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BAG BOY
CHAPTER 18
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"Will you knock already? This pie is hot!"
"Sorry," I said, preparing my finger to meet the doorbell of the house I'd lived in for the better part of my twenty-one years . . . and lived there still. "This is kind of weird for me."
"Yeah, me too," Bella whispered.
She stiffened beside me as the doorknob jiggled from inside.
"They're going to love you," I spouted just before the opening door cut short her eyeroll.
"Hello, hello!" said Dad, his expression lighting up as he took in my hot girlfriend and her hot pie. "You must be the famous Bella. I see my wife did not exaggerate your beauty. It's a pleasure to meet you."
She studied him, too, searching his features for traces of mine, I suppose, while I was busy pushing DILF fantasies from my brain. I had to admit, with his cuffed jeans and sock-free loafers, he almost didn't look like someone's dad—except that he looked and sounded like a fast-forwarded version of me. I wondered if they were both thinking what I was—that she was closer to his age than mine.
"Thanks for inviting us . . . well, me, Dr. Cullen." Nerves twitched at Bella's lips, but other than that, she seemed composed.
"Please, call me Carlisle," he answered with a dashing smile. Carlisle? Really? I racked my brain to remember a time any of my friends or girlfriends was invited to first-name him. Nope.
"Carlisle," Bella repeated, sending a new prickle of anxiety down my back. She moved as if to shake Dad's hand but ended up juggling the pie in his direction. "Sorry, I can't . . ."
He reached for the pie—"Can I take that for you?"—and Bella snatched it away.
"No, that's okay," she said. "It's still hot."
"She just took it out of the oven," I said, swiveling Dad's attention to me while Bella took a much-needed breath. "Bella baked it herself. It's blueberry," I added, as if blueberry were the hardest to bake of all the pies.
"Well, it smells delicious," he said to Bella, then set a big grin on me. "Son, always a pleasure."
"Carlisle." I nodded with a grimace, drawing a raised-eyebrow chuckle from Dad.
"You may continue to call me Dad. Come on in." He swept his arm to draw us inside. "Your mother is just finishing up in the kitchen."
"Thank you," mumbled Bella, squeezing past him, pie first.
Her gaze traveled across the front hall, straight through to the living room, and I couldn't help seeing our perfectly fine house through the eyes of a woman who lived in a mansion in Beverly Hills. She hadn't always lived that way, I reminded myself.
"Your home is lovely," she said.
"What can I get you to drink?" Dad asked, clapping his hands together. "Wine? Vodka? Gin?"
"Oh, uh, vodka's always good."
Grinning, Dad asked, "Would you like that diluted, or do you need high test to get through the evening?" Oh boy, here we go.
Bella gave him one of her sweet smiles. "Would you believe me if I told you I always drink it straight?"
"She does," I interjected.
Bella turned a slightly horrified shut-the-fuck-up face on me—gulp—but Dad didn't miss a beat. "Hmm, maybe let's pour your drink first? What can I get you, son?"
"Wait, you're mixing me a drink?"
"Unless you'd rather have a beer? Or do you drink wine now?" He waited, head cocked, grin in place, while I pondered my choices.
"I'll have an old-fashioned."
Dad's jaw dropped to the floor, and his eyes popped wide with an astonished blink . . . blink . . . blink. We stared each other down, father-to-son, man-to-man.
He closed his gaping mouth with a deliberate snap. "I'm going to have to Google that one and get back to you."
I shot him an appreciative nod. Thanks for treating me like a grown-up. "That's okay. I'll have whatever Bella's drinking."
Looking much relieved, Dad turned back to Bella. "Which is . . . something on the rocks, right?"
"Vodka sounds good," she said.
"Yes," I agreed heartily. "Yes, it does."
"That I can do. Oh good, here comes your mother now."
Here she came indeed, stripping off her apron as she barreled straight for Bella. "For goodness' sake, you two! Don't leave our guest standing there with her hands full. Mmm, that smells heavenly. Did you bake?"
"I did," Bella answered.
