A/N: Thanks so much for all your wonderful thoughts.
Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to me. All mistakes are mine.
Long-ish update up ahead to make up for the lack of update last week. I still think we can wrap this up in two to three more chapters. We shall see. :)
Chapter 10 – The Girl Who Texted Three Words in All-Caps
I've been keeping busy all day for a couple of reasons.
For one, because if you've ever been a child on Christmas Eve, you know how Father Time suddenly morphs into a giant sloth right before the big pay-off. And even though, in my case, the pay-off has absolutely zero to do with a jolly, old man in a puffy red suit and everything to do with a smart, funny, and seriously-hot young man with a great accent, a great pair of Timberlands, and gorgeous green eyes, similar rules do apply.
The other reason I've been keeping busy is because if I type my name into a search engine one more time and come up with another variant of 'beautiful yet clumsy American,' I may hit something. I'm usually not a violent person – clumsy, perhaps, but not violent.
Luckily, it is Christmas Eve, and there should be plenty of distractions to keep me busy until the evening.
First, we go all Great British Baking Show with our mince pies for Rose's upcoming Christmas day celebration with Emmett and his parents. Then, we bake Scottish Shortbread for Jasper's family New Year's celebrations, which the Scots call Hogmanay. Finally, we acknowledge one of our own American traditions by baking way too many sweet sugar cookies.
With the baking done, Rose, Alice, and I sit cross-legged on the living room floor and wrap presents. When I suggest we play Christmas Carols while we wrap, they inform me that on this side of the pond, instead of carols, it's tradition to watch a slew of Christmas-themed TV ads. We're about three commercials in when a pattern emerges. With blurred vision, I set down my scissors before I accidentally lob off a fingertip.
"Is there a reason why all these Christmas commercials- I mean adverts," I amend, "want to make me bawl my eyes out?"
Rose expels a series of broken sighs. "They're supposed to. Otherwise, they're not doing their job."
"Where their job is to fuck with our mental health on Christmas Eve? I'm already stressed the hell out today; I don't need help."
Alice chuckles through her tears while pulling a pair of sharp scissors through curling ribbon and then letting the ribbon snap into gorgeous spirals – all without losing a finger. Darn designer showoff. Then, she sums up the purpose of British Christmas adverts.
"Bella, the adverts' job is to toy with our already frazzled holiday emotions so that we'll look for a way to ease our stress – through shopping."
"Well, I refuse to be reduced to the total of a marketing strategy," I reply. "Therefore, now that I know their intentions, there's no way they're gaining access to my wallet through manipulation of my feelings."
"We'll see," Rose snorts.
Ninety minutes later, I'm wiping the last remnants of tears off my cheeks while tapping my credit card information onto the John Lewis Department Store Check Out page. Once I'm assured that my new boots will be shipped to New York, New York, USA in seven to ten days, I close the browser and the laptop and sigh. Then, I decide that, since I'm already in tears, I might as well place a couple of phone calls to the States.
My mom is surprised by the fact that I'm in London, even though I informed her of my holiday plans the last time we spoke. She asks when I'll return to New York, and I tell her – once again – that I'm flying back a couple of days after the new year. What follows is a rich though convoluted conversation infused with a plethora of topics. I learn about Phil's and her plans for the next couple of days, including a Christmas Eve séance hosted in her favorite medium's home – yes, Renee has a favorite medium. They also have a two-hundred-plus-mile drive planned to the Grand Canyon for a midnight donkey expedition into its deepest bowels – the canyon's bowels, not the donkey's. Once that's thankfully cleared up, she assures me she received the package I sent her for Christmas, and she promises to send me something in return – she's heard that donkey poop amulets are good luck for the new year. I assure her vehemently that such a gift isn't necessary. She makes another inquiry about when I'll be back in New York. This is followed by her naming every city she ever wants to visit before she dies – of old age, God-willing – which makes it a pretty long list. Before ending the call, we wish one another a Merry Christmas and promise to get in touch again soon after the new year, in February or so.
