Hello people, and happy Saturday!

Thank you also for all your reviews and alerts. I treasure every single one of them, even if I can't reply to all of them.
Also thank you to Team Momo, who work tirelessly to help me make this readable. My stories wouldn't exist without them and I'm so grateful they're in my corner.
Alice's White Rabbit and Midnight Cougar are in the editing chairs. AGoodWitch, IAmBeagle, Driving Edward and RobsmyyummyCabanaBoy pre-read.

The consensus seems to be that we all hate the Caulfields and WTAF they are up to seems to be the most popular question of the week. We're not done with that lot, but this week we get a reprieve from them.
We're back with EditorWard, and about to go to lunch with a certain crew.
I'll see you at the bottom.


BEHIND THE IVORIES – CHAPTER 16

As I'm finding out today, it's entirely possible to piss away half a morning in just two conversations. Granted, both were necessary and important. In Mac's case, earth-shattering would be a more fitting definition. But Curtis's revelations are giving me some food for thought, too. It makes sense now that my mom would be on my call list this morning.

If the senator and his daughter are trying to spread this kind of insidious rumor, there's no way the doyenne of Boston journalists hasn't heard about it. I bet she called me to commiserate or launch a string of abuse in the Caulfields' general direction. Something's still nagging me about Kate's behavior, though, so I make a mental note to call Mom back before the day is over.

Meanwhile, I've managed to down two more cups of coffee and a donut, and my inbox is no longer exploding in my face. All in a good morning's work.

By the time noon rolls around, I'm knee-deep in the magazine's financials and relieved to find we're still not going broke. Lunchtime almost snuck up on me.

Tanya pokes her head in the door. "You doing okay over there, Ed?"

"Yes, T. Alive and kicking," I reply with a smirk. She knows I hate reviewing financials.

I'm not a numbers guy at all. One of the stipulations of my employment was that I wouldn't be ultimately responsible for the magazine's bottom line. The editorial side I'm good with—that's my world. Alice being the CFO is a sweet compromise. We work collaboratively on budgets, hiring practices, and everything that goes with it. She works here day in and day out. She's not some bureaucrat in an offsite office who gets a kick out of counting beans while making it nearly impossible for us to deliver quality content. In fact, she creates a significant chunk of the content that gives us the views and ad revenue, which keep the lights on and all of us employed. Being one of us gives her a front row seat to our day-to-day challenges and makes her an excellent advocate when funding—her father—gets stingier. It doesn't happen often, but it has over the years. That's when she jumps in to mollify him. As a rule, Curtis is or becomes amenable. He's a businessman, and armed with the right information, he's usually quick to see that sometimes you can get a bigger bang for your buck, but you have to spend that buck first.

"Are you at any point where you could take a breather?" she asks when I don't look up from my work.

"Why, do you have something for me?"

She chuckles, then steps fully inside my office, hands propped on her hips. Oh, no, she's bringing the sass. God help me. "Well, not something. Someone, rather—"

"Look, if he's busy, I'll just go, Tanya."

After this past week, I'd recognize that voice anywhere. "If Bella Swan is lurking out there, she's kindly requested to step inside. Now," I reply. My tone brooks no refusal, but if Tanya's expression is anything to go by, she knows Curmudgeon Cullen has left the building for the day.

"Edward, are you sure?" Bella asks, stepping in front of Tanya.

She stands there at the door, almost afraid to look me in the eye, and out of nowhere, the thought hits me. I've worked the morning away, and yet, the only thing I've craved under the surface is to see her. It's an unconscious thought, but it's there. My answering smile, unguarded and open, feels like it's splitting my face in two. If Mac were here, he'd guffaw at the "baby steps" theory six ways to Sunday. But luckily for me, he isn't. For now.

"Yes. Don't stand there, maestro. Come in."

She snickers at my appellative, but does step inside as Tanya slinks back to her desk.

"I'm not a maestro, technically," Bella replies. She plonks in the visitor chair in front of me, her welcoming smile still in place.

That's when I take a good look at her. Her usual all-black uniform of skinny jeans, some kind of T-shirt, and Chucks has been spruced up with black, skinny slacks and a black turtleneck sweater. I throw a sidelong glance under my desk to look at her Chucks; today, they're purple.

"How did the meeting go? You never told me where and what it was about."

"Do you truly have time for me, Edward?"

