AN:

I couldn't leave you all hanging for long after the bombshell in the last chapter!

Enjoy!

Despite my determined mindset, I didn't see Edward for almost a week.

By Thursday—day four—I was driving myself crazy.

"What do I do?" I asked Rose, my voice so whiny and annoying that it made me cringe. I hated feeling this way, this worried. But under the apprehension, I was angry too, and the muted rage simmered and simmered, threatening to overflow.

He ran away. He ran and hasn't looked back. It didn't bode well for any future arguments we may have. Jacob was the same when things got heated: he'd leave, slam the door closed behind him, and hit up the local bar. Sometimes, he'd disappear for days, choosing to sleep in his parents' spare room over dealing with whatever issue we were facing at the time.

I promised I wouldn't put myself through that again.

Taking a long sip of her wine, Rose eyeballs me over the rim of her glass, the kitchen island separating us, her face a mask of indifference. Eventually, she shrugs. "It's not like he's moved; he'll be back, and when he gets back, you can … I don't know. Grab him in the hallway or something."

I groan, feeling anything but reassured. "He hates me."

"It's impossible to hate you." Rose scoffs. "Text him."

My eyes widen. That's a really good idea. Except. "I don't have his number."

"You've gotta be kidding me!" Rose hardly ever looks flabbergasted, but I manage to achieve it more often than I care to admit. "You're fucking this guy, and you don't have his number?"

I flinch. "Yeah." To be fair, our main form of communication was handwritten notes. Old fashioned, personal; I like it that way. If we exchange numbers, there would be no reason to write to each other, and the thought makes me pout. Although, maybe there's no need now. On Monday, I left him a note, asking to talk. By Tuesday morning, it was gone. No return note, no talking, no … nothing. Full-on radio silence. "You know what?" Pouring more wine into our almost empty glasses, I take a deep, steading breath and face her full on, determined. "I'm not brooding or worrying over this any longer. I doubt he's as torn up as I am. If he were, he'd have come home."

Rose's answering smile is wide, cat-like. "That'a girl!" Lifting her glass, she clinks it against my own and winks. "We don't chase."

"Fuck him."

She nods. "Fuck him hard."

I've already done that. And I want to do it again. In my new bed—the one that was delivered three days ago, replacing the massacred one that quickly became too hard to look at in the wake of Edward leaving.

By Friday, I'm livid.

How dare he?

I understood his anger in the beginning, his hurt. It hurt me that I hurt him, and I was sorry. Now, I'm just … angry.

I jogged farther than I'd even gone before, faster too, spurred forward by the lava in my veins, the bitterness in the back of my throat. Anger-induced exercise is cathartic, clearly.

I'm thinking of one hundred different ways to castrate him when the elevator stops on our floor, the doors opening with a light ping. Sweaty and exhausted, it takes me a moment to spot Edward leaving his apartment. He notices me at the exact same time I notice him, both of our steps faltering, our eyes meeting—his wide, mine narrowed.

Surprisingly, it isn't rage that bursts forth. It's indifference. Sure, he's beautiful, standing there in a suit, looking like he had arrived home from work via a Vogue photoshoot. But he also looks like he was sneaking back out, avoiding me. Well, fuck that. No need.

I ignore how tired he looks, I ignore the skip in my heartbeat, and I ignore how good he smells. Instead, I say nothing and walk past him toward my door.

"Bella …" His voice is quiet, low, almost shy. It's probably exactly the way my voice sounded when he left my apartment almost a fucking week ago.

Pushing my keys into the lock, I push open my door, not sparing him a glance. I won't do this to myself. Not again. If he wants to sneak around and avoid me, I'll make it easier on him.

"Bella …"

Sighing, I turn to face him, leaning my back against the door to keep it from closing on me. He has taken a step closer, and now his hand is in his hair, tugging. I wait. I've spent the first part of this week trying to contact him, trying to talk, to fix this. This is all on him now, and I'm not going to make it easier for him, or roll over and forgive the way he chewed me out and left me standing in the middle of my own apartment, confused and hurt. No, he deserves to sweat a little.

Finally, he drops his hand and looks at me. "I'm sorry. I …" He cringes at himself and takes a deep breath before continuing. "I had a lot to deal with, and you blindsided me a little. It was no big deal in hindsight, but I was worried about my brother, and then you …"

I've never seen him so flustered and nervous, and I may just be cruel enough to say that I'm enjoying it. Just a little. I think he's sweating.