"You didn't need to go to all that trouble." I heard the words from Mom's mouth, but I also heard what she didn't say.
Bella's lips curled into a sly I-told-you-so meant for me. "It was no trouble at all."
"Here, here, let me set that inside, and then I can give you a proper greeting."
Dad snuck away toward the liquor cabinet while Mom extracted the pie, dishtowels and all, from Bella's hands. She returned so quickly, I thought I might see skid marks on the hardwood floor.
"Now then, let's do this right. Bella, welcome to our home." Without waiting for a response, Mom pulled Bella into a hug.
Bella shot me a cautious smile over Mom's shoulder. I shot her back a wink. Mom was Mom.
"And you!" Mom came at me and grabbed me near my shoulders. "Ringing the doorbell of your own home like some door-to-door salesman!"
I caught Bella's giggle out of the corner of my eye as Mom kissed me on the cheek. "What was I s'posed to do, drag Bella through the garage?"
"Two Ketel Ones on the rocks," said Dad, swooping in just in time with the fancy crystal glasses I had never used in my life. "Can I fix you a martini, Es?"
Noooo. Please say no . . .
"I think I best stick to wine tonight," she said. "I'll pour myself a glass when we sit down for dinner." With Mom, a single glass of wine was still dangerous but way better than hard liquor. Dodged a bullet there.
"All right then, that just leaves me," said Dad with a loud clap. "I will leave you all to settle in."
CougarCougarCougarCougarCougarCougarCougarCougar
Esme took me by the hand and led us to the couch. I could see now where my cub had learned his tendency to submit without a fight. With Mama Cullen, it was easiest to go ragdoll and let her handle the logistics.
Edward and I sat thigh-to-thigh, perched at the edge of the couch, with Esme in the armchair across the coffee table. The three of us sipped our drinks and smiled at each other—or I should say, Esme and I smiled at each other. Edward mostly held his breath and clenched.
"Something smells delicious," I said, hoping to get her onto a neutral topic until the alcohol kicked in.
"It's vegetarian," Esme answered. "Edward tells me you're not a meat eater."
"Oh, just red meat, but I can always make do." I side-eyed Edward, who shrank at the unspoken lashing. "I hope you didn't fuss on my account."
"Not at all. Gave me an excuse to look through my recipe file. Speaking of which, I don't suppose you've had a chance to make Nonni's marinara? I hear you can use ground chicken, but I've never tried it myself."
Who had time to cook with all the kanoodling?
"Not yet. Maybe next time Edward comes home?" Esme's smile flickered, and I realized my mistake.
Poor Edward, caught in the middle where it seemed he'd stay for the foreseeable future, downed a generous slug of vodka.
"Not his first night home, of course . . ." I said.
Esme eased. "Well, we don't have to work out all the details right now. Edward won't be home again till the end of term. What's that, another five weeks away?"
"Six." Edward took my hand. Tomorrow's goodbye loomed large.
"Oh. I see you're wearing that rubber band on your wrist again," Esme said.
I felt my cheeks blaze, and I imagined Edward's were, too, but I couldn't bear to look. He squeezed my hand a little tighter.
Drink in hand, Carlisle rounded the back of his wife's chair and sank into a matching recliner. "What rubber band?"
Edward lifted his left arm, bringing my right hand along for the ride. You'd think the colorfully beaded Chan Luu bracelet wound around and around my right wrist would have captured Esme's attention, but nope. She zeroed right in on my other hand.
"Oh, look! Bella has one, too!"
Leaning in for a closer look, Carlisle said, "Is that what the kids are doing now? In our day, it was macramé bracelets. Remember that night at the pier, Es? At the top of the Ferris wheel when we—"
Edward ahemed as loudly as humanly possible.
Carlisle chuckled. "It was just a kiss, pal. This is your mother we're talking about. PG-13 is a stretch."
"I didn't hear anyone complaining at the time," Esme said with a huff.
Edward set down his drink with a clunk that got their attention. "I'll just run upstairs and grab some more dirty laundry we can air . . .?"