By the time I call my dad, I'm grateful that conversation with him tends to run more to the short and concise. Through a series of mostly monosyllabic words, I learn that Charlie has a couple of buddies coming over; they're watching the game and ordering turkey sandwiches. His grunt assures me he received my package, and hundreds of thousands of years of Homo Sapien evolution afford him sufficient language skills to convey that I'll be receiving a package of my own. Before ending the call, he mumbles something that's either 'Love you' or 'Lipo,' and since Charlie isn't prone to elective surgery, I'm pretty sure it's the former.
Finally done with both calls, I release a series of collective sighs, relieved that, for all the crazy, at least neither one mentioned bizarre news articles or social media notifications regarding a beautiful yet clumsy American woman waltzing with an English Lord.
Moving on, I perform yet another distracting and reluctant duty, that of packing a bag for the couple of nights over Christmas Day and Boxing Day that I'll spend in Edinburgh with Alice and Jasper.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not reluctant to pack because I don't want to go with them.
Well, I am reluctant to pack because I don't want to go with them. But it's not because I don't want to be with them; rather more because this is Alice and Jasper's first holiday together. They shouldn't have a third wheel tagging along. And yes, I know deep in my heart that deep in Alice's heart, she doesn't mind. Even more than not minding, she's genuinely happy to have me along. I know this because if it were the other way around, and my significant other and I were celebrating our first holiday together, I'd be completely fine with it if Alice came with us.
But let's face it; they're lovers, and it's their first holiday together.
There's also the fact that spending a couple of days in Edinburgh means a couple of days away from Edward. Then, again, I have to remind myself that Edward shouldn't be a consideration in these plans. Firstly, because we've only spent a couple of days together, and not nearly enough time for me to assume he'd want to see me on either Christmas Day or Boxing Day. And secondly…well, I'll be back in the States soon anyway.
Zipping up my bag, I check the clock and smile to myself. No, my distraction efforts – baking, wrapping, shopping, packing, calling crazy parents, and getting lost in my internal musings – none of it exactly worked. Not for one moment did I forget that I'm seeing Edward at the pub tonight – but, at least they've passed the time.
Now, it's time to get ready.
OOOOO
The pub my girls favor on Oxford Street is ridiculously packed. Christmas Eve revelers loiter in every possible square foot of space, whether seated at tables or just standing around talking and yelling, laughing rowdily and of course, enjoying their rounds. Wherever there aren't people or tables, holiday decorations abound – mistletoe balls hang strategically from beams while multicolored, flashing string lights swing like vines from wall to wall.
It's pretty great, but I'm already flustered. Stowing away my cell, I lick the last of the froth off my ale and then take a long swig.
"Who were you texting with?" Alice asks, breaking away from her conversation.
"I'll give you one guess," I mutter.
"Oh, hell, Bella. I thought you were done talking or even texting with that fucker."
My brow furrows. "What? No! No," I smirk. "I'll give you two guesses, I guess."
She wrinkles her forehead in concentration. "Ahh," she nods, "Sulpicia Volturi."
"Correct."
"Well, though she shouldn't be bugging you on Christmas Eve, and while you're on holiday, she's definitely the lesser of two evils there," Alice snickers.
I chuckle quietly, taking another swallow. Tonight's ale has a nutty, caramel malt flavor that keeps it from being too bitter. And I try not to grow too bitter as I check my watch.
"Christmas Eve or approved holidays notwithstanding, it's still working hours in the U.S. Sulpicia is my boss, and I have to keep her happy."
Alice shakes her head. "That place is like a vampire lair, except instead of sucking your blood, they suck on your soul."
"Whether they're soul-suckers or blood-suckers," I grin, "it's still one of the best architectural firms in New York City, and I'm lucky to work there."
"I'd say the question of who's doing who the bigger favor in that workplace relationship is debatable."
"Yeah, well. A lot's debatable right now, but...anyway, whatever."
Alice's ensuing study of me grows unnerving. Already on edge, I dismiss her scrutiny with a wave that makes her laugh. Then, I smooth down my wrinkle-less, red velvet blouse, wipe off imaginary dust from my black leather miniskirt, pull invisible bits of lint off of my black tights, and rub a non-existent smudge off of my patent leather tall boots.
"I'm sure he'll be here soon."
