BPOV

I walked into the office on shaky legs. I had never been fired before. Didn't know what it was going to be like. The office building was beautiful and I was a little sad I hadn't spent more than a month working there. Windows were overlooking the city in every corner. I didn't have an office, but I had a small little cubicle to the far right of the room. There were post-its covering the walls, all with tidbits of Edward Cullen's life.

I shouldn't have snapped at him yesterday and I knew it. Yes, my questions were invasive but I needed a trail of everyone who know about his separation. I assumed he would understand how deadly that secret could be to us repairing his image and I was obviously wrong.

In my defense, I had been a full-time publicist for three days at that point. And I had about fifteen years of the mentality that no one cared what I thought or said was important. And Edward Cullen seemed to destroy the careful filter I had in place around most people.

A hand fell to my shoulder as I sat down and turned on my computer.

"How's the Cullen case going, Bella?" Mike Newton asked. He was the boss's son and made sure everyone knew it. He walked around like he was a God even though I had yet to see him do a moment of work.

"Interesting," I sighed, counting the seconds until his hand was off of my shoulder.

"Well, let me know if you need any help or want someone to bounce some ideas off of. We could have dinner or something," he said with a slimy smile

"I'll let you know," I answered softly, thankfully appeasing him enough to get him to wander off to find another distraction from work.

"Bella!"

My name was shouted from the corner office. Which just so happened to be Mike's father's office.

I sighed and walked over, feeling the same sense of doom I felt as I walked in to Edward's house yesterday. I knocked lightly on the doorframe, sticking my head in his office. "Yes, Mr. Newton?"

"These got delivered for you this morning," he said quickly, handing me a couple laminated cards. One was an all access pass to the theater where The Tonight Show with Edward Cullen was filmed. The other was a visitor pass to his gated neighborhood.

I stared down at the cards with a frown.

"Don't feel like you need to come in every day, either. I want you constantly on Cullen, understand? Don't let him pull any shit."

"I, um, these got delivered this morning?" If it was this morning, it was after our spat yesterday. After I told him he was about to lose his job and that his show was horrible. After I said a lot of things I shouldn't have said.

"Yes. Are you already having issues with him?" Newton asked, frowning at me as he sat back down behind his desk.

"No!" I answered a little too loudly. "No, not yet. I do need to talk to him, though, so I should probably…" I held up the passes.

"Yes, of course. Remember, I want weekly updates on him starting Friday. Just an email will be fine."

"Friday. Yes," I nodded, taking the hint of him picking up his phone as my cue to leave.

Thankfully the theater where he filmed his show wasn't too far from my office. Even with the constant Los Angeles traffic it only took me about twenty minutes to get there. I parked a block down the street and hopped in the nearest Starbucks quickly.

My research was thorough and I knew he had been known to order a dreaded Frappuccino from time to time. You can find the weirdest things about people on the internet.

I ordered the biggest caramel Frappuccino I could before walking the block down to the theater. One look at my pass and the door was opened for me everywhere I went. The only questions I was asked were if I needed directions getting somewhere. With a little help from a few random strangers I ended up standing outside of an office with Edward Cullen engraved in the door in gold.

I took a deep breath before knocking. His voice was harsh and grunted when he muttered, "Come in."

I opened the door slowly, attempting to put off my fate for a few more moments. They were coming, I knew they were. And the second I saw his messy copper hair and surprised emerald eyes my stomach was full of butterflies. Fluttering about all excited and confusing.

I hated them. And loved them. And was terrified of what they meant.

"Isabella," he greeted, standing from his spot behind a beautiful, intricate desk and motioning to the chair opposite of him.

I dropped my bag to the floor and pushed the drink across his desk toward him. "A peace offering," I said with a small smile, the only kind I could manage.

This man had sent my entire life into a tailspin and I had seen him two, now three times. My life used to be very ordinary. I went to school, I worked at the library, and I worked at my internship. All while getting my schoolwork done between it all. I had a life planned out for myself and now I was constantly convinced I was losing it all. Everything was always up and down and I couldn't say that I liked it.

