Hi!
Work is still partially kicking my ass, so while I did manage to post teasers, I'm way behind on review replies. Please know I am beyond thankful for each and every one of them, and treasure them all.
Alice's White Rabbit, Midnight Cougar and SunflowerFran wield the red pens. RobsmyyummyCabanaboy and Deh are my plot coaches and shoulders to cry on. I am a tinkerer, though, so any errors left are my own boo-boos.
Rose and BCG kissed and made up. Next up, CluelessWard has lunch with Esme, and then ... dinner with the 'rents in Montagu Square.
Enjoy!
BUSINESS CLASS GIRL – Chapter 31
Edward
"There is something about you … Would it be too forward of me to assume it's because of Bella?"
Mum and I are having lunch at one of her favourite places. It's a cute little bistro around the block from the British Museum, within walking distance from Great Ormond Street Children's Hospital where Dad works. If memory serves, it's where they have their standing lunch date … every Wednesday.
"Mum, did you ditch Dad to have lunch with me?"
She places her fork back on her plate, takes a sip of her ice water, and stares at me for a full thirty seconds.
"Quit stalling, Edward Anthony. What if I did?"
"Why does everybody keep stealing my lines?"
"Everybody?" she prods with a mischievous glint in her eye. Mr Bond has nothing on Esme Cullen when it comes to interrogation techniques. MI6 should probably rethink their recruitment guidelines.
"Inside joke," I hedge, unwilling to give up too many details about Bella and me.
"I watched your interviews this past week."
"And? I'm promoting a film, Mother. I'm giving dozens of interviews. What of them?" I also know for a fact she watches my interviews religiously, just to chide me later if I embarrass myself on air.
"Still being cagey, I see."
"What's your angle with this?"
"Well, I do see a difference. You can't fool your own mother, you know?"
Relentless. Might as well roll over.
"Different is good, isn't it?"
The waiter brings our coffees—English dishwater for her, an espresso for me—Bella's picky beverage choices are rubbing off on me again.
With a polished gesture, she stirs her coffee and returns the spoon to the saucer after taking a minute sip.
"It's subtle. You're still very much … you, just more grounded, somehow?"
Busted. "I'm in a good place. A damn good place, I must say." I can't help my full-on grin, all my pearly whites on display. I'm a lucky fucker.
"As I said, I think she's good for you. Alice loves her. So does your father. So do I."
It's Mum's version of "don't cock this up."
"I love her, Mum. I do. Truly. She's … She's it for me."
Esme Cullen raises a perfectly groomed caramel eyebrow at me. "So soon, Edward?"
Cue the belaboured sigh from yours truly. Do I tell her or not? The whole story? After a brief internal debate, I keep it to myself. Another little thing that's just for Bella and me. I'm not being secretive on purpose; I just cherish these little things that mean something only to us.
"I can hardly explain it, Mum."
"Then try me." She flashes me one of her heart-warming smiles. The Mum smile. It's my kryptonite. So of course, I start blabbing.
"She hasn't fundamentally changed me or taken over my life. She just nudged me a tad so I'd stop being a clueless sod. I'm making choices for myself. Instead of them running me over like freight trains."
She nods, and then interjects, "Tell me more."
"It's not just me showing up on time when and where I'm supposed to. Or nailing audition after audition. Or not sounding like an idiot in interviews. I'm focused. It's like my life got uncluttered. If I freak out for a second, I just need to throw a look her way, and the nerves just dissipate. I put in a one-year lease on a house in Venice Beach. I don't live out of a suitcase anymore. I actually grew a pair and told Angela what I wanted to do for a change."
She nods again, a speculative look in her eyes. "Edward, my dear, I hate to break it to you, but any personal assistant worth their salt would have the same effect. At least, on someone as adorably clueless as you used to be. It's hardly a reason to put a ring on it."
"Are you playing devil's advocate with me?"
"You just said you love her. I'm assuming it's not because of her outstanding organisational skills."