I shoot her a wry grin from behind my pint. "I'm here with my girls, on holiday, as they say. Anything or anyone else who shows up is irrelevant."
Her brow shoots up dubiously.
"Fine, fine. Maybe not totally irrelevant."
"And you look amazing, by the way."
"Damn right I do." Slipping an arm around her shoulder, I pull her against my side. "After all, I was dressed by London's best new designer."
"You sure as hell were."
With every passing minute, the pub grows rowdier as the last workday before not one but two holidays draws to a close. Anticipation thrums in the air, with Londoners ready to let loose for a long weekend. They stand at the bar, three and four rows deep, ordering round after round. The bartenders are already beginning to look harried as they try to hear their patrons' orders over the loud music and attempt to keep the peace by taking care of everyone in order. As I know all too well from experience, God help anyone who messes with a British queue.
"What's that? Who are you planning on choking, Bella?"
Emmett's lips twitch as if he's fighting a laugh. It seems I may have mumbled some inner thoughts aloud.
"Oh, nothing. No one." I clear my throat. "So, where's Liam tonight?"
"He's out with a few mates. He'll meet Rosie and me tomorrow at our parents' house."
"Ah." I nod slowly. "I really hope the whole thing with…you know…the mix-up…I hope it didn't…"
Emmett shrugs and raises his pint to his mouth. "He's fine. The duel between him and Edward isn't until dawn." When my eyes round in horror, he bursts out laughing. "I'm taking the mickey, Bella."
"Bloody wanker," I smirk.
"Whoa!" He jerks back, laughing even harder. "I see my Rosie has been lending you a hand with your U.K. vernacular."
"When in Rome…"
Sobering, he leans in and speaks much more quietly. "I'm sure he'll be here soon."
"Who'll be here soon?"
He chuckles. "Bella, I've known the bloke my entire life. I have never, ever," he smiles, "seen him as…keen on someone as he obviously is on you. He'll be here." He holds my gaze meaningfully for a moment before turning back to Rose.
Sighing, I take yet another peek over my shoulder. The growing crowd now stands shoulder to shoulder. For a while, I get lost in their antics.
"Hello? Earth to Bella?"
"Sorry, what?" I ask as I turn back to the table.
"Jasper was just telling us all about Hogmanay."
Jasper goes into a thorough description of his childhood traditions while I make another attempt to focus on the conversation. For a few minutes, I'm thoroughly absorbed, I really am. But then, I peek over my shoulder again…
"…an' though the first-footers bring black buns, shortbread, an' cock-a-leekie-"
"Cock-a-what now?" I ask, turning back to the table.
"Cock-a-leekie," Jasper repeats. "It's a Scots soup wi' leeks an' cock."
My eyebrows shoot up, but Alice quickly clarifies the matter.
"By cock, he means chicken. Don't get too excited," she grins.
"Ahh. Cock as in chicken," I nod. "And here I thought this conversation was about to take a curious turn."
"I s'pose it's true thon a wee thing amuses the bairns. Whoa! Ocht!" Jasper laughs, backing up when I shoot him a backward 'V' sign. "Who in the de'il toot ye that?"
"I'm learning."
"An'way, as I wis say'n before such shenanigans," Jasper continues with a chuckle, "the most important Hogmanay tradition is thon of first-footing, which means welcoming the first vis'tor bearing gifts after midnight. If the lad or lass is a verra goot sort o' first-footer, he'll bring a wee dram of whisky wi' him. And according to Scottish ritual…" – for a quick moment, Jasper's gaze seems to stray past my shoulder before it returns to the rest of us at the booth, and he grins, "'it's 'e'en better win the cock an' whisky is brought by a tall, dark, an' handsome lad."
"A tall, dark, and handsome lad bearing gifts of cock and whisky, huh?" I nod, raising my pint. "I'll toast to-"
"Well, instead of whisky and chicken," someone says over my shoulder, "I come bearing gifts of ale and crisps, and while I definitely fill the height requirement, I'd say my hair's more copper than dark. What's more…"
The words are murmured close to my ear, tickling the fine hairs on my nape and causing goosebumps to crop up from hand to arm, across the breadth of my shoulders, and down the length of my other arm. Slowly, I turn sideways and crane my neck to meet the interloper's gaze, where I find a pair of sparkling, green eyes waiting.