"Okay, okay," Carlisle said, holding up his hand in surrender. "Far be it from me to embarrass my son."
"Not far enough, apparently," Edward grumbled under his breath.
Esme jumped in, presumably to smooth things over. "I happen to think your matching bracelets are adorable. I still remember that day I picked up you and Emmett at the mall, and you were wearing matching friendship bracelets. So cute."
"We were in third grade!"
A giggle burst out of me. Poor Edward.
He shot to his feet, yanking me up with him. "We're going to set the table."
"I set the table hours ago," Esme said.
"Then we'll pour the water. C'mon, Bella. And bring your drink!" We didn't stick around for Esme's objection.
Once we made it to the kitchen and out of earshot of his parents, Edward dragged me around the corner and tucked me against the refrigerator. "Please remind me why I thought this was a good idea."
"You didn't," I said. "That's not how it works with parents. You just have to gut it out."
"Ugh, it's terrible."
"Better brace yourself. I'm pretty sure your mom's one step away from digging out the bubble bath pictures."
"I'm glad you're amused," he said even though he didn't look the least bit glad.
"It's a good sign if they're picking on you," I said.
"How do you figure?"
"It means they're comfortable with me. Or trying to make me comfortable with them. They're bringing me into their confidence; we're all in this together. Three against one."
"But I'm the one everyone's against!"
"Because you're the one everyone here loves, so they know you can take it. See?" I gave him a hopeful smile he tried to return.
"I guess. But wouldn't it be better if nobody was against anyone?"
"Oh, I don't know," I said, yanking his hips into mine. "I kind of like having you against me." I knew my cub; distraction was good.
I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him in for a kiss a mother shouldn't see. When he seemed sufficiently distracted, I broke the kiss with a finger traced across his lips.
"You okay?" I whispered.
"I guess I'll live."
"Glad to hear it," I said. "Now . . . where does your mom keep the water pitcher?"
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"Would you like some more kale and quinoa salad, Bella?"
"Oh no, thank you, Esme. Everything was delicious, but I'm full."
"How about you, Carlisle?"
"I'm saving room for blueberry pie." Carlisle shot me an endearing grin.
Edward hopped up from the table. "I'll get it." Poor guy had been antsy all through dinner. Between the embarrassing stories of little boy Edward and the references to his parents' love life, Edward barely touched his meal. I couldn't wait to get him home and work out his tension.
"Don't forget the dessert plates," his mother called out after him.
"So, Bella," said Carlisle, "there's something I've been meaning to ask you."
My gaze followed Edward's back into the kitchen. I was on my own here. "What's that?"
"Is it true that our son actually fixed things in your home?"
Where are you going with this, Carlisle? Was this about the payment for services rendered? I tried to answer without letting the dread creep into my voice. "He did."
"And these things were broken before he fixed them, and then . . . they worked?" His lips curled into a perfect replica of Edward's grin.
"Pretty much. To be honest, at first he was changing light bulbs and replacing some ceiling tiles in my basement for me. I know it sounds lame, but I don't love standing on ladders. He also stripped a couple of pieces of furniture—"
"Huh," said Carlisle, exchanging a secret marital glance with his wife seated beside him at the small, round table.
"Sorry, what am I missing?" I asked.
Carlisle set his palms on the table and leaned in, lowering his voice so it would not be overheard in the kitchen. "It's just that I don't recall ever seeing Edward change a light bulb at home. You, Es?"
She answered with a chuckle. "Maybe once . . . but only because he couldn't see the whiskers he was attempting to shave."
"Ah yes," Carlisle said, "the alleged whiskers. Couldn't see them any better with the light as I recall."
Esme winked at me. "Neither could we."
Oh my precious cub, what a cute little pre-teen you must have been.
"And now"—Carlisle shook his head—"we learn he's a furniture stripper!" The way he said the word "stripper" made me sorry I'd used it first. His hands flew up as if throwing confetti. "Who knew?"
From her awed expression, Esme might have just been told her son had landed on the moon. "Who knew?"