As I said, relentless. But I'm beginning to see her point. "You're afraid I'll end up being a co-dependent sod."
"I didn't say that. What I'd like to know is would you love her if she didn't work for you? If she hadn't turned your professional life around?"
I close my eyes for a second, thinking back on the first time I saw her. "From the very moment I saw her, she mesmerised me. I marvelled for hours at how smart, calm, competent, endearing she was—even under pressure. I couldn't look away. I couldn't get her out of my head. Out of my heart. Everything about her captivates me, and it has nothing to do with the fact that she manages my damn calendar." I sigh and smile. "I wake up every day with the added motivation to go out there and be the best man I can be, just so I have a prayer of feeling even remotely worthy of her. She could have anyone, be anywhere, have ten times the career she has now—and if I have anything to say about it, she damn well will because she deserves it—but somehow, she thought it worthy of her time to be with me, in every way. She took a chance on me when I looked like a lost cause, even to Angela. On the way to New York last week, we spent five hours—five, Mum—talking on the plane. Just talking, of everything and nothing. She listens to me—and remembers every single thing I tell her, not just because it's her job, but because she cares. She knows me. She gets me—when I'm frustrated with work, or with the press, or because I second-guess myself. She doesn't let me wallow in my self-doubt and doesn't take any of my crap. She's cared since the first minute she met me. And I couldn't help but care back. I couldn't help but fall headlong into this. Into her, into us. She doesn't give a crap about celebrity status either. She just cares about us. Me. She loves me, Mum. That, and if she smiles at me, I go weak in the knees, and my brain turns to mush. And she chose me. Me." I blow out a breath when I finish, and realize all the truths to my words.
She reaches across the table to pat my hand. "Different suits you nicely, Edward. It suits you just fine."
An hour later, Mr Broomstick stops the car outside the steps of 36 Montagu Square and opens my door without a word.
"Thank you."
He tips his hat at me while I stumble out of the car and towards the door, patting my pocket to find the spare key Bella gave me earlier.
A sudden breeze carries a whiff of fragrance in my direction. Freesia and laughter. Peppermint shampoo and silken skin. Earl Grey and chocolate eyes.
Then a pair of arms I'm all too familiar with snakes around my waist from the side in a cloud of mahogany hair. My fingers thread with hers, and I relax into her embrace.
"My lovely."
"Edward." She sighs into my side.
We stand like that for a minute, her form blended into my chest. Unhooking my hands from hers, I turn her to face me just so I can say a proper hello. My lips melt into hers until we're breathless.
"That is quite the welcome back," she whispers onto my lips.
"Missed you, love."
She pecks my lips again, steps out of my embrace, and jogs up the front steps. Once inside the flat, she divests her coat, and dumps her ginormous bag and keys on the couch.
"How's your mum?"
"How's Rose?"
"You go first."
"Nope, love. Ladies first."
I motion for her to continue with a flourish and a bow, pulling off my beanie. It lands on the couch on top of my jacket and her other stuff. I throw an upward glance at my hair and shrug at the usual, impossible, hopeless disarray.
"Rose can't wait for her champagne delivery."
Sounds like they've sorted out whatever they needed to sort out. "Consider it done."
"I'll tell your assistant to see to it," she quips with a wink.
"Which one? My insanely hot assistant or my amazingly witty assistant?" I can't resist.
"Depends," she replies, walking towards the kitchen.
"On what?"
"Which one you catch first!" she blurts out, now running into the kitchen.
Luck is on my side—though sprawling by London standards, this pad is still handkerchief-sized, and I run faster than my Bella.
"As if you could outrun me," I taunt her when she ends up trapped between the kitchen counter and me, right by the fridge.
"As if you could fight me off." I slide her to the side until she's sandwiched between the refrigerator door and my body.
"We're against a refrigerator, Miss Swan. I have fond memories of us against a refrigerator door. Very fond memories."
My eyes roam over her. She goes stock-still in my arms.
Ever so slowly, she raises her right hand from my left hip, running it up my chest to trace my collarbone, up my neck, along my jaw, over the planes of my face with the tips of her fingers.
