I do not own Twilight


High School: Junior Year, October

"You wanna ride?"

I jump, startled by the velvet voice and turn quickly, my shoulder hitting the open door to my locker but I ignore the throbbing pain out of embarrassment. Edward's leaning against the locker next to me, his arms crossed, a smirk on his absurdly handsome face.

"Oh," I say, my brow furrowing. "I drove to school."

Edward thinks for a minute.

"Do you wanna go for a ride?" he rephrases and glances out of the glass door twenty feet from us. It's a beautiful October afternoon and, despite the fact that it's a Wednesday and my mom will probably kill me for going out instead of coming straight home, I grin.

We walk to his car in silence, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, but he stands close beside me. So close, his arm brushes mine every once in a while.

He stops at an older car, dark red. It looks like a sports car, or a car that would be used for drag racing. I glance up at him. I bet he's drag raced before.

"What kind of car is this?" I ask as I pull on my seat-belt.

"A Celica," he says.

"Is it old?" If it is, it's been well taken care of.

"Ninety-nine," he answers.

I pass my hand over the burgundy-colored, leather interior. It looks brand new.

Edward watches as he starts the car.

"Is it yours?" I ask, because he's told me before that a lot of the cars are his dad's. They just sit in the driveway, so he lets his sons use them once in a while.

"Technically," he says and I glance over at him, curious.

"Someone dropped it at the shop. They traded my dad for a truck." He shrugs, "I redid the interior and painted, so yeah. Technically, it's mine."

His jaw clenches once when he says this and I wonder if his dad agrees. I agree.

"Well, you did a great job," I say. "I love it."

He smiles over at me and the tension in his jaw is gone, but now there's a different tension in the air as we smile at each other. After a while, his smile dips and he bites his bottom lip.

"What do you want, Bella?" he asks abruptly, too seriously to be casual and I have a feeling he means something more than the simple words.

But because I'm an idiot who falls into the trap of his eyes, I blurt out, "Ice cream," because I'm afraid he's asking if I want to go to the Alcove to make out in his car and then go home like Alice told me he wouldn't do. It's not like I don't want to make out with him in his car, because I really, really do, but I don't want it to be a one and done thing like Alice said it would be after I told her that he took me to look at stars a week ago.

And then I watch with hidden horror as his eyes widen and he bursts into a laugh.

"Okay," he laughs. "Ice cream it is, pretty girl."

I think my heart stops and then picks up double time.

The ice cream stand is busy for an October afternoon, but it's only the first week of October and it's still warm out and the sun is blistering, reflecting off of the pavement. I abandoned my cardigan in his car, donned in just a simple blouse and Edward keeps looking at my bare shoulders, the dip in between my collarbones.

I'm self-conscious, but more so just conscious that he's looking at me at all.

I get strawberry and he gets vanilla and when I'm not looking, he sneaks a spoonful of mine.

"Hey!" I protest, even though he paid for both despite my objection. He laughs and then puts a spoonful of his on top of mine.

It's a good combination.

We talk about nothing in particular as we eat in his car, burning up in the hot parking lot, but I hardly notice the heat from the sun with the heat of Edward so close to me. I laugh at his memories of him and Emmett in their childhood, and he laughs at the stories of my mom's boyfriends before Charlie. He watches me with an intensity and curiosity that surprises me when I tell him about my mundane life in Connecticut, and then Maryland, and then California, and then Arizona, before coming up to Washington.

"So, you're an East Coast girl," he comments with a lazy smile. It's lopsided, one side higher than the other.

"I guess I'm an all-around girl," I say and then immediately sputter when his eyebrows shoot up because I know what that can mean and that is most definitely not what I meant.

"That's not what I meant," I stutter, but he's already laughing.

He reaches out for my empty cup, his fingers brushing against mine and a spark shoots through my hand.

"Don't worry," he says, "I didn't think you were like that."

The way he drives fascinates me. It's so casual, like he could do this for hours, his elbow resting on the console, his left hand on top of the wheel in an easy grip. It's hard not to study his muscular arms, the flatness to his hard stomach, the way his chest moves when he breathes. I think he catches me looking sometimes, but he doesn't say anything.

His dark green eyes flash over my face once in a while as we talk and he looks at my mouth—a lot. So much that, when he's distracted by making a left turn, I glance quickly in the side mirror to make sure I don't have any ice cream on my lips.

I don't.

He pulls onto my street and I point towards the side of the road.

"You should pull over here," I say. He does so, a small question in his eyes because where we are has a blocked view of my house, the large trees running alongside the road, but it's better this way for both his and my mom's sake.

And mine.

I lean over to unbuckle while he's inclined towards the center console, his weight on his elbow, his green eyes brilliant in contrast to the surrounding green and on my face.

"Thanks for the ice cream," I say.

"You're welcome, Bella," he says.

I'm about to say, "and for the ride," but he cuts me off, his hands coming up to cup my jaw and I know what he's going to do the second before he does it. I'm pretty sure my eyes are wide as saucers.

He kisses me fast, but it's deep and his lips are parted and he tastes like vanilla with a hint of strawberry and I'm certain it's the best thing I've ever tasted, but when the tip of his tongue touches my bottom lip, he pulls away abruptly, like he forgot what he was doing.

"Shit," he breathes, moving back to his seat. His eyes are closed, but when they open and look at me, they are scorching.

"Sorry," he says, but the concern in his voice, in his expression isn't because he didn't want to kiss me, it's because he didn't know if I wanted him to kiss me and I know I have to rectify right away or I'll lose my chance.

I unbuckle quickly, grab his shirt, and lean forward to press my lips back to his.

He doesn't make me wait long, or lean over the console long, because he's pushing back against me, his lips parting, his tongue dancing. I sigh against his mouth and hope that he doesn't notice this is my first kiss.

His fingers explore my jaw, my throat, my shoulders, running over the fabric of my blouse and when they dip along my rib-cage, I pull back panting because I'm not an all-around girl and I don't plan on starting today.

He's looking at me like he wants to continue, or do more, or take me inside, or something, but I only smile sheepishly and press my lips back to his one last time before pulling away altogether.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" I ask and he's still sitting there, a wild look to his eyes. I'm sad I didn't get to touch his hair.

He nods and then the corner of his mouth lifts and it's nearly blinding.

"Tomorrow," he says.

Before I get further than five feet away from his car, I'm running back to the passenger side.

"We left my car at school," I remind him as I get back in.

He's already kissing me before I can even buckle.