Edward returned, arms loaded up with pie and plates. "Who knew what?"
"Who knew our son was so handy?" asked Carlisle.
Edward glanced down at his hands. "It's not that big a deal, Dad. The pie's not hot anymore."
Everyone had a chuckle at Edward's expense. He rolled his eyes. "Who's cutting the pie?"
"Why don't you do the honors, Bella?" Esme said.
I cut a generous slice for Carlisle, whose fork was in his mouth before I could deliver the next piece to Esme. The sounds of pleasure coming out of that man's face put inappropriate thoughts into my head. When Esme added her own happy noises, I felt heat rush to my cheeks, and I'm no blusher. I didn't trust myself to make eye contact with Edward—not that he didn't join right into their chorus of moans after his first bite. I recalled that lunch break in the parking lot of Nature's Bounty, when I'd fed Edward his first taste of my blueberry pie—after he'd licked my orgasm off my fingers.
As I sat down with my own slice, the compliments rolled in. Esme interviewed me about the filling and the crust and what kind of shortening and flour I'd used. I could feel the warmth of Edward's pride beaming at me, not just for baking a silly pie but for knowing it was the right thing to do.
Carlisle refused a second slice and pushed his plate forward, the only evidence of his dessert a light blue streak he couldn't manage to scrape up with his fork. "Well, son, it's a wonder you didn't gain twenty pounds last December. Bella, you're an amazing cook."
"Thank you. I mostly just peel and slice things—"
"And order out," Edward mumbled, then coughed into his napkin.
"—but I do enjoy baking once in a while, especially for such an appreciative audience."
I recalled that first batch of chocolate chip cookies I'd baked for Edward with so much anticipation for his pleasure and how the moment was spoiled when I saw him with "another woman" in the parking lot—the woman sitting to my left.
"And what do you do when you're not slicing and baking?"
Oh.
The back of my neck prickled at his question, the first serious question either of them had asked me yet, and I didn't have a good answer. If he were a stranger at a cocktail party, I might have flipped him my knee-jerk response about the life of a socialite, but I seriously doubted that would have impressed the good doctor. And I did so want to impress him, I realized all at once, and Esme, too.
"It varies day to day," I said in what I hoped was a breezy enough tone. Edward's hand found my knee, a gesture of support or perhaps an anchor to keep me in my seat should I decide to pounce.
Carlisle reclined into his chair. "So what might be a typical day?" Despite his tenacity, he still smiled benevolently, a professor who hoped his student would ace the exam.
My gaze didn't waver from Carlisle's—eye contact was rarely a challenge for me—but I could feel the tension building all around the table. If Esme objected to her husband's interrogation, she made no move to cut him off. Edward was boxed in, and he knew it.
"Hmm, a typical day . . . assuming Edward's not home on break . . ." Edward cleared his throat and squirmed beside me. I set my hand on top of his and pressed my fingers into the spaces.
"Left to your own devices, as they say," prompted Carlisle.
Okay, Daddy C, you asked for it. My life was my life, and I wasn't about to apologize or embellish for the sake of impressing anyone. If that wasn't good enough for their son, so be it.
"Well, I'm an early riser, so I usually start my day with a yoga class at my favorite studio. If it's a nice day, which it usually is, hello, it's L.A., I'll wander down the block and sit outside with a cappuccino. If I'm engrossed in a particularly good book, I'll pull that out and read for a bit, or I might just people-watch for a while. After that, go home, clean up . . . If I'm not meeting a friend for lunch, I might hit a movie . . ."
Esme cut in. "By yourself?"
"Yes," I said, smiling at her awed expression. "I kind of love going to the movies by myself, and matinees are the best. Not as much audience chitchat to ruin the show."
"I've never been to a movie by myself," Esme said, making me chuckle.
"Well, you should try it sometime! Or we could go together," I said, surprising myself as much as everyone else at the table. "You know, if there's something you can't convince Carlisle to see."
"I like that idea," Esme answered.