Air leaves my lungs in short, shallow gasps. The scorching atmosphere around us sizzles with the intensity of our reunion. Like magnets, we gravitate towards each other. She's barely touching me, and I'm already teetering on the edge of a precipice.
Once again, we went from playful banter to earth-shattering depths in two seconds flat, to the point where even I, clueless sod that I am, realise what I just told my mother is true.
Bella's the one.
I'll never be able to live without this feeling or walk away from it. I'll never want to wake up a single day of my life without wanting her to look at me like this—or wanting to look at her like this. My whole world ends and begins in her eyes, in her smile.
The air between us hums for interminable minutes when Bella's phone rings, breaking the spell.
My preference would be to flush the damn BlackBerry down the toilet for a deep dive. However, when the discordant, distorted strains of "Miss Murder" resound through the kitchen once again, it's clear who's calling. Bella won't dodge that call.
She frames my face with her hands and captures my lips again, stopping far too soon for my liking.
"It's Ang. Can't ditch her. And we've got people coming over for dinner."
My lust-induced fog lifts. With reluctance.
"Right. Dinner. Mum and Dad."
She nods, disentangling herself from my trap so she can dig her phone out of the black hole she calls a handbag.
I'm badly in need of clearing my head—both of them. On autopilot, I take the kettle off the stove where we left it earlier, clean it out, refresh it, and put it on for tea. Coffee at this point would just make me jittery for the rest of the day. Perhaps Bella has some type of calming brew that doesn't border on offensive hippie tea.
Bella's conversation with Angela doesn't seem to be about me—us—but I can't help eavesdropping when Sir Wanker's name comes up more than once. Bella's tone sounds clipped and short. Pissed off, even. Pissed-off Bella is a rare occurrence. My hackles rise.
"He's just asking for trouble at this point, Ang," Bella spits out, pacing around the living room.
She nods and huffs through whatever Angela's saying at the other end of the line for a minute or two.
"I've tolerated it so far because I was trying to be professional. Was I wrong?"
What is the fucking wanker up to this time? Can't this girl catch a fucking break, like ever?
"Well, just making sure, Ang." She sighs. Angela must be agreeing with her. "What do we do now? What do you want me to do?"
Angela drones on for a while longer. Bella nods, her other hand scribbling nonsense on a notepad on the coffee table. She always scribbles while she's on the phone.
"No, I get it. It makes sense. Yes, they're done. I'll fax them over ASAP. Yes, I'll need to check those out while we're here in London, but I should be in the home stretch after that. Tell me I didn't screw this up."
She nods again, humming here and there while Angela is probably giving her a pep talk.
"Okay, Ang. Thanks. No, I don't want you to tell him off. I'll just ignore the invasive shit, but he needs to get through his thick baronial skull that he can't presume upon an old friendship and think everything will be peachy from here on out. No, we're good. I don't think anyone's caught on to it."
The kettle whistles, startling my girl while she's still listening to Angela drone on, and on, and on. She turns to me with a smile and holds up one finger, mouthing, "Almost done."
Next thing I know, she ends the call, throws her BlackBerry on the couch, and sags against its back, flexing her arms above her. "Ugh!"
After turning the burner off, I let the Earl Grey steep—because it's the first thing I find on the counter—and walk over to her, sitting down beside her on the couch.
"Want to talk about it, love?"
She side-eyes me with an unreadable expression.
"I just want to know I'm not making a fucking monumental mistake," she blurts out.
Her lips are trembling; her eyes look anguished. She glances my way, but then averts her gaze. Then she burrows farther into the couch, stretching out her legs to kick at the floor with her feet. If she didn't look so mad, it would be adorable.
I angle myself towards her, propping my left ankle on the opposite knee after I've kicked my shoes off—I wouldn't want the Admiral to send me to a watery grave because I ruined his couch, on top of rogering his precious daughter, that is. Of their own accord, my hands reach out for Bella's. She relaxes minutely into my touch.
