Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns Twilight.
BPOV
Last night at the charity auction I met the cockier-than-thou Edward Cullen, Alice's brother she never actually introduced me to until last night. She often spoke of him and I certainly knew who Edward Cullen was, but I never actually made the connection that the man and the legend were one in the same.
Apparently Rose did though – hell, she went to school with the guy. The extent of my knowledge on Edward Cullen was the Hello! gossip magazines I indulged five dollars on every week. I knew him as a society boy, heartbreaker, and serial monogamist. I also heard of him frequently through my job, under which setting I knew him as a tyrant who didn't give a fuck about the little man and who was constantly trying to shut down our business so he could expand his ridiculous office building at 500 Boylston Street, renamed 'Cullen Towers.' Of course he never made a formal introduction to us and always sent a representative to deal with the dirty work, but alas it worked for him and we were pretty close to being bought out and shut down as a result of the asshole.
I knew him as someone I hoped to never encounter, and when I did I wanted to give him a piece of my mind about what a smug sack of shit I thought he was. Rosalie and he dated before I knew her and he broke her heart, so that was one reason. The other was the fact that he treated women as expendable. The bit about him trying to destroy my career was definitely the cherry on top, but it was hard to hold him fully accountable since he never gave us the time of day to even bother knowing who he was destroying with his bribery laden letters.
Unfortunately our first meeting didn't exactly go as planned, and I ended up stammering when I saw him in person and blushing when he shook my hand. It was utterly pathetic. I was star-struck by the asshole.
Luckily for me he didn't have two thoughts about me and was evidently distracted by the other women at the gala.
I laced up my runners tightly and spun the dial on my iPod to my "running beats" playlist; the music of Paramore prompted today's twenty-five kilometre fuck-my-life-I'm-hungover run.
I was 14 kilometres in and going stronger than ever when I noticed a familiar messy head of hair running ahead of me. He was keeping a good pace and must have been running in front of me for awhile since there was no break in the trail for miles. I couldn't tell who it was though, but it was safe to assume it was someone from one of my yoga classes.
I quickly assessed his jogging gear; a loose grey Under Armour shirt that complimented his runner's physique was paired with basic black shorts. He had a top-of-the-line pair of runners and a professional marathon watch. I recognized the watch since I'd been eying it every day at the Running Room but couldn't overcome the hefty price tag. To my surprise, he was one of the few runners out there that didn't use an iPod, which to me indicated he was a "serious" runner, one who focused on their breathing and pace rather than blasting tunes. That earned a great bit of my respect since it was rare to find someone so dedicated to the sport that they could push their body to its uttermost limits without the distraction of music.
I was paying too much attention to the perfectly sculpted butt in front of me that I forgot to look where I was running – a huge mistake since accidents managed to find me when I didn't pay attention to my footing. So to no surprise at all, I managed to trip on a stick on the path and went flying five feet in front of me onto the hard pavement.
Goddamnit.
"OW!" I involuntarily yelped as I landed on my ankle. I hoped the sex-on-a-stick Adonis in front of me didn't notice and kept running blissfully without interruption from the physically challenged marathoner behind him.
I chanced a look at my ankle and it was already bleeding, no less, from the rock I fell on. I applied pressure to my wound by pushing my foot into the pavement but that only hurt more and I winced somewhat dramatically from the extreme pain. To be honest, I was more upset that this clumsy screw-up ruined my stride this morning than the injury itself.
I was in the process of inflicting more pain on ankle when I heard a guy chuckling before me.
Please don't be a serial killer. Yah, I was slightly paranoid like that.
"Funny shit, eh?" I replied, looking up and yep, sure enough, it was Adonis.
"The only thing that I find funny is that it looks like you are intentionally trying to destroy your ankle," he replied, bending down closer to me to examine the damage.
I took a moment to carefully assess him in order to place his face with a name as he fidgeted with my ankle. He certainly was easy on the eyes, although he didn't much look like the typical guys who attended my yoga classes. The only hotties that ever sat in on my classes were the ones who had a fantasy about cheating on their wives or girlfriends with their ever-so-flexible yoga instructor. Funny thing is, I got into yoga because I was ever-so-inflexible and was moreso extremely clumsy and broke several bones in my body as a result of this 'disability.' My physician, Dr. Cullen, who was also incidentally Alice's father, suggested I take up yoga to try and improve my balance and centre my focus or some shit. It actually worked somewhat and damnit Dr. Cullen was a genius in my books.
However, today was a perfect example of my lack of Zen-ness.