Watching this ping-pong match of a conversation with growing interest, Carlisle finally piped up. "Did I complain when you wanted to see that dog movie last week?"
Esme gave off a huff that said, You see what I have to deal with? "Not out loud," she replied, more to me than her husband.
"Seriously, Es, what movie did you ever want to see that I wouldn't take you to?"
Edward slumped into his chair with a resigned here-we-go-again. I recognized his gesture from the years of parental fighting I'd endured as a kid, but there was one huge difference: these two were clearly enjoying a good-natured debate whereas my parents would have been looking for a weak spot to inflict a wound.
In the end, it was a testament to their trust that Esme blurted out what had obviously been a well-kept secret: "Thor: Ragnarok!"
I stifled the urge to yell, "You go, girl!" Poor Edward moaned beside me. But the one reaction we were all watching for, Carlisle's, said everything about their marriage. With a smile stretching wide across his face, he leaned over and caressed her cheek. "You never mentioned wanting to see that film, dear."
She could only shrug, eyes fixed on her plate. I knew right then I loved her not only because of her passion for Thor but because she'd managed to offload the pressure of Carlisle's interrogation onto herself when she could have easily redirected it back to me—an act of sisterhood I recognized on a primal level and one that earned my gratitude.
"I loved Ragnarok," I said. "You should definitely catch it on demand so you'll be up to speed when Love and Thunder comes out."
"Oh! When's that?" she asked.
"Not for two years," I said. "You've got time."
Our movie chatter played out, Esme bringing up "girl movies" coming out soon and all but making a date to see them together. One parent down, one to go, but Carlisle would not be won so easily. I felt the room breathe with the lull between conversations. Carlisle had waited patiently for an opening, and he didn't miss his chance.
"Well, it sounds as if you've got a lively schedule, Bella."
If this had been a job interview, I could have filled the air with my resume of hit-or-miss jobs I'd taken after college graduation, before being Mrs. Jacob Black had become my full-time job, or the events and galas I'd chaired afterward. But Carlisle wasn't looking to hire me; he wanted to understand me—who I was, how I spent my time, what I cared about, what that would all mean for his son. The truth was, I didn't have all those answers packaged up into a neat box to hand him.
"Yes," I answered, choosing my words carefully, "I feel very fortunate to be able to fill my days with things and people I love." Curling my fingers tight around Edward's hand, I turned my gaze, suddenly watery, to Edward. "I also feel incredibly fortunate to have found this guy."
Edward' upper lip disappeared between his teeth. I'm sure my rare emotional display caught him quite off guard as well. Edward squeezed my hand; his feelings were no mystery to me.
"Well," Carlisle started, his gentle tone pulling my focus from Edward, "I think it's fair to say my son feels the same about you." Whether that was good enough for the father, Carlisle did not let on, but he seemed eager enough to give me a chance.
Esme rose, moved behind Carlisle's chair, and placed her hands on her husband's shoulders. "We promised Edward we wouldn't keep you on your last night together," she said, "so we'll say goodnight. You'll stop by on your way out tomorrow morning, Edward?"
"Yep." Edward shot out of his chair with the same enthusiasm he'd always shown in taking off his clothes. As our hands were tightly twined, I was pulled up with him, my knees grazing the table on the way up.
"Thanks for dinner, Mom. Dad, uh, thanks for the vodka." He tugged me around the table, where Esme pulled me in for a warm hug.
"I feel bad leaving you with all the dirty dishes," I said.
"Don't be silly," Esme answered, holding both my hands in hers. "You're our guest"—she leaned in and winked—"this time." The implication melted me: next time, I came as family. Tears welled up once again.
"Oh, I was volunteering Edward. He's a champ at doing dishes, too, in case you didn't know."
"My funny, funny girlfriend," Edward grumbled as we do-si-doed hugging partners.
A grinning Carlisle took my hands, holding me at arm's length as if to check me over for some important detail he might have missed. "You, I like." Without waiting for a response, he pulled me into a hug and whispered into my ear: "Be good to him."
