gaze was steady and open. "It just changed. I can't even remember any alternatives to make you guess. But it's this moment. This, right now, all of it together, is my favorite. Salt and sea and wood, warm summer air, sweet kisses and you."
Isabella followed Edward back down the pier steps, her shoes in one hand, the other absently tracing her kiss-swollen lips. She glanced down at him, appreciating the way the dark denim clung to his backside, until her attention was diverted to the skin revealed by his still-rolled-up jeans.
"You have a tattoo!" she exclaimed.
Edward stopped short. "I do?"
Isabella rolled her eyes, playfully pushing him down the last few steps and onto the sand.
He chuckled, pulling his jeans up over his knee and stepping backwards into the pool of light cast by the lamppost on the stairs, so she could see the ink that ran the length of his left calf. It looked to be a snake curled around a wooden stake.
"It's beautiful," she said, squatting down in the sand to examine it closely. "Does it mean something?"
"It's the Rod of Asclepius," he told her. "You've probably seen it—more stylized, I guess—on ambulances and such."
"Oh, yes! So it's like a symbol of care … or healing?"
"Asclepius was associated with healing and medicine, yeah. He was supposed to have deferred death and healed soothingly."
Isabella smiled, her finger tracing the ink carefully. Her knees cracked as she stood up. "Nursing means a lot to you."
"Yeah, it does. It's … well, it's not everything, but I do love it. Even when it's tragic and I wonder how I'll be able to deal with losing another patient." He shrugged. "We get to make a difference. That's important to me."
He cleared his throat. "So—" He picked up Isabella's hand, linking their fingers back together, "—do you have any tattoos … or piercings?"
"Two. Four. Seven."
Edward chuckled at the return of their little game. He noticed the light glinting off the hoops in her ears. "Do earrings count as one or two?"
"Just one."
"Hmm. Two."
Her eyebrows lifted. "Are you going to guess what they are?"
"Well, your ears are pierced—that's one."
"Uh-huh."
He lifted his arm and made her twirl beneath it, the skirt of her dress lifting a little as she spun. "Well, whatever the other one is, it's not a tattoo on your calf. Or your arms."
"Correct."
Edward forced his mind away from the images of stripping her out of the dress to search out the mysterious mark. "I'm going to guess … you do have a tattoo, somewhere, and it's probably something literary."
Isabella grinned. "You're right."
"Aren't you going to tell me about it?"
"It says 'The dream was always running ahead of me.' Anaïs Nin, though the whole things is actually, 'The dream was always running ahead of me. To catch up, to live for a moment in unison, was the miracle."
"Beautiful," Edward murmured, his eyes roving across her frame, still trying to decide where she was hiding it. "So, where is it?"
"I guess you'll have to wait and see."
After a few days of doing nothing but sitting in front of my laptop screen, my fingers racing across the keys as the words pour out of me, I know I need to spend time outside the house. I know I can't spend weeks on end avoiding life completely. It takes huge effort, though, to drag myself away from writing, from the little world I'm living in that exists only in words and my mind, and from Edward.
I tie the strings of my bikini behind my back, and grab a towel and my sunglasses. I almost pick up a tee-shirt, but I tell myself I won't stay out too long. The sun is at its highest, its fiercest, and I'm likely to burn quickly.
I chuck my towel on the sand, and make straight for the water. It's cool, brisk, and a familiar comfort. I linger in its chill, my mind emptying.
Back on the sand, I finally take in the day's beauty.
Sapphire skies, twice seen. On days like this, the sky begins before the ocean ends. The horizon ceases to exist.
My eyes close against the blue, seeking green. Seeking a different kind of warmth.
With the sun beating down on me, I can almost imagine the heat of his body beside mine. Feel the warmth of his arm sliding around my shoulder, the burn of his lips on my temple.
"You shouldn't be here." I'm smiling even as I say the words, my body inclining towards the radiant heat.
His chuckle echoes through my mind. "You brought me here."