Deep sigh. Our beginnings were rocky enough to warrant this reaction. Being tentative around me is safe to her. It shields her from conflict. And me, possibly? But again, I'm not going back after this morning's realization. Baby steps. I can allow someone new into my life without signing it away.

"Yes, I do. Do you think you'd still be here if I didn't?" I deliberately keep my tone light because I don't want her to think she's intruding or wasting my time. Now she's here, I have balls enough to admit to myself I'm actually looking forward to spending time with her outside the club.

She nods and leans back to ensconce herself more comfortably in the chair.

"So, your meeting? Or is it something you can't talk about?" Then understanding suddenly dawns. "You know you're not on the record here, right?"

A grimace contorts her harmonious features for a second, then it dissolves. "Heavens, no. I wouldn't … I wouldn't dream of that being the case, Edward. I know we're just … we're just talking," she replies. She looks more relaxed but still tentative. Dipping her toes in.

"Okay, then. Now, I don't know about you, but numbers make me hungry," I announce. On autopilot, I lock my workstation, divert my extension to my cell phone, and fire off a Slack message to Tanya, alerting her I'm going out for lunch. Because she's the one who showed Bella in, that's probably a given, but habits die hard. Standard operating procedure—I'm used to updating her on my movements.

"Oh, you were about to go to lunch? Can I … Can I come with you?"

I frown. I thought my invitation was implied, but maybe it wasn't. Not to Bella. I round my desk to stand at Bella's side and extend my hand to her. "Miss Swan, would you do me the honor of having lunch with me?"

Bella squints a couple times—she looks like an owl with those huge chocolate and whiskey eyes of hers. Then she raises her gaze to me. "But of course."

When she takes my hand to stand at my side, it feels more momentous than a simple lunch invitation. It feels like a change of a season. And that old fear, that old, creeping feeling of inadequacy, claws its invisible talons back into me.

By the time we're standing at the elevator, waiting for the damn car to show up, I feel it in my clipped breathing, in my boiling blood, in my thundering temples. This isn't me. This isn't what I do. What if she expects more? What if this means more to her? What if I'm not good enough? And when the uncertainty and insecurity bubble over my consciousness, words tumble out of me, unbidden.

"What the fuck are we doing, Bella?"

Those childlike, guileless, fathomless eyes of hers turn toward me. An indulgent, soothing gaze is what she bestows on me—instead of the pique or irritation I'd surmised. Unexpected—I'm not even sure I deserve it after my rude outburst.

"Lunch, Edward. We're having lunch. Friends have lunch together. Do you need go to back?"

The way she phrased her question hits me. She asked whether I needed, not if I wanted, to go back, as if she understands my reaction doesn't stem from cruelty or coldness. As if she understands that sometimes my mind plays tricks on me.

I shake my head just as she reaches for my hand, threading her small fingers through my longer ones. Her touch grounds me, and my impending panic ebbs away.

"No, but thank you for asking."

"Are you okay?" she asks.

The elevator just dinged, opening its doors in front of us. By a stroke of luck, it's empty. The last thing I need is someone else witnessing my almost meltdown. Bella's words and care staved it off. Just why she managed to do that, is a question I'm filing away for later scrutiny.

"Yes, thank you. Lunch, friend?"

She nods, pulling me into the elevator.

The baby steps theory just dunked into the bay without a life vest. And I'm not sure I'm ready for it.

&&&IVORIES&&&

"Well, I'll be damned," Alistair exclaims when Bella and I walk into The Bull & Crown.

"Hello to you too, Ogilvy."

Alistair leans on the counter, completely ignoring his assistant barkeep. "Go see what those other yahoos over there want, kiddo."

The guy looks about twenty-five, but "kiddo" is Alistair's standard appellation for every bartender I've seen in here for the last six years. This one is no exception. The last syllable of Alistair's words still resonates midair, and kiddo's already scurried to the other end of the pub.

"Who do we have here?" Alistair leans in a little farther, his face getting closer to Bella's.

"Bella Swan, meet Alistair Ogilvy. Alistair, meet Bella Swan."

"Is he a Viking giant or something?"

I can't resist a snicker at Bella's characterization. But I have a feeling Alistair is going to get a kick out of it.

"Beautiful and observant. What the hell are you doing with Cullen, Miss Bella?" Case in point.