Having lived through an ugly divorce, I wasn't naïve about the many ways relationships can devolve, but knowing my feelings for Edward, the promise came easily to my lips. "I will."
I sniffled as we pulled apart, drawing a worried glance from Edward, which turned into a hard stare directed at his father. Untroubled and possibly even amused by Edward's protective instincts, Carlisle tipped his head toward the front door. "Might as well leave the way you came," he said.
"Oh wait!" Esme started toward the table. "Let me get your pie plate!"
"No, keep it. You two enjoy."
"We couldn't—"
"We accept your kind offer," Carlisle said over his wife's objections, shooting me a smile. "Esme can return it to you when you have your first chick flick date."
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"Would you like to drive home since you don't need to balance a hot pie in your lap?" Even as I made the offer, I opened the passenger door of Bella's car and willed her to say no.
"Are you kidding? And rob myself of watching your Roadster face all the way home?"
"I do not have a 'Roadster face.' I don't even know what that means. Roadster face. Ha!" So I couldn't stop smiling once I organized myself behind the wheel. How did Bella know that wasn't just pure relief at making it out of my parents' alive? "By the way, sorry my mom decided to hold your pie plate hostage."
"Actually, I think your dad decided that."
"He did," I recalled with a huff. "I feel the need to apologize for my dad's behavior tonight."
"Why? Because he asked me what I do all day?"
"It felt intrusive. I dunno."
"Edward, I want to ask you something, and I want you to take your time and answer honestly."
Why did I suddenly feel as if the road had turned to quicksand beneath our wheels? "Okay?"
"Are you embarrassed of me?"
"What? No! How could I be? You're amazing!"
"Okay . . . now, I want you to take your time and think about my question before you answer." I recognized the serious expression on her face: she was measuring me, measuring us to see if we worked. I wanted us to work.
I nodded to let her know I'd heard her this time.
Was I embarrassed of being seen with Bella? Absolutely not. Any man would be proud to have her by his side. Sexy, smart, funny . . . and the fact she'd chosen me, a younger man, and felt me worthy of something beyond the sex games was a huge boost to my self-esteem. Definitely not embarrassed to be seen with Bella. I was the one who'd pushed for us to go public.
But if I were honest, Dad's question scared me. What was Bella doing with her life when she wasn't shopping or exercising? As far as I knew, she hadn't worked in years. She'd married into money and probably divorced into even more. Would I grind away at some job if I were handed a mansion in Beverly Hills and enough cash to buy everything my heart desired?
Dad's often-repeated line popped into my head: "If you're only working for money, you'll come to hate your boss." I'd witnessed his graceful tolerance of increasing red tape at the hospital and decreasing pay. Once in a while, he'd go off on the insurance companies and rant about anyone choosing med school now being "clean out of their minds," but through it all, Dad never wavered in his devotion to his work and his patients.
Mom had stopped working when I was born and always joked I was a full-time job with unpaid overtime. Still, as far back as I could remember, she'd filled her days with the PTA and the hospital auxiliary and a dozen other causes that spoke to her.
After my so-called "gap year," maybe I was more sensitive to the issue than other guys my age. I knew what that job at Nature's Bounty had done for me—not that I pulled in a huge paycheck as a bagger, but it gave me direction, discipline, somewhere to be and someone to answer to. That old buzzword, self-esteem, came to mind. Bella didn't seem to be lacking in that department, but how well did I really know her heart?
I glanced over at Bella, who was staring out her side window, possibly rethinking her decision to give me so much time to slip down the rabbit hole. I reached for her hand, and she started at the touch.
"Sorry," I said gently. "Bella, the answer is no. I'm not embarrassed of you."
"As you're so fond of saying, 'I hear a but coming.'"
"But . . ." I dragged out the word until we both smiled. "Your lifestyle is not something I'm used to, and it scares me a little bit."
"What scares you about financial security and driving your dream car and being able to travel anywhere you want in the world?"
The vast divide between us opened its gaping mouth and threatened to swallow me whole. It wasn't just the age difference. How would I ever fit in with the trust-fund heiresses and self-made millionaires she hung out with?