"Buddy, I hope to God you know what you're doing down there, because I'm in no mood to be having some amateur butcher my ankle," I commented as he was in the process of doing some sort of medical procedure on my ankle involving a wooden stick and a tensor bandage he wore before on his knee.
He chuckled again, this time to himself, as if he was utterly amused by the whole act. I wondered what the fuck this guy found so funny about me being in excruciating pain.
"You must be some sort of sadomasochist or whatever the fuck they call those guys who are into women's pain... you know, inflicting pain on weaker beings by dripping hot wax on their thighs," I bantered on, trying to write-off my nonsense-filled monologue as being lightheaded from the fall. I sounded like an idiot.
"I believe you mean a sadist," he mused. "You're kinky like that eh?" he joked, and stepped back to examine his work. "There. You should be good to walk to the nearest Emerg."
"First of all, no, I'm not kinky. Second of all, if I was, I wouldn't be sharing that with you. Thirdly, thanks for the service. I'll have to mention to the mayor that you deserve a gold star for helping the physically handicapped marathon runners of Boston." I propped myself up with my wrists and the attractive stranger tentatively moved toward me and implied, 'may I?' with his body language. I nodded in agreement and he then wrapped his arms around my torso to lift me up. My heart fluttered in reaction to the close contact, and when our hands accidentally brushed I felt a surge of something similar to an electric current run through my body.
I disregarded those inconvenient feelings because I definitely didn't see myself with the likes of this guy -- some gorgeous runner who was so self-assured and seemingly amused by my suffering.
Once I was fully upright, I stepped away from the guy, but failed miserably and nearly fell right back down to the ground before he swept me up in his arms again and gently placed me down on the grass.
"Alright there miss, you better not attempt to walk to the nearest Emerg," he grinned. "I was joking about that by the way, though you seemed pretty persistent on breaking your ankle in four different locations by walking to the hospital with an already broken ankle."
"Fuck! It's not broken, is it?" I groaned and kicked my non-broken ankle against the pavement.
"Easy there tough stuff, that's how you'll go about breaking your other ankle and then you'll be legally handicapped," he said, looking me in the eyes for the first time.
As I took in his appearance, I suddenly felt a knot form in my stomach. Never have I met such an incredibly gorgeous man in my life. He had the most unbelievable piercing topaz eyes, soft, messy bronze hair, a strikingly chiselled jaw, a glint of mischief in his eyes, a cocky grin...
He was Edward fucking Cullen.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," I stammered as I awkwardly inched away from him on the palms of my hands. "You're Edward Cullen."
He gave me a puzzled look but then courteously raised his hand out to me. "And you are?"
"I am the girl you met last night and clearly found as unforgettable as I found you," I snapped, blatantly rejecting his hand.
"Apparently not, because you remember my name whereas I have absolutely no recollection of ever meeting you," he countered. Man this guy played harsh.
"I'm your sister's roommate... Bella Swan? We sat at the same table yesterday?" I wasn't in any mood for formalities and just wanted to get the hell away from the manipulative, 'make-your-panties-drop' wrath of Edward Cullen.
"Ha, so you are," he replied dryly. "Once you ditch the evening gown and excessive makeup you actually look somewhat presentable," he pondered out loud.
"Yes, well, thank you for those kind words, but I've actually gotta get running." I glared at him, trying to appear fierce but he just laughed in my face.
"I'd like to see you try to run, Bella. I think your running is what got you face-down on the cement waiting for your knight in shining armour to come to your rescue."
Grrr. This man was absolutely infuriating. "Why don't you make yourself useful and call your sister to come get me. I'm not in the mood to be stuck in the wilderness with the likes of you. You'll probably rape and murder me." I regretted the last words as soon as I said them. That just fuelled his next comment.
"Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart. And unlike some people, I don't go running with a bundle of technology at my side," he picked up my now-broken iPod off the ground and examined it. "I like to enjoy nature rather than listen to trashy pick-me-up beats. So no, I don't have the means to call my sister, although believe me, there is nothing I would love more than to pass your inconvenient self her way. However, your ankle is broken and swelling by the minute and you need medical care immediately." His last words were harsh but considerate.
"Well what about that makeshift crutch you have going on there," I pointed to the stick-and-tensor-bandage contraption.
"Bella, that's going to last all of five minutes. I'm an investment banker, not a doctor. That was supposed to be temporary until you called for help but apparently neither of us carry a cell phone and we're pretty far from civilization. I'd say a good five miles."