"That isn't nice, Mr. Ogilvy." Bella's staring him down, all five-foot-four of her. She's raising an eyebrow, and her entire countenance drips disapproval.

"Come on, Al. I'm bringing over a world-renowned musician, and you insult me right out of the gate. Who pissed in your Cheerios this morning?"

He harrumphs. A cavernous, growly, indeterminate grumbling sound that conveys anything across the spectrum of irritation, impatience, chastisement, and possibly embarrassment. But that'd be a new one. Maybe we've found Ogilvy's kryptonite—Bella Swan's raised eyebrow. Interesting.

"World-renowned musician, you say?" Ah. That's the detail he latches onto.

Under Alistair's keen gaze, Bella turns shy. She steps closer to me, leaning into my side.

"Al, you're spooking her. Dial it down a notch, will ya?"

He stands straighter, raising his hands. "All right, all right. But I want the full story after the lunch rush. Counter space good?"

Stools at the counter are fine for hasty lunches with J or Mac. This isn't the case. "Not today. Can we get a table?"

Al shrugs. "Sure, Cullen. Grab a seat wherever you want. Either the kiddo or I will be with you in a minute. Usual drinks?"

"I don't have a usual. Yet," Bella interjects.

"That can be remedied. What would the lady like to drink?"

"I know we're in a pub and all, but …"

"Lay it on me, Miss Bella. I've seen it all, and then some." Al doesn't miss a beat.

"Herbal tea? Would that be total sacrilege?"

He gives her an exaggerated eye-roll, as if concocting an herbal tea out of thin air is going to be an impossible feat. "I suppose we can scrounge it up for a world-renowned musician."

"Thank you kindly, Mr. Ogilvy." Bella's hint at a curtsey—a proper one, at that—causes Alistair to snicker. But the tips of his ears have turned pink. The big Viking's falling under Bella's spell, like everyone else she meets.

Like me? Jury's still out.

I lead Bella to a table at the back of the pub away from the rest of the lunch crowd. It's one of those partitioned booths decked out with Irish-themed paraphernalia. There's even a stained-glass panel in the window above it. The only catch: it's a larger table that could probably seat four or five people. Well, at least we won't be cramped.

"Have you known him long?" Bella asks. She takes a seat on the bench running along the wall.

"Since I started working at the Tatler so, all in all, six years. He's our unofficial caterer, our home away from home."

She nods, then the kiddo appears with menus and silverware for both of us. After I take off my coat and fold it on one of the empty chairs, Bella does the same, then sets her cell phone on the table with an apologetic look.

"Sorry about that. I know it's rude, but I'm waiting for Ross to call me and …"

I wave her off. "Nah, don't worry. I should probably do the same. Not that Ross is about to call me, but …" Then out of the blue, it dawns on me that I didn't go through all my calls for the morning. "Fuck."

"What's wrong?" she asks, concerned.

"I just remembered I was supposed to call Garrett back. Shit, now he'll think I'm giving him the runaround." I thread my fingers through my hair, which is standing on end as usual.

Bella shrugs, then reaches for her phone. After unlocking the screen, she gives it a few taps and puts it on speaker. "Their flight is in about an hour. Garrett should be biding his time at Logan. Let's see if he answers."

After a couple of rings, he does. "Bella! What are you up to, girl?"

"Hi, Garrett. I'm having lunch with Edward."

Silence. Five unbearably long seconds elapse before I decide to put him out of his misery. "Hi, Garrett. How's tricks?"

"Cullen, you're a difficult man to pin down."

"Apologies for not calling you back earlier. My plans for this morning went down the crapper."

All kinds of noises filter in from the background of wherever Garrett is taking our call. Every now and then, Beatrice's voice breaks through the airport racket.

"Stuff happens," he replies. He's clearly editing his language to kid-approved standards.

Bella snickers.

"Well, I'm here now, so speak or forever hold thy peace," I add.

The background noises abate on his end; a sign he must have moved somewhere more private or less noisy. That's not an easy endeavor in the middle of Boston Logan Airport.

"Look, man—"

"Don't act all tongue-tied just because I'm listening in, big brother," Bella interrupts him. She's taking delight in catching Garrett in a bind.

His answering huff is proof positive that he's noticed the pesky detail. "I'll deal with you later, missy. Edward, is she going to fight you if I ask you to take me off speaker?"

"It's her phone." I throw Bella a sidelong glance.