"What's more, as for whether I'm handsome…" he offers me a grin, "you tell me."
My heart races, but I offer him a smirk. "Just like an eavesdropper, always eavesdropping."
"And just like a peculiar American, wanting to toast to chicken and whisky." He chuckles, but he sobers quickly, and his tone switches to one much more apologetic. "I'm so sorry I'm late, but you received my texts, right?"
"What texts?" I ask, while simultaneously pulling out my cellphone. With a brisk swipe upward, my gaze lands on a few unread texts from Edward. As I rapidly skim them, I'm flooded with both relief from my skepticism, and mortification for my skepticism.
Hey, my American Girl, I'm so sorry, but I may be a few minutes late. Last-minute client…
Bella, just wanted to confirm you received my text?
Bella? Just want to make sure you got my text about being-
"Ooh. Those texts." Peeking back up at Edward, I offer him an embarrassed smile. "I must've missed them while I was on a call with my own work crap."
"Bloody work crap," he grins.
"I secretly wanted to choke you."
"Not so secretly!" A loud, boisterous voice calls out.
"Did you?" Edward snorts. "Bella…" Leaning in close, his face is now level with mine, eyes sparkling, and mouth just a short breath away. "What's the answer?"
Now that I know I haven't been stood up or disregarded, I allow myself to be mesmerized once again, entranced by him and how his presence always makes me feel…free to be myself; as if I can say or do anything. All the while, my eyes visually trace his features – hair, forehead, eyes nose, before landing on his mouth, his soft, soft mouth.
"The answer to what?" I murmur.
"To whether you think I'm handsome."
Laughter bubbles inside me, light and airy and buoyant, but I stifle the urge even though I know he can see it rippling at the ends of my mouth.
"Are you seriously fishing for compliments after getting here late and after that pitiful flattery and woo text exchange earlier?"
His head tilts to one side, lips twitching with his own repressed amusement. "I thought I made up for the pitiful woo."
"No, you said you were going to make up for it tonight."
He shakes his head. "No. I'm quite positive I sent you a well-worded and massively sweet-"
Cupping his angular jaw, I pull his startled face down, and whatever nonsense he was saying dies in his throat. Instead, he groans when our mouths meet, and playful nips give way to mutual sighs and lips brushing back and forth.
"That's one way to shut me up," he smirks.
"I'll keep that in mind," I grin. "Works both ways, by the-"
Someone – Rose – clears her throat. "Ahem. Edward, how about you take a seat and join us?"
Edward and I blink, pivoting our heads from side to side, apparently both just remembering we're in a crowded pub.
"And you can set down that bloody tray before you spill the rest of the ale," Emmett directs. "You're getting the next round too, mate."
I also only now note the tray Edward holds off to the side, which appears to once have contained pints filled to the rim – pints which are now half empty.
"Oops. Sorry?"
Edward sets down the tray and meets my eyes. "No worries." Taking a seat next to me, he kisses me again, grinning against my mouth. "After that greeting, I'm fine with getting every round from here on in.
OOOOO
"It's your fault because you frazzled me on that flight."
"My fault?" Edward asks, eyes growing wide in mock indignation. "How was it my fault you were frazzled on that flight?"
"You'd already disconcerted me at the gate so that by the time I boarded the plane-"
"Again, how did I disconcert you when I was merely sitting there, minding my own business, when you purposely-"
"Don't you say you were minding your own business, Edward," I snap, straightening my back and threatening him with a fry- pardon me, with a chip. "Don't you dare say you were minding your own business or you wouldn't have heard me when I yelled out…" – I cup a hand around my mouth before whispering, "cock."
Edward's nostrils flare as he tries to swallow back his mirth.
"Okay, okay; perhaps I wasn't completely minding my own business…"
"Admit it. You were eavesdropping." I move in closer with the fry.
"Only because every time I turned around you were there – at the revolving doors, on the check-in queue, and then at the gate."
"So it's my fault you eavesdropped because I went around existing?"