"There's nothing wrong with having any of those things . . . if I've earned them. I grew up with the philosophy that all roads lead to the almighty fulfilling career and thus, a life of meaning. Work hard for good grades, solid extracurriculars, get into the right college, work hard some more—though it took some extra reinforcement to get that last part through my thick skull."
"Better late than never," she said, a little lighter now.
"True enough. I guess I wouldn't have a clue what I was supposed to do with myself if I didn't have to work for a living."
"Keeping me sexually fulfilled doesn't count?"
"Oh it absolutely counts, but I'll need something to do the other four hours of the day."
"I suppose twenty hours a day would do it." A sly grin spread across her face. "You can do anything your heart desires. That's the beauty of being rich as sin; the money does all the working for you."
"And what is it your heart desires, Bella?"
"Besides you?" I was used to her deflections. I waited this one out. "I don't know that I have any great, burning desires. I certainly don't need any more material things. I like my life, especially with you in it. I'm sorry if that's a disappointment to you."
"It's not. I'm just trying to understand where I fit into that picture."
"Well," she said, a small smile playing at her mouth, "it would certainly be easier if you wanted to be a kept man."
"I've been a kept man my whole life. I'm only now getting cut off from the Bank of Mom and Dad, and it's kind of terrifying, but at the same time, I think I like the idea of supporting myself for once."
"I understand," she said. "The life of leisure's not for everyone."
"Right. Only the lucky few can thrive, and the rest of us slobs have to keep plugging away."
"Exactly!" Sarcasm played out, she shifted. "But seriously, Edward, I admire your integrity."
I could tell she wasn't patronizing me, but would she feel that way in five years' time? Ten? There weren't a lot of on-ramps into the top one percent. It was unlikely I would ever close the gap.
"I've got a long road ahead just to reach an entry-level job."
"Hey, you do you. I don't need your money. That should be liberating, no?"
Her argument was definitely compelling, or at a minimum, distracting. I certainly wouldn't be the first guy to take that route.
"Maybe I'm just an idiot. I'm sure the Indigo is filled with guys my age on the prowl for a rich cougar to wine and dine them and lavish them with expensive clothes and fast cars and ask nothing in return beyond a good, hard fuck whenever they want."
"The Indigo, huh?" I was glad to hear the smile in her voice. "Is that what you think goes on there?"
"I don't know. That's what I've heard. Why, is it not true?"
A soft chuckle left her. "I'd say it's spot on. And for the record, I don't go there—ever—for that exact reason. Too obvious. I'd never be attracted to a gold digger."
No, she'd find the obliviously overeager kid who'd fall all over himself just to earn her smile. A kid with no thought more complicated than how to get into her pants. A kid like me.
"Exactly. But even those other guys you've . . ."
"Cougared?"
I was stuck there. I doubted "picked up" would have put her in a more flattering light. I shrugged. "None of your cubs lasted for the long haul."
"Well you're still here, and we're driving home from dinner at your parents' house—which we both survived, might I add. That's feeling pretty 'long haul' to me."
"Speaking of parents . . . when do I get the pleasure of hearing the most embarrassing stories from your childhood, huh? When do I get taken home?"
"Ah," she said, the playfulness draining from her tone. "That would be homes. My parents are divorced."
I don't know why this stunned me, but I reeled back as if someone had slapped me—or Bella. "Wow. I had no idea. When did that happen?"
"Oh, they waited till I left for college. Figured I was fully raised, so it wouldn't matter after that . . . or maybe my brother and I wouldn't notice?"
"I'm sorry. That sucks."
"I've had seventeen years to get used to the idea, but it isn't pleasant. Mom's passive-aggressive, and Dad's more of a shouter, so . . . yeah, I didn't grow up with playful banter around the dinner table like you did."
My thoughts stretched back through conflicts we'd had—or avoided—and projected into the future: What did all this mean for us as a couple?
"How's your relationship with your parents now?"