She nods and deactivates the speaker button, then hands me her phone.

"I'm off speaker, you worrywart. What's up?"

Bella hides her face behind the menu with a cheeky smile. Garrett isn't being subtle. At all.

"Look, I wanted to apologize again for being a jerk last night. Seeing the two of you being so friendly threw me off. I'm used to worrying about her after the crap her ex put her through. Her mom is a self-centered trophy wife, and her dad … Charlie's a good man, but he takes the term geek to a whole new level. He's not plugged into her life that much and she's independent to a fault."

He's giving me plenty of new information about Bella, but suddenly, I realize I don't want to hear it from him. I want to hear it from her. I want to know about her in her own words, whatever she's comfortable sharing. Not from her brother's warnings, which possibly border on an invasion of her privacy. Alistair's arrival interrupts my musings, and I take the opportunity to cut the call short.

"No apology necessary, Garrett. I hear you on all accounts. Don't worry about a thing." I'm being deliberately vague, but I don't want to go into specifics in front of Bella. I've witnessed her independence first-hand; her older stepbrother babying her behind her back must be the height of intrusion. "I know you have a plane to catch, and lunch is calling our name."

"I got the message. I'm being dismissed. Say hi to Bella for me," he replies.

"Will do. Talk to you soon, Garrett."

"Don't be a stranger, Cullen," he adds, ending the call.

After Alistair deposits our drinks on the table and walks away with our lunch orders, Bella takes a sip of her piping hot herbal tea. "This is good. I'll have to ask him what brand he uses. Also, I love my brother dearly, but he tends to overcompensate. I hope he didn't put you on the spot."

He did, in fact. I shrug it off before replying. "No harm done. I understand where he's coming from. You never answered my question."

"Which one?" And now she's answering me with another question.

"Your meeting this morning? Or is it an uber-secret thing you can't talk about?"

She shakes her head with an adorable grimace to match. "No, it's not. I met with the chairs of a few departments at the Berklee College of Music."

My answering whistle elicits Bella's laugh.

"I still don't quite know why they'd want to meet me, but I went. I figured I'd hear them out."

Berklee is one of the top music universities in the country; they wouldn't waste time with subpar talents, and Bella isn't one of those either. They frequently feature top-tier artists on their faculty. "Don't sell yourself short. I expect they did tell you why they summoned you?"

She nods again. "Yeah. They offered me an associate professor position. In the Composition Department. With a possible tenure track."

"That's an amazing opportunity. Will you take it?"

"I'm still processing that they actually offered it, you know?"

It makes sense. "Would it be a big change? What would it take for you to accept?"

She leans against the back of her bench seat. "Let's see. I'd have to go through one of my pros and cons exercises here."

"No time like the present, right? I'm all ears," I entreat.

She smiles at me, then starts enumerating things. "Pros first because I'm an inveterate optimist. One: a less nomadic existence, and I already have a house in Boston. Two: a steadier, more predictable source of income. Three: I'd meet a lot of young musicians with the opportunity to help them shape their careers."

"It's a pretty good list." I omit that she'd be living two miles away from me. We could have lunch together more often.

The baby steps theory just re-emerged from the bay, and after sputtering out a few clams, it's taking a rowboat along the Charles, just for the heck of it.

Bella nods after taking another sip of her tea. "Now the cons. One: I don't have a PhD, and I don't yet know if it'd be a requirement for teaching. Two: I don't know how long it'd take to get one. Three: I have no clue how to be a college teacher. Four: I'd be more tied to one place than I'm used to. Five: I'm not sure how my record company would react to the news. Six: Ross—I don't know what she thinks about this."

Her last comment about Ross rubs me the wrong way. "Wait a minute, what's Ross got to do with it? It's your life."

She leans her head to the side. "How can I explain this so it doesn't sound like we're in a horribly dysfunctional, codependent relationship?"

Before she can continue, the kiddo delivers our lunches—a Reuben sandwich with fries for her and a grilled chicken salad for me.

"Look at you all health-conscious," she quips, pointing her fork at my plate.

"Yeah, well. I'll see you in a decade or so, and you'll tell me if you're on a first-name basis with your cholesterol or not."

My cholesterol, in fact, is doing fine so far for my age. But if I eat fries every day I'm at The Bull & Crown, my arteries will clog and my afternoon productivity will grind to a halt, and both will happen sooner rather than later.