"It's completely your fault for existing." His mouth twitches, eyes sparkling.
"You made me yell out cock."
For a long moment, our eyes remain locked, both of us refusing to back down or be the first to blink. When I stuff the fry in his mouth, we both lose the fight. We laugh and laugh, while I wipe away wayward crumbs from his mouth. See, he's wearing a navy blue dress shirt that fits him sublimely, outlining his broad shoulders while molding itself around the rest of his lean frame. Together with his dark gray, slim-leg trousers, he looks more like a casually dressed, European fashion magazine model than like a lawyer. I don't want to get him dirty; at least, not with a fry.
"When I recognized your Timberlands, I almost dropped my bag on my head."
He quirks an eyebrow. "You almost dropped your bag on your head because you overpacked."
"I beg to differ, Solicitor-"
"You can beg all you-"
Once again, as has happened a handful of times this evening, someone at the table clears their throat. Edward looks around the booth, and when I follow his gaze, I find four pairs of eyes scrutinizing us with more than a bit of amusement.
"I'm sorry, what did we miss now?" I ask.
"Oh, no, nothing," Alice grins, resting her elbows on the table and her chin on her interwoven hands. "We've given up on our own conversations. It's a thousand times more interesting to just listen to you two go on."
"And Bella, please don't think we've missed how you now find it necessary to whisper the word, 'cock'," Rose adds, "when you've been yelling it out all over the place since you left New York City."
"Bella has a peculiar, love, hate relationship with that particular word," Edward smirks.
The past couple of hours have flown by. It's as if we've all been friends for decades. Yet, even as we talk, drink, eat, and mess around, Edward's eyes constantly find mine. And it's true, without even realizing it, we repeatedly retreat into conversations for two. I suppose it's somewhat rude, but I can't be sorry.
See, my dates have never been like this. Even with him, our dates were always held in spots I convinced myself were romantic – expensive little restaurants, pricey hotel suites, opera seats far apart from everyone else. I know now that it was always just the two of us not because he enjoyed having me to himself, but because I was a clandestine secret. He was full of practiced poetry, impressing me with seeming maturity, with hand-written verses comparing my body to flowers and with French bistros with menus only he understood. He was a middle-aged phony; a practiced seducer.
And I fell for the flattery.
"You, Lord Masen, are falling far short of your flattery and woo goals for the evening."
Everyone laughs. Meanwhile, Edward pulls me in and plants one of those forehead kisses on my forehead that I'm coming to adore.
"Overpacked, yelling cock all over the place, panic-sweating, and all," he whispers in my ear, "by the time you fell asleep on my shoulder and drooled on me, I was a goner."
No, Edward is no flatterer; at least, not in the usual way. But neither is he secretive with his touches, with the affection he hides from no one – not even when the possibility exists that we'll end up on Page Six again.
Instead, he kisses my temple while I chuckle at his words of woo and feign horror when, in reality, those might've been the sweetest words anyone has ever spoken to me.
"Hey, you want to go for a walk?" he asks.
I meet his eyes. "Yeah."
OOOOO
We stroll up and down bustling Oxford Street hand in hand, slightly buzzed but more intoxicated on one another than we could ever be on watered-down ale.
He chuckles when I tell him my mom is probably in the middle of a séance at that very moment, trying to get dead strangers to tell her where to find money. I have to hold my stomach when he tells me his grandmother is probably doing the same, trying to get dead ancestors to tell her how to hide money.
The busy streets glimmer like a shiny, new penny, wet and slick from the almost constant rain. On the busiest shopping street in London, on the busiest shopping day of the year, black cabs and double-decker busses compete with foot traffic, with shopping bags, and with umbrellas. The dark, foggy sky threatens yet more rain, but no one here seems to mind.
In the midst of the wonderful chaos, we wander around aimlessly, while I verbally admire the elegant, eighteenth-century architecture, now updated to house modern-day boutiques and flagship stores. Immersed in history, I point out where World War II bombings led to the original Palladian architecture and fluted Corinthian style pilasters to give way to new construction.