But, the genuine smile on his face when he read the tag on his drink made all of those worries disappear.

"The internet is good for something, then, huh?" he asked with a chuckle, pulling the straw out of his drink and licking the whipped cream off of it.

The action, the fact that I saw his tongue peak out and wrap around the straw, it made the butterflies go into overdrive and my eyes glaze over a bit.

"Isabella?" he asked, breaking me out of my haze.

"Yes?"

"Thank you for the drink," he said with a small smile. A knowing smile that made me hope he couldn't tell that all I could think about was his tongue.

Married. Children. Ten plus years older. I repeated my mantra, but most of it was inconsequential now. His marriage was fake. Twelve years seemed like nothing to me now. He still had children, but what did that really matter? They were nearly grown.

It was all a useless argument, though. I didn't date and, even if I did, it wasn't like I could date him. Or that he would want to date me. Moot point.

I made a promise to myself to keep the butterflies at bay. To keep thoughts of tongues out of my mind. And to keep my focus on my job, where it needed to be.

"You didn't fire me," I blurted out in an attempt to change the subject of my thoughts.

"You thought I would?" he asked, genuine concern and confusion on his face.

"Yes. I made a list of other firms to apply to last night," I admitted. Why I told him I wasn't sure. Things just… came out around him.

He looked genuinely sad. Maybe for me, maybe for himself because he was stuck with me. "I'm sorry. I don't want you to lose your job. I'll request someone else if you'd like."

"No," I squeaked, embarrassingly quick. "No, you don't have to. Unless you want to."

He shook his head, sliding a piece of paper over toward me. I picked it up, frowning down at the list of names and accompanying phone numbers. Oh. Oh.

"Thank you," I whispered, putting the list of women in my bag. For some reason the list of six names made me a little queasy.

"None of them will talk," he said quietly, his cheeks surprisingly a little red. "And there hasn't been anyone in a year or so. If that makes your job any easier."

"Okay," I nodded. I had one more question and I was pretty sure it was going to offend him. But it was kind of the key to me being able to do my job.

"I know this whole thing wasn't your idea. And I'm sorry for my… insensitive comments yesterday about your show. But, you do want this show, right?"

From the little I had gathered from our time together, I thought he did. Four days ago, I wouldn't have said so. But I needed to know if I was right. If there really was more to him than his seemingly bipolar attitudes at home and on his show.

"I used to love it," he admitted, his voice soft. "I loved writing the show, learning about all of the guests, making people forget their problems for an hour each night," he said with a small smile in my direction, throwing my own words back in my face.

"Then life just got in the way. People say that all the time, and I always thought it was an excuse. I mean, I managed better when the kids were small and needed more attention than I do now that they're grown and taking care of themselves. Lucy had a bad case of strep throat a few years ago and I had the writers go on without me for a few days so I could take care of her. It was one thing after another then, and I realized I became a product rather than a performer. I never felt like that because I was the one writing the material."

"So, why don't you get back to writing?" I asked quietly.

"Because it wasn't until my publicist made the blunt observation that my show has been shit that I realized why," he reasoned, a small smile in my direction. "I knew it wasn't great, I have meetings with very unpleasant people all the time telling me about numbers, but I got complacent."

"You didn't realize how much of an asshole you were?" I regretted the words as soon as I said them. "I mean – "

"I know what you mean. I'm not going to take all the blame for the bookers forcing me to talk to a girl who got famous posting cringy videos of herself online, though."

I smiled. "Fair enough. You'll try to be nicer, though? Because I can do damage control all you want but nothing is going to change if you don't."

"I know. I'll do my best, Ms. Swan."

My mind started spinning, thinking of all the ways I could attempt to salvage his name. "Thank you."

"Thank you," he repeated. "Most people in your position wouldn't have been so blunt."

"Most people in your position would have fired me on the spot," I admitted softly.

Edward shook his head. "You're passionate about what you do. That's a good thing, in my opinion."

My cheeks heated up, but I kept my focus on today. We needed baby steps in the right direction at the very least. "Your writers. Are they here?"