Good.

"Can I come in?" he asks, and I don't miss the pleading tone in his voice.

I nod and step back, giving him enough space to walk into my apartment. Has he always been so tall? The past week has felt like forever, and there are details about him I'm clearly beginning to forget. I don't like it.

"Coffee?" I ask, bypassing him and making my way toward the kitchen.

"Please."

I refuse to look at him as I pour two cups of coffee. Reminding myself that I need to remain strong, that there's an important lesson here I really need him to learn: communication is important. To me, it's one of the most important aspects of a relationship. We're so different, from two completely different worlds, and we need to be open and willing to listen to one another, no matter how much we may not want to.

I can deal with his attitude and his snobbery, his arrogance and his high standards. I can take all those with a pinch of salt and ridicule him for them. What I can't deal with is bratty tantrums. He's a grown-ass man, and I'm no pushover.

His attention is on my hand as I push the coffee toward him, and he takes it timidly. I hate how much I love him being here, even though we're fighting. When I look at him, my heart stutters and a rush of arousal plows through me, clearing my resolve. Maybe I'm being too harsh? I don't know, but I need him to know how hurt I am and how angry I've become.

"Where have you been all week?" I ask before taking a long sip of my drink, wishing it was wine.

His gaze rises from the cup in his hands to meet mine, and his shoulders slump. "My brother … he's in Chicago, but he's moving back to New York."

I nod, quickly deciding not to tell him that I know Emmett hasn't been in New York for a decade. "Is that a bad thing?"

He shakes his head. "No, it's just … he hates this city. He hated his life here."

"So why is he coming back?"

His green eyes study me, looking for something that I'm not sure he finds. "He's a gambler. Got himself into some trouble in Chicago. Lost his apartment in a fucking poker game … He owes bad people a lot of money."

I flinch. "Shit." I don't know what else to say. He's opening up, and that means a lot, so I lean back against the counter, hoping he'll continue.

"Yeah. So I went to Chicago to help him pack his stuff, and he's moving in with me for a while." His voice is strained, almost agonized.

I can't help but smile, which makes him narrow his eyes. "You sound thrilled with that."

Rolling his eyes, he snorts. "The fucker would rather sleep on the streets than stay with my parents so …" He shrugs. "There's not really another option."

I nod and set my cup on the counter, deciding not to push for any more details. If he wants to and trusts me enough, he can tell me more when he's ready. I'm glad I know what got him so riled up and worried though, but there's still a massive elephant in the room, and it's playing a fucking a trumpet.

"I'm sorry," he says suddenly, placing his cup on the counter and taking a quick step toward me. He looks like he wants to reach out but thinks better of it, clenching and unclenching his fist at his side. "I shouldn't have taken my panic out on you. I shouldn't have gotten angry with you, of all people."

Sighing, I brace my hands on the counter and lift myself so I'm sitting on it. "I get why you did," I tell him truthfully. "I led you to believe I wasn't a gossip, that I was different from everyone else around here, everyone else in your life."

It's the truth. I do understand why he was angry. Everyone around him are gossips, the Upper East Side is fuelled on rumours and hushed whispers behind backs. It was a shock when he realized I wasn't as different as he believed. But I'm only human, and whatever pedestal he has me on needs to be lowered, for both our sakes.

"You are different." The vehemence in his voice makes me smile, but it's soft and shallow. "I hate that I made you feel otherwise."

"I didn't know you when Rose went digging. Back then you were nothing but my entitled asshole of a neighbor."

He sighs, but there's a smile playing at his lips too. "I know."

"But I am sorry," I assure him, gripping the edge of the counter. "I should never have done it because, the truth of the matter is whatever she found, it wouldn't change a thing."

He smiles a little wider. "You sure?"

"Yup."

"Even if I was a convicted serial killer?" Now he's being downright childish, but there's a hint of that asshole I've become attached to breaking through, and I want to keep him there.

I laugh, throwing my head back and kicking my legs against the counter. "You really think I'd have been able to move into this apartment building, surrounded by Upper East Side gossip mongers, without hearing about that? I'm a lottery winner, and it was hot gossip. Imagine an actual convicted serial killer."