"Some prefer the newer, modern facades," I muse, gazing upward, "but I…well, we don't have too much of this back home, and I think it's breathtaking – like a picture into the past, you know? And while a lot of the old architecture is protected, it's a shame it's disappearing from here too."
"I suppose I tend to take it for granted, but you're right, it is a shame," Edward agrees, pulling me into his arms. When I sweep my gaze back to him, I note the somewhat dazed look on his face. "However, I must admit that I love that look of nostalgia the tragedy of it all brings to your eyes." He strokes my cheek with the back of his fingers, making me shiver.
"Are you cold? Should we go-"
"No, I'm fine."
"Are you sure?"
"I just hope I haven't bored you."
"Not at all." His brow furrows. "Bella, back there at the pub…you didn't really think for a moment that I wouldn't show up, did you?"
He holds me locked in his gaze, and I swallow hard before replying.
"It's just that…as much as I love her," I smile, "sometimes I worry I'm too much like my mom, fun but overly chatty on the most mundane topics. Then, at other times, I feel like my dad, so lost in my own head I forget to speak aloud. Sometimes, to compensate, I tend to guard what I say. That hasn't been the case since I got here – since I got to that gate at the airport, I should say. For some reason, it's not the case when I'm around you, and I guess I just wonder if-"
He cups my face and cuts me off with a firm yet tender kiss, ending it with a brush of his lips to my nose and then to either eye. When he pulls back, I'm the one left dazed and breathless.
"Don't ever feel you need to guard your words or your thoughts around me because, Bella, you fascinate me. Do you know that? The way your mind works…I can listen to you speak all day, about anything and everything. I don't know your parents, but I think you're the perfect balance of you. What's more, when you speak European architecture in that American accent…bloody hell. Mm, mmm."
Mesmerized at first, by this point, I'm chuckling. "Just when I think you're the world's worst wooer, you offer me those beautiful words, but then you follow it up by teasing me!"
"Unfortunately for me, I'm not teasing you," he grins, pushing back a stray lock of hair and then whispering in my ear. "Talk more European architecture to me." He sucks on my earlobe, and when my legs threaten to fold, he holds me up as I simultaneously shriek and giggle.
"Are you trying to tell me you're turned on here?"
"Tell all of London, my loud American, but yes, I'm massively turned on here," he whispers against my neck.
I burst out laughing, resisting the urge to open up his coat and take a peek. Meanwhile, he buries his face against my neck and laughs too.
"Yelling out cock at the airport isn't the only way you've ever turned me on."
We both laugh so hard we end up having to keep one another upright.
"Edward, you call me peculiar."
Bestowing a soft, wet kiss to my neck, he straightens and meets my eyes. For a moment, it looks like he wants to say something. But then he takes my hand, and we continue our meandering.
We wander down to Oxford Circus, the chaotic junction where bus stops and the famous tube station converge and let out what seems like half of London at once. With his arm around my shoulder, Edward holds me close against his side, preventing me from getting jostled by the crowds.
"Alright, I've talked enough about the grand architecture of London. Now it's your turn to turn me on by telling me more about your legal work and all the research you do all day."
He rolls his eyes. "You see, the difference there, my love," – a rush of heat infuses me whenever he calls me his love – "is that it's your obvious passion about architecture that gets to me. And while I'm good at what I do," he grins with a sweet sort of arrogance I'm beginning to adore, "there's no passion there. Therefore, I'm afraid instead of turning you on, I'd set you to sleepwalking if I began speaking about my job."
He shrugs nonchalantly, but his words squeeze at my heart. Pulling his hand, I stop our stroll and cup his cheek.
"Edward, if you could do anything you wanted to do…what would it be?"
Again, he shrugs, but as his gaze strays past me and returns, he offers me a bashful smile.
"First, promise you won't laugh."
I laugh, but then I pass a hand over my face and sober quickly, crossing my heart. "Okay, okay. Now, I promise I won't laugh."
"I don't know how much I believe that." He hesitates for a handful of seconds, drawing in a deep breath, but it hits me before he can continue.
"You want to write horror comics!"
"I want to write horror comics," he confirms, his cheeks ruddy from the cold or from embarrassment or likely a bit of both.