"Yeah, I guess I did."
I imagine him pulling his arm away, leaning back on the sand, his elbows supporting his weight as his eyes drift across the shore. I can imagine his bare feet absently kicking at the sand, the wind making the ends of his hair waver. He's wearing board shorts, and I can just see the edges of his tattoo curling around his calf.
I lie back, bunching my towel under my head like a lumpy pillow, sand sticking to my still wet skin.
We don't speak. It's enough that he's here.
When I hear the squeak of footsteps in the sand, and a shadow passes across the sun, I expect it to be him. I can see him so clearly behind my eyelids, dripping with salt water, his hand in his hair, shaking the weight of the ocean from it. The creases around his eyes are deep from sun and smiling.
My lips curl as I open my eyes.
Muscles. Lots of muscles. Bumpy abdominals, and a smooth, tanned chest.
Like an elastic band pulled taut and released, my smile disappears. I have to force it back.
"Hey there, Bella-Bea."
I sit up, unfolding my towel and pulling it around my shoulders.
"Hi, Eric." I can hear the flatness in my voice, but I guess he doesn't.
Without waiting for my invitation, he drops into the sand, lying on his side, turned in towards me. His muscles ripple and flex. I look away, watching the ripples of blue-green waves instead.
"So, you are a bikini girl."
Without turning towards him, I shrug. "Sometimes."
"Looks good on you."
I slide my sunglasses on like I'm raising a shield. "Thanks."
"It's a beautiful day, huh?"
I'm thinking of a deep chuckle that sinks through my bones and warm skin against mine. "Very."
"You taking a break from writing about your mermaids? Or is this research?"
I shake my head. "I'm just taking a break, but that novel's finished."
"Already?"
"Well, it's back with my editor. He may ask me to make more revisions." I shrug. "We'll see."
"Awesome. So you must have some free time, now?"
"Uh—" I brush the sand from the undersides of my forearms, "—well, I'm kinda already working on my next one."
It's not a lie. I did start planning Rosalie's story.
"Dude, you must be like a book-writing machine, or something."
I have to laugh at that. "Yeah, tell my editor that. He was getting really stressed out for a while there. It's slow going when I can't pin down an idea."
I figure I need to be polite. "What about you? Are you on a lunch break, or something?"
"Nah. I don't work Friday afternoons."
"It's Friday?" I had no idea.
"Uh, yeah."
Huh. I glance at Eric. He's frowning, his fingers tracing patterns in the sand. Maybe I'm being rude, but I just don't care.
"I'm going to head back inside." I tell him, standing up and dusting the sand from my bum.
He jumps to his feet as well. "You live close?"
I wave kind of vaguely. "Just up there."
"Nice. Writing must pay damn well, huh?"
"Not exactly. It was my grandparents' house. They took off in a Winnebago a few years ago and left it to me."
He nods, but doesn't comment.
"Well, it was nice to see you again, Eric."
I'm pretending to look out past the breakers, but I see his grimace. "Yeah. You, too."
Feeling like I've been too much of a bitch, I offer him what I can. "I'll give Alice a call. We should all get together before she moves away for school."
He kicks at the sand, watching it spray white and gold. "Yeah, for sure."
"Cool. Well, I'll see you later."
I don't hear his reply, I'm already jogging up the sand, heading home.
Both Isabella and Edward were reluctant for their evening to end. They stopped for dessert in a tiny French café-patisserie—or Dan's as Edward referred to it.
"It's more laidback by day," Edward told her, as he stepped back into his shoes. "But at night they try to make it a little more … classy."
Isabella, her hips swaying slightly to the music which floated out onto the sidewalk, looked at her watch in surprise. "Are they always open this late?"
"No, just Thursday, Friday, Saturday. They close up around four in the afternoon every day, but then over the weekend they open between ten-thirty and three."
His hand slid around her waist as he guided her inside.
"How fabulous!"