"Fuck's sake," I emitted without realizing it. He didn't appreciate my outburst and gave me a scornful look.
"Look, I'd gladly walk you to my car and give you a lift to the hospital, but you have to do your part and suck it up and bear with me. I know I'm not much fun and this is evidently the worst-case scenario for you but just try and treat me respectfully and I'll try and do the same to you." Great inspirational pep-talk, Edward Cullen.
"Yah, whatever. Just let's cut the bullshit and get moving already, ok? I want this ankle taken care of stat so I can get healed before the qualifying race in four weeks." The thought of missing out on the Boston Marathon because of a stupid, clumsy mishap made my blood boil.
"I may not be a doctor, but I did obtain an undergraduate degree in medical science and with that limited knowledge I can tell you with confidence that you will not be running the Boston with that," he pointed at my ankle.
"Fuck salt!" I exclaimed, tossing my arms up in the air. Now even my 'Yoga for Runners' class would be a total waste.
"Well at least you're original in your swearing, I'll give you that," he decided. He held out his hand for me to take it, but I just looked at it blankly. "Bella, you'd do well to just cooperate. I have to get to work," his fuse was getting shorter with my stubbornness. "I promise, for the love of God, you will never have to see me again after today. Just please..."
Don't count on it, I thought. I had to see him almost every day walking in and out of his office whether I liked it or not.
I took his hand cautiously and almost flinched when we touched but I decided to just suck it up and get on with it. I didn't care much to be dramatic about anything this morning and I was actually getting pretty damn concerned with the state of my ankle. It was now a shade similar to a blueberry and looked like a cankle as it swelled to my calf. Attractive, I muttered to myself. I quickly unlaced my shoe and took it off along with my sock.
"I'd offer to carry those for you but I imagine they reek," he wrapped my arm around his shoulder and put his arm around my waist so as to take some weight off my injured ankle.
"You're such a gentleman," I said sarcastically. He had no idea the beef I had on him and I'd make damn sure he didn't. If he knew I was the one occupying the modest building beside his Tajmahal office building he'd for sure knock it down with a crane by tomorrow morning.
"So you're really training for the Boston Marathon?" he asked as he led us along the path that hopefully led to civilization eventually.
"Well I was," I didn't imagine how this fall would affect my less than stellar training performance. "Today was actually my best time so far; I was breaking an easy stride. But then this happened and I'd hate to see it destroy my performance."
He nodded in agreement. "I've ran it a few times," he said, genuinely sounding like it was no big deal. "I try to get it in every four years, so that way I give my body time to recuperate before the next marathon. I usually just do it as a challenge to myself and then raise a bit of money for a foundation. I'm big on giving to foster care programs," he explained.
How about you direct some of that charity work toward saving my sad business next door, I thought silently.
For the remainder of the walk back to his car we opted on keeping to our own thoughts, because quite frankly I didn't care to hear about what a "good guy" Edward thought he was when I knew he was lying through his teeth. He didn't seem that interested in me either, which worked in both our favours.
When we finally arrived at a small clearing his car was as ostentatious as I expected.
"You might think I'm a son-of-a-bitch for driving a Lamborghini," he began, noticing my raised eyebrow at his ride, "But today this ostentatious car is saving your life." It was like he could read my mind. "Besides, fast cars are a passion of mine. Since I do enough for everyone else I don't feel bad about spending my hard earned cash on myself once in awhile." I couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not.
"An ambulance would have worked fine," I replied dryly.
"See, you would think that," he accused. "Someone like you, who probably drives an old beater of sorts, couldn't even be expected to appreciate the 640 horsepower that my Lamborghini Murciélago LP640 Roadster provides, in addition to the 487 torque and 6.5 litre V12 engine. It's truly a car enthusiast's wet dream."
"And I'm sure your fuel consumption is solely contributing to the depletion of our natural resources. What is it, 26 litres per 100 kilometres? And actually, I drive a Prius." Since he was in the habit of making wild accusations I didn't bother feeding his ego by commenting on the specs of his car. "Good for the environment, excellent mileage, so I guess since I'm doing my part in saving humanity and the earth and its resources and all, I can afford to splurge once in awhile," I mimicked his speech of self-gratitude.
"Well somebody's done their research on cars," he commented. "I hope to God they anesthetise you as soon as we arrive so I don't have to put up with anymore of your inane banter."
"You know, this might be very embarrassing to you, but I'm standing right here," I sneered.
He flashed me a smile that under normal circumstances would have made my heart melt, but I was too consumed by the asshole that was Edward Cullen I didn't buy it. "Save it for the nurses."