I throw back my head and laugh uproariously. When I can finally meet his eyes again, Edward shakes his head and rolls his eyes.
"You crossed your heart and everything."
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I say contritely, though I can't completely wipe the grin off my face. "But can I explain to you why I laughed? It wasn't because you want to write horror comics." Resting my palms flat on his chest, I tip my head up to meet his eyes. "It was because I knew! Edward, you're titled; you're a successful solicitor; you dress like this yet you wear sweats and Timberlands and fly coach and you want to write comics," I say in wonder. "You're an enigma."
He chuckles quietly and slides his hands around the nape of my neck. "So what you're saying is I'm strange."
"What I'm saying is you're out of the ordinary. But you're talking to someone you call peculiar in the first place, so perhaps I'm not the best judge. And perhaps what I think shouldn't matter anyway."
His thumbs stroke my neck, ghost-like brushes that make me quiver all over as his searing eyes bore into mine. The heat of it all travels from my scalp to my toes and keeps me more than warm; I'm hot in the midst of this damp, foggy night.
"I call you my Peculiar American," he clarifies, "and what you think matters quite a bit to me. See, this is one of the many reasons why."
"Why what?" I ask, searching his eyes because I think I know the answer to that too.
"Bella…I've never told anyone that's what I'd like to do. Yet you not only guessed it…you make it sound so easy to reinvent oneself."
"Why wouldn't it be, Edward? I can totally see you looking out the window of your London flat and using its rich history to write comics full of some seriously scary shit."
"Can you really?" He looks and sounds so hopeful.
"So, what exactly is your comic going to be about?"
He sighs, those green eyes sparkling because there's just so much camouflaged behind their outward beauty. There's depth and variety and overflowing excitement, and more creativity than that required of a stodgy peer or of a solicitor, no matter how successful that solicitor may be.
He smiles. "I'm not entirely sure. I'd never actually considered writing it until now…" He pauses. "But I do have ideas…"
Balancing on my tiptoes, I whisper in his ear. "Then, tell me all your ideas, Edward Cullen. Maybe I can help you brainstorm."
When I pull back, he swallows thickly, his gaze dark and intense. "Bella…I know your time with your friends is precious, but…"
I already know what he's going to ask, and I'm beyond ready to spend the night with him.
"…are you entirely set on going to Edinburgh for the next couple of days?"
"Yes!"
His face falls.
"I mean no! No, I'm not," I smile. "I thought…never mind."
His brow furrows, but then he offers me a hopeful smile in return.
"In that case, would you mind spending your days with me?"
There's something about the way he says 'spending your days,' as if the words have a deeper meaning than just a request for my company for the next two days.
"I'd love to."
"Brilliant," he breathes. Then, licking his lips, he leans in. But before he closes the space between us, his gaze flutters upward.
"Look up quickly, love."
"Now?"
"Yes, now," he grins.
Sucking my teeth, because his lips are so close I already feel their supple heat, I pull back from them enough to look upward and past him.
"I gotta tell you, your timing right now is- oh, wow…beautiful."
Thousands upon thousands of lights twinkle above us. They crisscross the streets, strung together like constellations in a wondrous, quixotic, London milky way.
"Are these the Oxford Street Christmas lights?"
"Yes, and you're right; this…is a beautiful sight."
"The best of sights."
"The most undeniably magical of sights."
There's a grand clock on the face of one of the department stores; it's no Big Ben, but as its bong strikes midnight, the sound reverberates and thrills me with all its promises.
"Happy Christmas, my beautiful American Girl," Edward murmurs, capturing my mouth in a soft, tender kiss.
"Merry Christmas," I smile against his lips.
The rest of the stars we see are behind mutually shuttered eyelids.
OOOOO
Much later, as I'm lying in bed and replaying the wonderful evening, my eyes begin to flutter closed as my innermost thoughts claim their domain. Edward's smile is at the forefront of so many moments over the past couple of days. It stars in every scene, rolling through every still like a movie reel…
The buzzing on my nightstand wakes me with a start. When I check my phone, I find a colorful picture of Edward and me kissing under the Oxford Street Christmas lights. The caption reads:
The future Baron Masen greets the first moments of Christmas with his American Girl!