"Start at the beginning, will you, love?"
She turns to me after eyeing a whimsical wall clock adorned with music notes. Doesn't strike me as the Admiral's kind of décor somehow. Then I remember that, though he owns the place, Bella did the redecorating on her own.
"Tell you what; I'll spill the beans while we prep dinner. I'll feel better talking about Marcus while I'm chopping food with a sharp knife."
I cannot stifle my snort for the life of me. The association of ideas—Marcus, meet sharp knife—is too much. After a brief frazzled look, Bella joins in.
"Yeah, yeah. I don't like him a whole lot at present."
I jump off the couch and extend my hands out to her. "Come on, love. Let's go chop food together."
And this is how my kitchen-untrained arse finds himself in the Admiral's kitchen with my girl while she's chopping courgettes and deveining shrimp. I've been put in charge of leafing and washing lettuce, a task geared for minimum damage.
"Marcus has a problem with boundaries," she starts. An unsuspecting piece of shrimp almost darts off the cutting board when she hacks the head off with a thwack of her blade.
Problems with boundaries? Who would've thought?
"Is it about your manuscript?"
If he's fucking with her career, I'm going to blow a serious non-baronial gasket.
Keep it cool, Cullen. Let her talk.
"That … and other stuff."
Forget the gasket. Go for the baronial jugular, Cullen.
"Uhm." I may have just torn through a head of iceberg with a tad more force than necessary.
"He seems to think it a foregone conclusion that I'll sign with him … with them," she amends while torturing a particularly recalcitrant courgette.
"I take it you're not on board with it?" This is something I'm familiar with. How do you weigh the options and choices before you so they benefit you now and farther down the road? How do you choose who's going to be the steward, the guardian of that first step in your career? It's a momentous decision. I understand just how overwhelming it can be.
"I'm not so sure he's going to be the best option anymore," she admits as the knife's hacking movements come to a halt.
I abandon the second head of iceberg in the sink, dry off my hands, step behind her, and fold her in my arms, perching my head on her shoulder.
"I've been there before, love. Do you know why I chose to work with Angela years ago?"
"Because of her charming personality?" she counters. We both snicker together at the thought.
"Actually, yes. Within minutes of meeting her, I knew she'd always tell me the whole, ugly truth no matter what. She had no ulterior motives. My success would be her success too. And I could trust her."
She nods, giving me a meaningful, sidelong glance. Nudging the folds of her sweater to the side with my nose, I place a soft kiss on her collarbone that leaves a trail of goose bumps on her skin.
"So, regardless of your past with him and how that turned out, if you feel Marcus can deliver on all those key points and be a fucking professional about it, then go for it. But …"
"Crap, I knew there was a but."
"But … if you hesitate, if there's even a pinprick of a doubt, trust your gut. Don't mortgage your future for the sake of the past you had with this guy. This is business, not friendship."
It's costing me a fucking metric ton of detachment to be this even-keeled about it. All I want is to chase that dimwit down and beat the upper-crust smirk off his face. But she doesn't need me to be an annoying, cloying caveman of a boyfriend right now. It's not what she's worried about, not primarily.
I can tell she's conflicted. Otherwise, she would have sent him packing without a second thought. She's perfectly capable of handing him his baronial arse on a platter if it's personal. I've seen her do it twice since I met her. When it's business, it gets dicey. How do you tell the wanker off without jeopardising a business contact—a potentially valuable, profitable business contact? The wanker knows how to play the game, and he's manipulating her into a corner.
"Mmm," she hums in response, nodding against my chest as I hold her tighter to me before she resumes torturing the shrimp and courgettes—which, I'm told, require two separate cutting boards.
I don't press her further for an answer. I know she needs to stew over this for a while. It's what I'd need to do. Weigh the pros and cons in my head. Based on what I've witnessed myself of Sir Wanker, I'd be willing to bet a quarter of my last earnings—all seven figures of it—that he has a long-arsed list of dishonourable ulterior motives.