She snickers, then proceeds to gobble up a couple of fries. "When I decided I wanted to make a go at being a performer and composer, stuffy critics be damned, Ross stuck by my side through thick and thin. She put her own career on hold to follow me around and make sure all my T's were crossed and my I's were dotted. She's not just my manager slash assistant; she's my closest, most loyal friend."

"You'd talk it over with her regardless," I conclude.

"You understand," she says, her eyes taking me in as if I've revealed a state secret.

"I try."

"What's up, lovebirds?"

Now, who would crash a lunch they've not been invited to and announce their presence with a completely inappropriate sobriquet?

"Maaaac, stop it," Bella whines at him.

With good reason, I might add. If he weren't so much taller than me now—since I'm sitting—I'd smack him.

"Come on, piano girl. You know you missed me," he quips, parking his unaware behind in the chair next to mine.

"No, I didn't. You're interrupting," she protests.

"You're hurting my feelings," he laments, hand to his heart.

"And you're hurting my lunch."

"If I didn't know any better," I say, looking at Mac then Bella, "I'd say the two of you are siblings perpetually at war." Their dynamic is unmistakable, although I have little real life experience in the matter.

Mac grunts in response. "So, can I crash your lunch?"

"That would be an apropos question if you'd asked before you crashed it. I hate to tell you, but it's a moot point now, Mac." And that, Miss Swan, is an apropos summary.

Instead of replying, he steals one of her fries.

She huffs at him, then turns to me. "And he's stealing my food. Can't you do something about him?"

"I've been trying to do something about him for a decade, with mixed results."

Bella huffs at Mac again, but her covert smile tells another story. She's not that displeased with his sudden appearance.

"How long have you known Ross?" I ask Bella, trying to get the conversation back on track despite Mac's arrival. As I suspected, the mere mention of her brings a slight grimace to his face.

"We met at Juilliard. She was two years ahead of me, but we forged a friendship. She graduated a year before I did—"

"The math doesn't add up," Mac interrupts.

"That's because I graduated a year early," Bella explains. And then sticks her tongue out at him.

"Why must I always be surrounded by overachievers and brainiacs?" Mac laments.

"If it's such a hardship, you can leave," she entreats, not without some wicked glee.

I can't help but laugh at the entire exchange. "Siblings at war, I tell you. Mac, you walked right into that one. Maybe shut up. How's that for an idea?"

He grunts but shuts up and busies himself with his pint. If his photos from this afternoon turn out wonky, we'll know why.

"How did she become your manager?" I ask Bella when my laughter abates.

A shadow of discomfort darkens her features. "I'll give you the short version for now. When I moved to Italy, things got very complicated really fast. I wasn't in the best headspace. Ross was still in New York at the time, trying to figure out what to do with her life."

"What did she major in at Juilliard?"

"She went for a double major with NYU—vocal arts and business management."

Mac looks suitably impressed. "Another member of Overachievers R Us," he comments.

"Oh, shut it, Mister World Press Photo finalist," she quips back. "You thought she'd send me into a photo shoot with you without googling you first? Think again. That's not the way Ross operates."

"They googled me too, Mac, if it's any consolation," I explain.

"Fat lot of good it did ya, too," he retorts.

"But, anyway, when stuff went to shit for me in Milan, I made one phone call. Ross flew in the next day, and the rest is history, as they say."

The way she's angling her face toward me rather than to Mac and averting her eyes tells me there's a lot more to the story before it becomes "history," but I'll let it go for now. This isn't the time or place for these kinds of confidences.

Mac's about to quiz her on something else when her phone rings, blaring the opening strands of "Edge of Seventeen." Unexpected, again. This girl's musical tastes are eclectic, that's for sure.

"Ross, we were just talking about you. Yes, all good. Yes, he's being good. I think so. Let me ask." She turns to me. "Do we have room for two more?"

I motion toward the two empty seats. "The more the merrier, I guess. Tell Ross we'll save her a seat next to Mac."

He groans, but can't hide the sudden twinkle in his eye.

Bella instructs Ross where to find us and ends the call.

"Piano girl, a question. Who's we?"

"Oh, you heard that, didn't you?" She smiles mischievously at Mac. She's refusing to answer—right away, at least.

"Yes, I did. Are you going to make me beg for an answer?"

"Not if you give me back the fries you stole," she responds when the kiddo deposits Mac's plate—bacon burger and fries—in front of him.