Edward grinned at Isabella's delight as she spun in a slow circle, surveying the low-lit room with its rich, deep colors and its Belle Époque style décor. A throaty female voice was warbling the lyrics of Quand on Vous Aime Comme Ça as Isabella chose their seats and Edward ordered coffee and petite fours.
When he sat down beside her on the red velvet chaise, Edward tentatively slid an arm across her shoulders. She relaxed into his side, her wide eyes continued to dart around the space, unconsciously reaching for his other hand. Edward's lips had found her hair before he realized what he was doing—kissing her was too easy, a natural reflex.
"What happened here?"
Isabella's fingers were tracing the faint scars that dragged crisscrossing lines up his right forearm.
"Uh, skateboarding accident when I was fourteen."
Isabella's eyebrows lifted, encouraging him to continue. Edward sighed, carefully untangling his hand from hers. He rubbed his palm across his mouth and chin, and she realized belatedly that he was embarrassed.
"You don't have to –"
"It's okay. So, I, um, I'm not especially, uh, coordinated when it comes to sports and stuff. I run, but that's kinda the extent of my athletic prowess." He sighed.
His hand dropped into his lap, and Isabella promptly reclaimed it, sliding her fingers between his.
"My stepfather—Carlisle—he's a little younger than my mom, right? And he used to skate to work and stuff at the time." Edward chuckled. "Like, in his suit. I thought it was kind of hilarious, actually … Anyway, it was when they were dating, and maybe he wanted to bond over it or something, so he bought me a board for my birthday. He took me down to this skate park, and I was kind of getting the hang of it, slowly. But yeah, we were on our way home, and Mom and I lived at the bottom of this reasonably steep hill."
Isabella eyes widened as she looked up at him. "Oh."
"Yeah. Well, his scars are worse. He saw me stack it and tried to help me out. So I ended up scraping the hell out of my side, and down my thigh. And this—" he indicated his arm "—was from a glass bottle that someone had smashed on the curb."
Isabella winced. "Ouch."
"Ouch," Edward agreed. "But, Carlisle broke both his wrists."
"Oh no!"
Edward chuckled. "Yeah. It sucked for him. Two broken wrists—he needed help with everything. But even worse, he had to tell his girlfriend that he'd gotten her son all smashed up."
"But things worked out with them?"
"Yeah," Edward nodded, a soft smile curling his lips. "It pretty much cemented them being together, actually. Mom cared for him while his wrists were plastered. She cooked, cleaned, helped him wash—everything. He was the first boyfriend she'd ever introduced to me, so I knew they were serious, but after that … Well, they got married like, six months later."
"Aw, that's kind of sweet."
"Yeah. They're still very much in love."
Isabella scrutinized his face carefully. "Were you okay with that? Like, your Mom remarrying?"
Edward's eyes were seeing things long past as he answered, speaking as much to himself as to Isabella. "I got to watch my parents fall in love, you know? I mean, most kids don't see that—it all happened before they were born. But I got to watch them fall for each other—and at an age where I understood what was going on."
Isabella watched him closely as he spoke, and despite the feel of his hand twined with hers, the weight of his arm around her shoulders, and the soft fabric under her thighs, she suddenly felt as though gravity had lost its grip on her.
Edward blinked and smiled, looking down at Isabella. "Yeah, he's a good guy, and he loves my Mom."
Isabella, still vertiginous, returned his smile.
Edward frowned at her. "Are you okay, pretty girl?"
"Uh, ye-yes."
She exhaled a little shakily, bringing her hand to his cheek. His face moved willingly with the gentle pressure she exerted, their lips meeting in a soft kiss. And another. And another.
Resting his forehead against hers, Edward closed his eyes. "I really like doing that."
"Me, too."
The couple sat in silence for a while; Isabella curled into Edward's side, as they simply enjoyed the fluttery feeling of new affection unfurling its wings inside them.
"Edward, can I ask … uh, about your father?"