Before long, she turns to me. "Thank you, Edward. That's exactly what I needed to hear."
"Anytime, love."
###BCG###
An hour later, I'm watching Bella beat the shit out of a ball of what looks like pizza dough.
"What do the courgettes and shrimp have to do with pizza?" I ask while setting the table like the dutiful, house-trained boyfriend I'm slowly becoming.
"Nothing," she cracks, cutting the ball of dough into parts with loud whacks of another sharp kitchen implement. I make a mental note never to piss her off within reach of any kind of cutlery.
"What's with the pizza dough then?"
"I'm making homemade focaccia strips. They'll be ready as an appetizer by the time your parents get here."
After I finish counting silverware and plates, I walk back into the kitchen to watch her work her magic on that dough. I can see why it's therapeutic. The thought of whacking off Sir Wanker's limbs with a dough cutter gets more appealing by the second. She's rolling and cutting the dough into snakes—breadsticks, focaccia strips, whatever—and sprinkling them with salt and herbs with practised ease.
"These look pretty."
"Thanks, baby. All done," she replies, shoving me aside with her hip in a fluid, sexy motion that mesmerises me into a cloud of lust, even if meant to be anything but. It's just the effect she has on me.
When I don't move—stupefied in my Bella-induced haze—she shoves me again. "Let me open the oven, dork."
I snap out of it somehow. "Since you're feeding me and all …"
She throws me a dirty look that silences me on the spot, but does nothing to throw cold water on my other instincts.
"I'm still stumped about the tortured crustaceans."
She won't tell me what she has planned for dinner. I have no doubts whatsoever that I'd love whatever she cooked. I'm just bloody curious and absolutely love watching her in her element.
"Risotto. That's what I'm making," she replies, pointing to a canister of ridiculously hard-to-find Italian rice she scoured London to buy.
"It doesn't look like much for the time being."
"Ye of little faith. The total amounts to more than the sum of its parts. Now quit being a pest. Can you hold the fort for twenty minutes?"
Bossy, bossy. You still love it, Cullen.
"Sure, love."
"Good. I'm going to take a quick shower. Alone. No time for funny business," she cuts me off when she catches me wagging my eyebrows.
"What if I wanted to be environmentally conscious and save water with you?"
I may or may not have unleashed the Cullen Pout. She squeezes her eyelids shut.
"I'm not looking at you and your damn pout. Behave."
"Fine. Be that way. Anything else you need me to do here?"
"Oven timer should go off at some point. If I'm not done when it does, just turn the oven all the way off."
"That's all, love?"
She nods, taking her apron off and throwing it on the counter in a shapeless heap.
"I can do that. Come here, my lovely," I beckon, opening up my arms to hold her close. She folds into me, her head tucked under my chin as I kiss the top of her head.
"Thank you for doing all of this for my parents, love. It is so very thoughtful of you."
She whispers a ghost of a kiss at the hollow of my throat that sends a hum of fire down to every nerve ending I possess.
"I wanted us—you—to have a normal evening having dinner and chatting with them without the craziness. You deserve it."
My hands relinquish her sides only to move up and cradle her face, lifting her gaze to meet mine. My nose skims hers, my lips a mere breath away from hers.
"I didn't think it was even possible to love you any more than I already do, but I do. You amaze me every single day. You always seem to know exactly what I need. God, Isabella, I do love you. I always will."
She rakes her fingers through my hair. I spot a splotch of flour on the tip of her nose. A second later, she claims my lips, and I oblige, letting the wave take me over.
When we come up for air, all too soon, her gaze roams over my features as her arms come around my waist again to crush me into her.
"I never knew I could ever love someone this way either. Sometimes, it terrifies me. But most of the time, it makes me deliriously, stupidly happy. You, EC, are stuck with me."
"There's no one else I'd rather be stuck with, my lovely."
We stand there, lost in each other's arms for a few more minutes, until she remembers, much to my annoyance, about her shower, our dinner, the oven, risotto, my parents …
We pull ourselves together and go back to being responsible adults … for a few hours.