He smirks. "Good point." He takes another slow step closer, and then another, until my knees touch his hips. Carefully, he lifts his hands and settles them on my thighs. We're both watching the movement, the silence in the apartment deafening and thick, so precarious, as if it could snap at any moment and go one way or the other. "Damn gossips," he says, his voice low and husky, his hands making their way higher.

"Hmm." His fingertips burn my skin through my leggings. Usually I'd be conscious of the fact I'm a sweaty mess after my run, but Edward doesn't seem to mind, and I like that. "You know what gossips do though?" I have no idea why we're talking so quietly, but it works, given the tentative balance between us right now.

"What do they do?"

He's not looking at me; he's watching his hand, his fingers that tease my thighs, so close to where I ache for him but not close enough. "They talk. They communicate."

He groans. "I fucking knew you were going to bring that up." I straighten my back and urge his face upward, so our gazes are locked. "I apologized," he tells me, as though that's all it takes, and maybe it has been in the past.

"You're getting bratty again." I quirk an eyebrow, daring him to argue. For a second, he looks like he's going to—his mouth opens but he closes it on an exhale and narrows his eyes at me, making me smile. Reaching up, I brush my favorite strand of hair back from his forehead. "You didn't let me explain," I tell him softly. "You wouldn't listen. You got an idea into your head, and you ran."

"I told you—I panicked and Emmett—"

"It's been a week," I cut in. "A whole week. You stayed away and left me to stew in my own hurt."

"I'm sorry."

"I know." I sigh. "But, Edward, if you do that again, that's it. If you walk out like that again and disappear for a week, know that you're ending us. Storming off like that is a hard limit for me."

He looks as though I've punched him, but I'm being serious. I refuse to do that to myself again, or to allow someone else to make me feel that way. I'm so crazy about him, but I won't subject myself to a relationship where I walk on eggshells in the off chance I piss him off. I used to do it with Jacob when he was brooding or angry about something—usually money. I don't want that kind of relationship again, no matter how much I like Edward.

"Okay," he says after a brief pause, his eyes back on his hands that are no longer exploring. "I get it. I was a brat."

"I quite like your brattiness," I tell him, grinning at him. "Just not when it results in a tantrum of epic proportions."

He smirks. "Oh, that was nothing."

Laughing, I shake my head. "I bet. But promise me if we're angry or upset about anything, we'll talk about it. Tell me I'm a raging bitch, scream at me, just … use your words, not your stomping feet."

He scoffs. "I didn't stomp my feet."

"You did." I can't help but tease him because that spark of fire is glowing brighter behind his eyes. His sass is simmering, and God, I want it back, I just want to get back to how we were.

"Fuck off with that."

"No, you fucked off with that. Straight outta here, stomping your Louboutins on the way."

"They were Yves Saint Laurent," he corrects, rolling his eyes, making me smile wider. There he is.

"My bad."

Suddenly, he's serious again, his eyes studying my face, making me feel as though he can see right into my soul. That look steals the air from my lungs, so deep and intrusive, but so damn sexy in its intensity. "Are we okay?" he asks, so vulnerable, searching my face for a hint of a lie when I reply.

"Yes."

He lets out a puff of air and visibly relaxes. "Thank Christ." And then he's kissing me, pulling me close, his hands moving at that crazy ninja-speed to cup my face. I gasp but kiss him right back, holding him close by the lapels of his jacket, opening my legs so he can move closer, slotting in seamlessly between my thighs. Breaking away for a moment, he keeps his hands on my face, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones. "If it's any consolation, I missed you every fucking day." He moves in to kiss me again, but I stop him with a hand on his chest.

"Don't tell me shit like that," I warn him.

"Why?"

"Because!" I exclaim, throwing my hands into the air. "It makes me want to slap you for staying away despite the fact you clearly wanted to fix things."

He bites his lip, looking thoughtful. "I never thought about it like that."

"For fuck's sake!"

"Look!" he urges, grabbing my arms when I throw them into the air again. "You're gonna need to cut me a bit of slack"—he silences me with a glare when I try to interrupt—"I've never really done the relationship thing. I'm gonna fuck up, I'm gonna piss you off, and yes, I might just throw a tantrum every now and again. But I promise you I'll work hard at it, and any mistakes I make will be innocent in their intent. Just … bear with me."