Isabella paid careful attention to his body against hers as the words left her mouth. She felt him stiffen a little, though his fingers continued to play with the ends of her hair as he spoke.
"Mom left him when I was a baby. I don't remember him at all. He, uh …" He sighed and then pushed the words out quickly, like he didn't want the taste of them in his mouth for too long. "He was abusive, violent. Mom put up with it for too long, but then when I was born, she decided she couldn't let me grow up around him. I think I was only about three months old when we arrived in California."
"I'm so sorry," Isabella whispered. "That's just awful."
"It is," Edward agreed. "Favorite fruit?"
Isabella accepted the subject change with a small smile, her head tipping back against his shoulder.
"Pineapple. Mango. Raspberries."
It was well after three o'clock when Edward led Isabella out of the cozy little café space. The staff—many of whom knew Edward quite well, the place being popular with the hospital workers who did tend to keep such irregular hours—had been unwilling to interrupt them as their conversation continued to weave across both their histories, despite them being the only patrons remaining. Their kisses became more frequent and Edward pulled Isabella onto his lap, his hands moving to her hips and curling into her flesh.
Eventually, one of the waiters interrupted them, politely encouraging them to take their budding romance elsewhere so he and the other wait staff could close up and—presumably—go home to their beds.
Edward and Isabella giggled and blushed, apologizing profusely to the smirking staff as they tumbled out onto the sidewalk.
"Are you sleepy?" Isabella asked.
She pulled her lip between her teeth as Edward hesitated.
"Um, no." In truth, sleep was the furthest thing from his mind, so energized was he by both the unraveling of her mind and the feel of her lips moving in symphony with his.
"You, uh, I mean … We can go back to my place to, uh, chat some more … if you'd like?"
"I'd like."
Dawn found Edward and Isabella curled up together on the Adirondack loveseat on her verandah. An almost-empty bottle and two red wine-stained glasses were on the low table in front of them.
The gold light streaking the sky, beautiful as it was, could not draw Edward's attention away from the girl in his arms. Isabella had fallen asleep about twenty minutes before, her head against his chest.
His fingers moved slowly across her hair, watching the light dance across the soft strands. Her lips were pouted slightly, still swollen from the kisses he had heaped upon them, and her small sighs and snuffles occasionally punctuated the still morning.
Shifting slightly, Edward straightened the pillow she'd pushed behind his back when she'd taken his wineglass, locked her fingers in his hair and pressed her mouth against his. He wasn't exactly comfortable, with his back twisted against the arm of the chair, but he didn't particularly want to wake her.
Ten minutes later, the pressure in his bladder was increasing rapidly.
"Isabella?" He shook her shoulder carefully. "Hey, wake up, pretty girl."
She sat up immediately, blinking. "Oh my gosh, I fell asleep on you? I'm so sorry!"
"Don't be," he murmured, kissing her softly. "You're gorgeous when you're asleep. I didn't want to wake you."
Isabella smiled, her eyes not meeting his. "We should get some sleep, but uh, you shouldn't drive. Not yet." She waved her hand toward the wine bottle. "That, and being awake for so long."
"Yeah, probably. Um, I can just crash on your couch for a few hours. If that's okay?"
Her head tilted, her fingers twisting a lock of her hair into a tight rope. "I don't mind, if you … uh, I mean, you can sleep in my bed. Um, if you want. But, if you'd rather the couch, I mean, I understand. Uh, I … just sleeping, of course. But you don't have to –"
Edward fought his smile and lost. "Just sleeping."
"Just sleeping."
Dressed in his boxers and an old shirt of her father's that Isabella had found for him to sleep in, Edward paused at the door to her bedroom.
Isabella was drawing the curtains, and had changed into a pale blue tank top and some stripy pajama pants. She turned, smiling as she saw him leaning against the doorjamb. "Can you get the light?"
Yawning, I hold down the Command and S keys, making sure I don't lose any of Edward and Isabella's time together. Checking the clock, I shake my head at myself. It's incredibly late—or early—and I haven't eaten dinner. Again.