He picks up a few and tosses them onto her plate. "There, with interest. So?"

"Ross and Jake. That cool with you?"

"If they get a move on. It's not like Mister Editor in Chief here can take three-hour lunches."

I snicker and shake my head at him. Because it's clearly my problem if Ross shows up for lunch out of the blue.

"They're five minutes away, as a matter of fact."

"Everyone's got meetings downtown today?" I ask.

She shudders, her eyes squinting in a whimsical grimace. "With the record label execs, God help me."

"You got out of it?"

"Yes! I don't go to those unless I have to. Otherwise, why pay Ross?"

"Figures. How come Jake tags along?" Her life seems to revolve around these two people. Why does it bother me?

She motions for patience while chewing on a huge bite of her burger. This girl can eat, and she's not shy about it. "It's another long story, but—"

"You'll give us the short version, I suppose."

She snickers behind her cup of herbal tea. "Yes, smartass. Jake tags along because he co-owns the label. Short enough for you?"

Now that tidbit I didn't know. "Jake runs a record label on top of everything else?"

There's some commotion behind Mac. The commotion is of the speaking, two-legged variety, and they reach our table in time to butt into the conversation.

"I mostly do A&R stuff. I leave day-to-day shit to other people," Jake quips. He was clearly close enough to overhear my last question.

With a flourish and a pearly white smile, he grabs the seat closest to me, leaving the spot next to Mac to a disgruntled Ross. The poor guy moves his stool a few inches away from her, then a few more. Judging the distance adequate, she folds herself into her seat.

"What's good here other than your rabbit food, Ed?" she asks me. She's leaning across the table to look at me until her face is inches away from Mac's. I don't understand what she's trying to do. Ignore him? Irritate him until he disappears? In any case, if her goal is to ignore him, maybe encroaching on his personal space isn't the best idea. Mac backs away from her in silence, his face impassive; it's uncharacteristic for him.

"Hi, Jake. Hello to you, too, Ross."

"Yes, yes, hi, everyone. I'm running on empty—cut me some slack. Will someone feed me in this establishment?"

"As the lady commands," Alistair answers.

Right on Ross's and Jake's heels, he appeared by our table with menus and two pint glasses. He rattles off the specials for the day. Ross loses her bearings halfway through the list, but Al repeats with zero protests. After razzing me for my rabbit food, she ends up ordering a salad as well. For which Jake and Bella razz her in turn.

"So, you run a club in New York, you just opened another in Boston, and you co-own a record label on top of that? Do you even sleep?" I ask Jake a while later.

After everyone got their food, conversation dwindled a bit—except for Bella and Mac's bickering in the background.

"Sometimes, I do question the sanity of it all, to be honest," he admits. "But the label grew organically out of Sharps' evolution in New York. A couple of suits from a major label started sniffing around the club for talent; the musicians I promoted turned to me for guidance. It snowballed from there."

"Consider me duly impressed."

He nods in silent acknowledgment, then turns toward Bella. "How did it go in the halls of academia?"

She waves him off, too busy guarding the rest of her fries from Mac's paws. "Too long to relay all of it now."

"Need processing time?" he asks.

With a slight, almost imperceptible grimace, she nods. "Yeah. I'll tell you later." Then she angles herself toward Ross sitting beside her. "Ross, are you still good with moving out this weekend? Need help?"

Ross grumbles, decimating her napkin into a tormented pile of cellulose. "Unfortunately not. You'll have to bear with me for a few days longer."

"What the hell happened?" Bella asks.

Mac's trying to look oblivious, but he's perking up at Bella's line of questioning. After all, Ross will be moving into his neighborhood.

"Closing went through without a hitch. It's the rest that's going to hell in a handbasket real fast."

"How so?" Mac asks, remembering whom he's talking to.

Departing from her let's-hate-on-Mac script, Ross sags in her seat and answers. "The realtor promised they'd hook me up with contractors to do a few remodels around the place. So far, the people they sent have been complete losers. So, yeah, I could move into my new house, but I wouldn't have a functional kitchen or bathroom. Not to mention the stellar movers—"

"Which your moron of a realtor recommended, Ross," Bella adds.

"And it's my fucking fault—don't remind me. Because I had to fall for Chad's spiel. I'm a sucker." She shakes her head, still intent on shredding her napkin down to molecular level.