###BCG###
When the doorbell rings, signalling my parents' arrival, the fragrant aroma of freshly baked goods, shrimp, saffron, and who knows what other delicacies permeates the kitchen. Bella, needless to say, was spot on about risotto and the sum of its parts. It smells mouth-watering.
While she puts the finishing touches on her masterpiece, I do the honours and welcome Mum and Dad inside.
"Hello, kids," Dad greets us with his usual genial manner.
My mum, on the other hand, dashes past me with a mere pat on my shoulder without even hugging me. She runs straight to Bella.
"What? Am I chopped liver now?"
"Settle down, son, and talk to your old man for a second."
"But Mum …"
"She went straight for Bella; I have eyes. Did you skip the lesson on sharing?"
I raise an eyebrow at the good doctor. "Honestly, Dad …"
"I got a droll phone call from Russell about a certain lunch," he says with a straight face while I'm pouring drinks for everyone.
"Droll?" What is this, a conspiracy? And what is the old coot up to now? "Talking behind my back, are we?"
"He is under the impression he was recruited to act as a buffer between you and Bella's father."
It's fortunate I'm only drinking water because I just sputtered it down the front of my shirt.
"Well, yes. The man is a sodding admiral. Excuse me for being the tiniest bit intimidated, Dad."
He pats my shoulder with a knowing smile. "You're overthinking it, son. Just be yourself."
I sigh. A marginal wave of relief washes over me. It's always been his one consistent piece of fatherly advice throughout my life—before and during my rise to fame. His reasoning being just because I acted out other people's lives on screen, it didn't mean I had to lose myself in the process. Being me would be the one thing to save my sanity in the maelstrom of it all. And, by God, was he right about it. Trust the good doctor to know a thing or two about life.
Still. The Admiral is the Admiral. Even big, undaunted Emmett quaked in his boots on his own turf. And the man is his father!
"I just don't want to screw this up, Dad. It's important. She's important. What if her father hates me?"
He shakes his head, chuckling into his wine glass. "I'll never understand how you can strip down to your birthday suit on a soundstage full of people without batting an eyelid, and you're here, trembling in your knickers at the thought of meeting one man for lunch."
Easy for him to say. "Because I don't give a piss about those people. Not a single one of them. But nobody else—nobody—matters to me more than the gorgeous woman over there does. Not your wife, doctor," I snap when he quirks an eyebrow in Mum's direction. "My girl."
He squeezes my shoulder again, then grabs me for a one-armed hug.
"Relax, Edward. It will be all right. If her father sees what I see, you'll both be fine."
"Thanks, Dad. Just for my peace of mind, what do you see?"
"My son with the woman he'll love for the rest of his life. I couldn't be prouder or happier. Let's join our womenfolk, shall we?"
Dinner is a relaxed, homey, easy-going affair full of food, laughter, and embarrassing stories about yours truly as a toddler and gangly teenager. There're even a few select anecdotes from Bella and Dad about their adventures with Russell on the golf course and at the firm's charity galas throughout the years.
We've all fallen into a rhythm of easy banter where conversation flows without a hitch. It's clear as day that my parents adore Bella. Yet, I'm a greedy fucker, and no one—no one—could ever adore her as much as I do, but I'll give them second spot because it makes me head-over-heels happy that she fits in so well with my family. If Alice and Jasper are headed down the same route, then we'll all be family twice over.
When Mum and Dad leave, it's close to midnight, and I'm itching to have Bella all to myself again.
You are a greedy fucker, Cullen.
"Love, care to join me for an environmentally conscious shower now?"
She taps her chin with her forefinger for a second. "Let's see. Is there going to be any funny business?"
"You can bet your sweet tits on that, my lovely."
"Then, race me!" she hollers, running up the stairs. Her laughter resonates through the flat—music to my ears.
As if she had to ask twice.
Next week, we meet a certain Admiral ...
Dun ... Dun ... Dun ...