Without turning on any lights in the kitchen, I pull a meal out of the freezer. I watch the plastic container as it revolves in the microwave. Another huge yawn has my eyes watering.
I take the container of reheated pasta back into the living room, and, with only the light from my laptop screen for illumination, quickly force it down, barely tasting a thing. I set the empty container on the coffee table and pull my laptop back onto my lap. The heat of it against my thighs is reassuring.
I close my eyes.
He's here.
I shake my head. "I'm going crazy, aren't I?"
I can almost feel his chuckle roll through me as I imagine him pulling me back against his chest, his arms around my waist, his lips in my hair.
"Define crazy?"
I sigh. "I'm pretty sure a writer letting a character walk out of the pages of his story and into her real life sits well and truly inside whatever definition you come up with."
I imagine his fingers in my hair, sweeping it out of my face. His lips are hot against my neck.
"Isabella?"
"Mmm."
"Write us waking up."
It was well past lunchtime when Isabella finally awoke, the air in her bedroom heavy with the heat of the day. Her back was damp with sweat, and her hair was sticking to her neck and throat. Sitting up, she gathered the mess of hair into a topknot and secured it with a hair tie she had left on her nightstand.
It was only then that she noticed the man in her bed.
Edward smiled sleepily as he looked up at her. He rolled to his side, bunching the pillow under his neck.
"Good morning." His voice was crackly with sleep, but warm.
"Morning. Did you, uh, did you sleep all right?"
He nodded against the pillow. "Yeah, really well. You? I didn't steal all the blankets, did I?"
"I don't think I would have noticed," Isabella said, smiling. "We went to sleep so late, I'm fairly certain I would have been too tired to let something like being cold keep me awake."
Edward chuckled, pushing himself up so he was sitting opposite her, mirroring her cross-legged position.
"What's the time?"
Isabella looked at the clock on her nightstand. "It's—gosh, it's almost two."
"Huh." Edward shrugged. "We did go to bed at around six this morning, after all."
"True."
Isabella stretched her arms above her head, and Edward felt the tips of his fingers drawn to her skin like magnets to iron. He traced the sliver of skin revealed as she yawned, chuckling as she jumped.
"Sorry."
Isabella's eyebrows lifted as she saw his smirk. "No, you're not."
Edward laughed, pink staining his cheeks—whether from the stifling heat of the room or something else, Isabella couldn't tell. "I am sorry I startled you."
Still smiling, she climbed out of bed. Edward assumed she was going to open the curtains, but instead, she flicked the air-conditioning on before disappearing into the bathroom.
She splashed her face with cold water, realizing too late that she hadn't removed her makeup from the evening before. With a sigh, she pulled out a removing wipe and began to wipe away the blackness that was starting to run down her face.
"Edward?"
"Yeah?"
She jumped, his voice closer than she had anticipated. He stepped into the bathroom, smiling as he watched her carefully wipe her face clean.
"I was just going to ask you if you've had enough of me for one day—or whether you'd like to go out for a very late breakfast?"
Edward ran his hands through his hair, meeting her eyes through the mirror. "I'd like that very much. But, um, do you happen to own any more of your dad's shirts?"
Isabella peered through the open doors, her expression bewildered as she took in the way the clean, white lighting and simple furnishings had transformed the space from a sumptuously appointed café into a quaint little patisserie. The chaise lounges and low wooden tables had been replaced with more modern, minimalist tables and chairs, and the sunshine streamed in through the open windows, which must have been heavily curtained the night before. "Oh!"
"Right?"
"It's like … are you sure this is the same place?"
Edward chuckled. "I told you—it's so much more laidback by day."
He led her through the café and out into the little paved courtyard, his fingers linked with hers.
Isabella flipped her sunglasses onto her head as she studied the menu. "Oh, thank goodness—they have breakfast all day."