"It's a process," she said, "Mom tried to patch things up with me when she saw I was getting close to the Black family fortune. Heh." A harsh laugh spilled from Bella's lips, and my heart broke for her. "You can imagine how well that went. And Dad's . . . probably an undiagnosed bipolar, but he found a nice enough lady friend about six years ago, and they seem pretty happy together, much to Mom's endless irritation."
"I don't know what to say."
Bella glanced over at me as if surprised to find me there. She'd just revealed more about her childhood than I'd learned in six months.
"I hope you'll understand why I'm not inflicting the parental meet-and-greets on you. You'll have to believe me when I say it's not you; it's them."
By now, I knew better than to push her on a sensitive topic. "I totally get it, Bella."
She reached across my lap and gave my hand a squeeze. "Thanks."
"We should go see a movie," I said.
"What? Right now?"
"Yep."
"You do realize it's our last night together?"
"I am painfully aware, thank you."
Bella's arms folded across her chest. I'm sure I would have seen the cock of an eyebrow if I had a head-on view. "And yet you want to sit in a dark theater with other people for the next two hours, unable to touch each other properly?"
I had to stifle a smile. "We can definitely hold hands, and depending on the movie, maybe even kiss."
"Huh, I had something a bit more wicked in mind," she said, and I wholeheartedly believed her.
"Since I don't plan to let you sleep at all tonight, I promise we'll have plenty of time to do all the wicked things later."
"Would you like to tell me what this is really about?" She gave me her I-call-bullshit glare, and I crumbled like a stale cookie.
"Fine. Do you realize we have never seen a movie together in an actual theater? I can't stand the idea of your going to the movies with my mom before you go to one with me."
"Only if I want my pie plate back," she said, grinning. I was happy to have lifted her mood after the heavy conversation.
"A lame, thinly-veiled excuse to spend time with my girlfriend."
"Stop blaming your mom."
"Oh, right. Speaking of crazy shit my dad said, what happened when you two were hugging goodbye? You seemed a little shaken."
"Not shaken, exactly . . . just a little emotional. He told me to be good to you."
"Excellent. That's not awkward at all."
"I thought it was sweet, actually. It implies a future for us, just like engineering a girls' night out with your mom."
"Or maybe he just wanted to get out of seeing the next Chris Hemsworth movie with her."
"Works for me," she said. "I plan to ply that woman with alcohol and get some more 'little Edward' stories out of her."
"Are you trying to make me vomit? Because I don't think the blueberry stains are going to come out of your leather interior, and it's going to be your own damn fault."
"In case you were wondering what I said to your dad"—for the record, I was out of my mind with curiosity—"I promised him I would."
"That is most definitely good news."
Bella's expressions of affection were like double rainbows, rare and breathtaking. And brief.
She pulled our joined hands to my crotch and rubbed her knuckles against my growing dick. "Haven't I always been good to you, baby?" There was a tease in her voice I dared not succumb to if we were going to survive the next two hours in public.
"I can honestly say, even when you are being very, very bad—in fact, especially when you are being bad—you've been good to me."
"Mmhm. And yet"—fuck me, the knuckle pressure increased—"you still insist on wasting the next two hours at a movie theater?"
Lifting her hand from my lap, I blew out a deep breath. "I do."
"All right," she said, resigned to following my lead. "What movie would you like to see?"
"Anything. You pick."
Taking my invitation as a challenge, she picked up her phone and started searching.
"Nothing X-rated!" I added, drawing her giggle.
"You know me too well!"
I didn't, not yet, not more than the very blurry picture she'd allowed me to see. But for the first time, I truly believed I would have that chance.
A/N: Looks like the parents approve. :) And you, dear readers?
All the love for Chaya Sara for making time for this story and engaging for hours over a two-letter word (is it 'by' or 'of'? I still don't know!) cause that's what we do! Special love to Carrie ZM for giving me a friendly nudge one night in St. Louis! MWAH! And thank you all, for the encouragement, predictions, insights, and love! It's almost time to release this cougar and her cub into the wild...
~XOXO
boh