I chuckle as I skim the accompanying paragraph. Then, I read Edward's text.
Gotta love our tabloids.
Hey, at least they didn't call me clumsy this time.
They better not, or I'll have to call Harry for advice.
Lol! You are NOT friends with him!
You're right. The handful of times we played Rugby together definitely don't qualify as friendship. Much easier to just keep you away from punch bowls in the future.
And away from dance floors.
I make no promises regarding dance floors. That was too much fun.
Also, lots of kissing helps my coordination.
If that's the case, I haven't been kissing you properly because your coordination should not be POSITIVELY impacted.
Lol. We can always work on that.
We may have to. Go back to sleep, American girl. I'm sorry for waking you. I'll pick you up in a few hours.
Okay. Can't wait, Edward.
You have no idea, Bella.
With anticipation tickling low in my tummy, I hug my pillow and allow sleepy dreams to claim me.
A minute or an hour later, the phone buzzes yet again.
"He's sorry for waking me my ass," I smile groggily. Yet, as exhausted as I am, I refuse to forego conversation with Edward in favor of something as trivial as sleep.
Bella, I'm in London.
In my drowsy state, it takes me a couple of seconds to realize the texter isn't Edward. At that point, all the anticipation I felt just a second earlier does an about-face and mutates into the total opposite. The hand holding the cell phone shakes, and I drop the phone. When I pick it up off the floor and reread the text, I kind of wish the phone had just broken, cracked into a million pieces, and turned its current message into unrecognizable gibberish. It takes another couple of readings before I accept that I'm awake and not in the midst of a nightmare.
He is in London.
He is in LONDON?
What the fuck is he doing in London?
Wasn't his wife's party this week?
What the fuck is he doing in London?
I don't actually type out the questions. Instead, I try to keep my breathing even and to maintain my shaking to a minimum so as not to wake Alice. They sound like simple objectives, but they become loftier when I see the bubbles indicating he's writing more.
Bella, please, I need to see you.
Nausea swells like thick lava, forcing me to clamp a hand over my mouth. With quivering fingers, I type out a brisk reply before he can text more, cursing myself even more than I curse him.
Leave me alone. For good.
I set the phone down as if it's scalding my palms, while every single one of my mistakes blazes through my mind like ashes ready to catch fire; all the lies I swallowed and the excuses I made. Unfortunately, less than a minute later, the phone buzzes again. Stifling a growl, I curl my hand around the plastic phone case as if it's nestling a bomb that may detonate.
Bella, my darling, I need you.
Marcus, WE ARE DONE.
Those three words in caps should convey my message loud and clear, shouldn't they?
Before he can text back, I delete the entire exchange. I delete him from my phone and follow that up by going into my settings and blocking his number. Funny how these are all things I now realize I should've done much sooner in this relationship if what he and I had could've ever been termed a relationship. Something I said to Rose just a few weeks ago, when I was trying to justify my involvement with him, now jolts me like an epiphany.
A month or a day, Rose; it doesn't make a difference when you fit together. Just like when you don't fit, it doesn't matter how long you've been together.
"For the love, B, go to sleep! You'll see Edward again in a few hours," Alice chuckles groggily.
"Yeah," I rasp out, then I clear my throat. "Yeah, I will. Sorry, Al, go back to sleep."
She mumbles something unintelligible and then flips over on her stomach, falling easily back into slumber and dreams of Jasper because she was never stupid enough to sleep with an older, supposedly-sophisticated, married man whose wife turned out to be my boss's sister.
I, however, have no choice now but to set down the phone and stare at it menacingly, daring the fucker to buzz one more time from a different number, so that I can snatch it up and smash it against the wall.
"Go ahead, motherfucker," I mouth, barely daring to breathe much less whisper lest the cell phone animate and take my threat as an invitation. I only draw in a long breath and exhale in relief when London's muted sun begins to peek through the blinds and announces the arrival of Christmas morning.
The cell has thankfully remained blessedly silent. At that point, I allow myself to rest because the three words – all in caps – did their job.
A/N: Thoughts?
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"See" you soon!