"They should be," he began, standing from his desk and motioning for me to do the same. I grabbed my bag and followed him out the door.

As we walked down the hall his hand was pressed gently against my back, making my butterflies entirely too happy. We stopped in front of a nondescript door and Edward opened it quickly.

The sudden burst of talking stopped immediately. About ten sets of eyes were on us. Most were men, there only seemed to be about three women in the group. They were all sitting around a long conference table, a few smaller desks littered about. There were crumpled up pieces of paper scattered about the table and a few empty donut boxes as well.

"This is Isabella Swan, my publicist. Make sure she gets a final monologue and schedule before they get to me. If she asks for anything to be removed, you remove it. Understood?"

Everyone was quiet for a minute before there were a few nods.

"Sure," one of the women mumbled.

Edward's hand dropped from my back and I was left standing awkwardly in the doorway.

"Since when does Cullen have a publicist?" one of the men mumbled.

"Now we're being censored?" another grumbled, eyes on me.

"You're not being censored," I snapped. Part of Edward's problem was this group of people writing bad material for him. A large part of it was also his interviews and responses, but we would work on that.

"Last week, who wrote the bit about the girl who nearly died from an OD?" I asked, making sure my voice sounded as stern as possible. In a room full of mostly men I knew my point was likely to get lost if I didn't assert myself.

"I did," the same guy who said he was being censored said.

"Stuff like that is being censored. Good material is fine," I shrugged.

"That was a funny joke!" he argued.

"No, it was rude and insensitive. The girl could have died and you had him poking fun at her mental state," I snapped back. "I get that humor can have a bit of an edge, but that was crossing a line."

I got eyerolls all around. "Look, I get that you want to write whatever you want and don't want me approving your work. Just… don't make him look like an insensitive jerk and we won't have a problem. Late night television can be funny without being insensitive."

I left quickly, hoping I got my point across. Once the door was closed and I checked down each end of the hallway I pressed my back against the wall, letting my head fall against it.

A month ago, I was sitting in a classroom, taking my last college final. Two weeks ago, I walked into that pretty office I was in this morning ready to start my dream job. Now, I had my dream job and constantly felt like I was faking my way through every day.

I took a few deep breaths and looked around, making sure no one was watching. I smoothed my hand down my abdomen, straightening myself up. This morning as I got ready I was feeling a little melodramatic and dressed in all black, considering I thought I was about to be fired. My jeans were dark and the simple black camisole left my arms bare and probably too exposed for work. At least you have a job.

The theater was huge and the back halls a maze. I was fairly certain I passed the same promotional poster of Edward about four times before I ended up at the stage. I had been looking for somewhere, anywhere, to sit and work for a few hours. The audience chairs seemed good enough.

There were people milling around, but it was still late morning. I didn't expect the place to really start bustling for a few hours. So, I took a seat in one of the chairs, plopping my tote beside me and pulled out my computer.

The moment my name and email got out as that of Edward Cullen's publicist, I had gotten no fewer than a hundred emails an hour. It was still a little mind boggling that he didn't have a publicist in the first place, but I was suddenly a little glad that he didn't. If he had, I wouldn't be here. And I didn't want to think about why I was suddenly so glad to be his publicist, because I wasn't sure if it was for the right reasons.

After going through a quarter of my emails, one popped up from a James Michaelson. Attached were various scripts that appeared to be for tonight's show. I read through the monologue and a couple of the other segments. All of the humor was mild. Most of the digs were at the President of the United States, but he was a bumbling idiot that deserved them. Attached was also a schedule of the show with the guests for the night. I cringed when I googled one of the names I didn't know and ended up on a YouTube channel.

While I was at it, I went ahead and simply googled Edward's name, too. Most of the results were things I had clicked on and analyzed the last few weeks. But, now that I knew more about him, the various titles frustrated me.

Edward Cullen Under Fire After Joking About Lena Blake's Overdose.

Tonight Show with Edward Cullen Takes Another Rating's Dip.

Watch Edward Cullen Be Uninterested in YouTube Star Paul Avery For Seven Minutes.

What Happened to the Old Edward Cullen?