"Chad? Your realtor's name is Chad? Woman, that's like … the nom de douche par excellence. Any Chad is guaranteed to screw you over, and not in a good way either," Jake quips in between fits of laughter.

"And where were you when I needed a realtor in this town?" She doesn't miss a beat—typical Ross.

"Hooking up with a realtor not named Chad!"

"He's got you there, Rosalie." Mac's subdued voice, without its usual bite, still manages to cut through Bella and Jake's collective peals of laughter.

Ross turns to face him, and her expression conveys she didn't enjoy the comment one bit. "And what the hell do you mean by that?"

"Merely stating a fact," Mac defends himself. "By the way, if you're in the market for a contractor, I might know someone."

"Oh, hell no! I wouldn't take your advice if you were the last man on Earth. I think I can scrounge up a contractor by myself in this town. I don't need your help or your fawning."

Ross's tone is scathing. She's recoiling from him as if he had the plague. Jake elbows her, shaking his head minutely. I'm not the only one thinking Ross pissed outside the litter box.

"I'm heading back up, Ed. I'll see you later," Mac counters.

He doesn't address the rude, unjustified torrent of abuse Ross just vomited on him. He's abandoning a half-eaten burger and hasn't even finished his pint. For a man who prides himself on keeping his priorities straight when it comes to food and drink, this is akin to sacrilege. After a nod in my direction and a fist bump with Bella, he stands and walks away.

"That was uncalled for, Ross." Bella throws her reproach in her friend's face with a steely, disappointed expression I've seen on her face before. It was on the day I interviewed her, right before she cut me off.

"Who even asked him to get involved?"

"It's called having a conversation, Ross. You should try that sometimes," Jake rebukes.

She turns to me with a raised eyebrow.

"If you think I'll defend you after that, you have another think coming. It's my best friend you just treated like shit on your shoe, and I don't take kindly to that kind of behavior."

Ross has the brains to refrain from any rebuttals.

The distorted guitars from the opening chords of "Monkey Wrench" pierce through the morass of uneasy silence blanketed over us since Mac's departure. It's Tanya's ringtone. I pick up without hesitation.

"Hey, T. What's up?"

"Did you forget you have a day job, boss? Cheney's been waiting for you for close to twenty minutes. His fidgeting is driving me nuts."

Fuck. I almost forgot about my meeting with Ben to go over the final mock-ups for the website redesign. "He's early, but I'll be there momentarily. Anything else?"

"Matter of fact, yes. Mr. Brandon's office just had a fat envelope delivered. For your eyes only, with a red stamp on it that screams 'confidential'."

My new contract. "Can you please set it on my desk without much fanfare, and then check with Shelley if my father is available for a work consultation in about an hour?"

"Will do. But you are coming back to the office, right?"

"Yes, in a minute. See ya, T."

When I put my cell back in my pocket, three pairs of eyes around the table stare at me. Ross avoids my gaze. She probably wants to look contrite, but is too proud to voice it. Jake's smiling; as usual, he appears to take everything in stride. Bella … well, she's different. Now she's the one fidgeting with her napkin, busying herself with a cup of tea that's been empty for a while.

"Lunchtime is over for the boss," Jake says.

I nod. "Duty calls, I'm afraid."

"But we'll see you tonight, won't we?" Bella asks in one of those shy whispers of hers. As if she fears my difference of opinion with Ross will keep me away from her show.

"Wild horses wouldn't keep me away," I answer honestly. I want her to know Ross's actions don't skew my priorities.

As I stand to leave, I throw my parting shot. "You know, Ross … the contractor whose services Mac offered was none other than him. And he probably would have helped free of charge. Too bad, huh?"


A couple of notes:
A&R means "Artists & Repertoire". It's a term of art in the music industry and refers to the music execs who scout new talents and liaise with current ones.
The Berklee College of Music is not the same as UC Berkeley. The first one is in Boston and is one of the leading music schools in the country, next to Juilliard in NYC. UC Berkeley is in California.
World Press Photo is one of the leading photojournalism contests in the world. Very prestigious - our Mac is no slouch.

Edge of Seventeen belongs to the one and only Stevie Nicks
Monkey Wrench belongs to the Foo Fighters and to this day remains the ringtone for my ex boss.

Ross and Mac are on the outs. For now.
EditorWard is having a VERY eventful day but I promise next week we'll get to the end of it.