Halfway through their meal, Edward startled as firm hands landed on his shoulders. "What the –"
"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you …"
Edward groaned, swatting at the two men standing behind him, their grins matching though they looked nothing alike. Isabella recognized them as the two men she'd seen him with the first time they'd met.
"It's your birthday?" she asked, her eyes wide.
Edward shook his head. "Uh, yeah." He sighed. "Guys, this is Isabella. Isabella, this is Peter."
The shorter, dark-haired man—the younger of the two, she guessed—winked at her as he shook her hand.
"And this is Garrett."
He indicated the taller, thinner man with sandy blond hair. His blue eyes sparkled with mischief as he pressed a kiss to her hand.
"It's so lovely to meet you, Isabella."
"Would you, um, would you guys like to join us?" she offered, looking to Edward. He shrugged, seeming somewhat resigned.
"No, no—we won't interrupt your date," Peter told her. "We were on our way home when we saw you, and we just had to wish the big guy a happy birthday."
"Sure you did." The smile-crinkles around his eyes belied Edward's dry response.
"All right, champ. We know when we're not welcome." Garrett winked at Isabella, waving off her protests. "We'll leave you two to it. I'm sure we'll see you again soon, gorgeous."
It was only as they wandered back towards Edward's car, their bellies full of pain au chocolat and café au lait, that Isabella remembered Garrett and Peter's words.
She turned to Edward, slipping her hand out of his. "Happy birthday, Edward."
He smiled. "Thank you."
"I hope I'm not, uh, keeping you from any plans?"
"Nah. I'm going to my parents' place for dinner later tonight, but that's it. No other plans."
Isabella considered him for a moment, feeling that fluttery giddiness returning as their eyes locked, as Edward's head dipped, bringing his lips to hers. Her fingers wound into his hair, while his arms encircled her waist. They both gasped at the riptide of desire that was rapidly dragging them under, and the intensity that flowed between them as they kissed again and again and again shook through them like sparks beneath their skin.
It took all his effort to pull back, but Edward released Isabella's lips, stepping back, his hands resting on her hips. For a moment only charged silence surrounded them, but slowly the noises of the afternoon began to impinge on them. It was uncomfortable, the intrusion of the world on their stolen moment of intimacy.
Their fingers tangled, neither of them spoke until Edward had pulled back into Isabella's driveway.
"I, uh, I guess you probably need to go get ready," she said, unbuckling the seat belt.
Edward nodded, and Isabella could see the shadows in his green eyes—he was as reluctant to leave as she was for him to go. It reassured her, knowing he felt this pull, this attraction, as deeply as she did.
She leaned across the console, kissed him once more, then swung the passenger door open.
"It's been—" she shook her head, grasping for a word that could possibly convey the feelings coursing through her, "—wonderful, really."
Edward caught her hand as she went to slide out of the car. "Thank you, Isabella. I, uh, I'd really love to see you again."
"I should hope so."
He smiled at her playfulness. "Can I, well …" His teeth slid over his bottom lip. "Can I see you tomorrow?"
Isabella nodded. "Of course. Call me, uh, whenever."
As he drove home, his cheeks aching from the smile that stretched his whole face, Edward wondered if it were actually possible to fall in love inside of twenty-four hours. If he wasn't already laid flat on his back, he suspected he was well on his way to falling head over heels for Isabella Swan.
I close the laptop, but linger in the darkness of my living room. "What do you think?"
I can feel his smile against my neck. "Perfect."
The words come easy when they're whispered into the black of night. "I think I've fallen hard, Edward."
"Me, too." He sighs, hot breath ruffling my hair. "Come to bed, pretty girl."
A/N: You lovely people blow me completely away with your kind and thoughtful reviews. Thank you so much!
Tam, you are sunshine and sea-salty air. Thank you so much for everything.
Shell xx
P.S. Make sure you check out the entries for the "Season of Our Discontent" Anonymous Angst Contest. u/3142288/Season-of-Our-Discontent