He was still in there, I thought. The old Edward that loved his job and smiled when he was interviewing someone. The one who enjoyed silly games with guests and didn't seem so forced all the time. I had known him only four days but I was so sure he was still in there somewhere.

I also knew he had a tendency to snap. That grumpy, uninterested guy was in there too. I either had to figure out what it was that caused his appearance, or teach him how to hide him away until the cameras were off.

He said it was just life getting in the way. That he simply didn't enjoy being a puppet told what to say. But, how did I fix that?

"You're working… in the audience?"

Just hearing his voice woke up the sleeping butterflies in my stomach. I looked up to pretty green eyes and a bustling stage.

I quickly started packing up my things. "Oh, I'm sorry. I'll get out of the way – "

"No, it's okay, Isabella. Though, I wouldn't blame you for wanting a more comfortable place to work. You can work in my office, if you want."

"Oh, no, that's okay. I can just – "

"Please, I insist."

Edward closed my laptop and put it carefully in the tote beside me. Then my notebook was gone from beside me and my phone in his hand.

"I – "

"Come with me," he demanded, quickly turning with my tote in his hand and walking through a small crowd of people staring at him with wide eyes.

I got up and followed quickly and quietly. I did not stare at his ass through his jeans as he walked in front of me. My cheeks warmed as he held his office door open for me.

"Mr. Cullen, you really don't have to do this," I mumbled, sitting in his comfortable chair as he held it out for me.

"You can call me Edward, Isabella," he said softly. "Better?"

His desk was, obviously, a hundred times more comfortable than the audience chair. My eyes scanned the desk quickly. There was a slew of pictures of him with his kids. None featured his estranged wife. "Yes, thank you. Edward."

Even saying his name made my butterflies flutter around. That can't be a good sign. He turned to leave and the butterflies got the best of me. "Most people just call me Bella."

He stopped and turned back toward me, the smallest smile on his lips. "Bella."

-B-

I was packing up my bag in Edward's dressing room when he walked in. He was done for the day, having just finished filming the show for tonight. Thankfully, he looked much less grumpy than the first time I saw him after filming last week.

"So, did I pass?" he asked, tossing his mic out the door at someone and turning to smirk at me.

Butterflies. Butterflies everywhere.

"Yes," I sighed. "I could have done without the eyeroll after the poor boy said he liked your acting, but you did good."

"It was a playful eyeroll," he defended. "Besides, the kid had to be sucking up."

"That's true. It must be so disappointing for your mother than none of her children got an ounce of her talent."

Edward dramatically held a hand over his heart. "You wound me, Ms. Swan."

"My apologies, Mr. Cullen." I threw my bag over my shoulder and took a couple steps toward the door.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Bella."

Instantly I regretted telling him to call me Bella. Then his name slipped out of my mouth and it made everything seem right somehow. "Have a good night, Edward."

I drove home with the window down, hoping the fresh air would help clear my mind. Everything was confusing and complicated and I suddenly longed for the simple nights staying up late to cram for a calculus test.

It wasn't until I got home that I let myself pull out the list of names Edward had given me that morning. There were six names. Six women in seven years was hardly scandalous, especially if his marriage was a good as dead. Problem was, on paper it was still very much alive. It was only a matter of time until someone leaked it, and that was going to be an even bigger headache for me.

Even as hard as I tried to convince myself that was my only problem with the list, I knew that wasn't it at all. It was obvious I had a crush on him. There was no use in denying it after the constant recurrence of my butterflies.

In light of that crush, looking up women he had slept with in the past didn't sound like that fun of a night, but I knew it needed to be done. I had a company lawyer in the process of writing up a few non-disclosure agreements for a few different situations, one being for the women he had been with. But, I still needed, maybe wanted, to know more about them.

I supposed the positive note was there was nothing like looking at the pictures of beautiful blondes and literal supermodels that he had been with in the past to convince me my crush was nothing short of preposterous.

A/N: We're taking baby steps with this one. Hope you guys are enjoying the ride, let me know what you think!

Don't forget, you can find me on twitter under fragilefanfic for updates.