That shut me up. He's right, of course. We've both got a lot to learn. I can be fiery and quick to jump to the wrong conclusions, and he's arrogant with little regard for the feelings of anyone else. But we don't act maliciously, not with each other.

"Maybe in five years we'll have this relationship stuff down, huh?" I'm teasing, and he knows that, thankfully.

He quirks a brow. "Only five years?"

"We might kill each other before then," I muse, pretending to consider the very real possibility of one of us stabbing the other as we fight over the correct wine to pair with dinner.

"I promise not to kill you," he says softly, his head tilting to kiss me softly. "Not dead anyway."

"You gonna kill me in other ways?" I try not to sound excited by the possibility of being killed—not dead—by Edward. I don't think I succeed, judging by the mischievous glint in his eye.

"Speaking of which, how is your bed?"

Pursing my lips, I try to look stern, narrowing my eyes at him. "I got a new one."

His brows hitch and his head jerks back. "You did?"

"Well"—I roll my eyes—"the other one was no longer fit for its purpose."

"Tell me you didn't go back to IKEA."

Chuckling, I shake my head. "I was going to—out of spite." He growls, and my pussy literally clenches. "But I wasn't sure whether or not you'd ever return. So it would have been a wasted effort."

He doesn't find my jab funny. "Of course I'd be back, you stubborn, little bitch." I open my mouth to scold him, but I'm hoisted over his shoulder before I can utter a single word.

"Put me down!" I cry out, kind of laughing too because how the fuck does he move so fast? I never see it coming. "Edward!" He ignores me, marching his way through my apartment toward my bedroom. "What the—"

"Make up sex. It's all the rage."

With an oomph, I land on the bed, on my back, slack-jawed and shocked as I brush my hair out of my face and look up at him. He really needs to stop throwing me around, but I kinda like it. I watch as he removes his jacket, and then starts to unbutton his shirt. I can't look away, but I'm still aware that I haven't showered after my run.

"I stink. I haven't showered."

He looks at me incredulously. "I've smelled worse things than you after a girly jaunt around Central Park. You don't even look like you broke a sweat. I can help with that."

"The fucking audacity." I clamp my legs closed when he attempts to crawl over me, smirking, knowing how much his little statement pissed me off.

"Fine," he says in a huff, standing up and unbuckling his belt, wasting no time pushing his pants down, taking his boxer briefs with them. He's fucking shameless, and I love it. I can't help but bite into my bottom lip as I watch him remove his socks, his cock hard and ready, standing proud. "Get naked," he demands, putting his hands on his hips.

I scrunch my face. "This isn't very sexy."

"I don't care. You wanna shower, let's go."

Oh! A shower. Jumping from the bed, I'm smiling, trying to ignore how much I want to suck on his cock as I strip myself out of my workout clothes, burning under his intense gaze. Good grief, it should be illegal to look at a woman like that. I'm melting.

As soon as I'm naked, he ushers me into the bathroom, making sure to touch every inch of me and make me squirm. "Stop it," I cry out, trying not to pass out in a heap of goo as his hands brush over my ass. "What's the rush?"

He shuts us in my obnoxiously large shower cubicle and turns on the water spray, moving me out of the way when I shriek under the cold blast of water. "We've got dinner plans."

"Huh?" I blink dumbly up at him, spitting a load of water out of my mouth.

"That's attractive," he teases.

I ignore him. "Dinner plans?"

He nods and pulls me into his chest, guiding me under the water, which is now, thankfully, hot. "With my brother."

I look up at him, dumbstruck. "Emmett?"

"I only have one, little hellion."

"What did you just call me?"

He doesn't answer; instead, he lifts me, his hands on the back of my thighs, turning me so my back hits the cold tiled wall. It's a contradiction of temperatures and it sends my senses into overdrive, making me moan. "In an hour."

"Fuck."

I guess we better make this quick.

AN:

See, I promised I wouldn't drag the angst out. They needed this little hiccup.

Massive thanks to Sally for beta'ing, and Kate for prereading this chapter!

And Paige, for her endless support and cheerleading on Facebook. Your posts make my day x

Thanks for reading, and an extra thank you to those of you who never fail to review, I LOVE YOU!