"Good idea. They're better looking anyway."
Despite being a total douchebag, he was right about one thing; we arrived at the hospital in record time. He called Dr. Cullen en route who was now waiting patiently with a stretcher and four nurses in front of the emerg doors. Dear Lord.
"Seriously? Are you trying to kill me?"
Edward just laughed out loud and stalked off into the hospital likely to the nurse's station where he would pick up some young, easily impressed whore.
Luckily I didn't have time to focus on Dickward's thoughts because I was soon being overwhelmed and humiliated by nurses strapping me to a stretcher and dragging me up to a hospital room. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore all the chaos around me.
In no time I was alone in a private room with Dr. Cullen, who greeted me happily and worked away silently on the damages.
Several minutes later, Edward walked in with a young, drop-dead gorgeous, well-endowed woman who was smiling widely. Her silky platinum blonde hair cascaded in waves down her shoulders, drawing all attention to the haphazardly buttoned green scrubs she wore.
"You found yourself the nurse you were looking for?" I asked, right in front of Dr. Cullen who was seemingly oblivious to his son's womanizing ways and blatant disrespect for the fairer sex.
"Actually, Lauren Mallory here is a resident working under Dr. Cullen. Isn't that right, Dr. Mallory?" I was seriously shocked at the prospect of that bimbo being a doctor, but nonetheless what did I know.
"She's broken her wrist and suffered some minor head trauma," Dr. Cullen knit his brows as he examined my chart, ignoring the antics of Edward and I. Edward peered over to the chart and raised his eyebrows, likely a reaction to the length of my chart. He smoothly wrapped his arm around the bimbo's tiny waist, who was now sneering at me for some reason.
"Isabella is a frequent flyer here," Dr. Cullen joked, then continued on with his diagnosis.
"Bella," I corrected.
"Isabella, you'll be free to go provided someone is available to pick you up, as soon as I fill out these prescriptions for you" Dr. Cullen began. "You've broken your right wrist, twisted your ankle, and you have a lot of bruising and a minor head trauma but nothing that T3's can't take care of," he smiled warmly at me and patted my leg gently. I winced with every diagnosis, not out of pain but rather out of humiliation of being such a klutz.
"I thought it was just my ankle. How did all this other crap get broken in the process? Was it Edward's idea of a crutch that had something to do with it?" I was hoping I could leave him accountable for some of these injuries so at least he'd feel bad, or if that was impossible, I hoped to humiliate him in front of Doctor Slut.
"No, no, Isabella. Edward's splint only helped you. You might have been stranded out there for days had you not encountered him," Dr. Cullen replied somewhat defensively. "Now you just worry about taking it easy from now on, Isabella," he warned.
"Bella. And I'm fine, Dr Cullen," I replied quickly, kicking my legs over the side of the bed, "I'm absolutely fine."
"Now Bella," he handed me the prescription form, "I won't expect to see you at any more charity galas for awhile."
"No, I suspect you won't." Hopefully, I wanted to add. I was sick of Alice dragging me to those damn things.
"I'll drive her home Carlisle," Edward offered as Dr. Cullen put the finishing touches on my ankle cast.
"Please don't," I objected. But before I was able to sneak away from them both, Dr. Cullen informed me that I wasn't able to leave on my own and Edward was my only way out.
Fuck my life.
For the entirety of the drive home Edward drawled on about how I was making him late for work, and how I shouldn't be running in the first place, and how I should take his father's advice on getting a physiotherapist, and how he wasn't going to use that path anymore to avoid bumping into physically disabled (and it was implied mentally as well) marathon runners. He then proceeded to discuss his latest conquest, Doctor Slut, whom he affectionately referred to as Doctor Sweet Cheeks.
As soon as I got home, Alice was running around catering to me left and right, bringing me soup, cups of tea, more blankets, painkillers – hell, she even cancelled her entire day's worth of house showings just to take special care of me. Every so often she'd call Carlisle and give him an update on my condition, making sure she was doing everything she could.
As kind as it was, I personally felt she was overdoing the whole thing. I mean, it was only a couple of scrapes, right?
"Bella? I have one showing I absolutely can't get out of, despite trying all morning" Alice called from the kitchen and I heard clinking glasses and wondered what on earth she was concocting in there.
"Yah, of course," I replied, thankful I'd be left alone for a bit to gather my thoughts; "Just do what you have to do."
Alice worked quite diligently for her family company, Masen Luxury Real Estate as a real estate agent, which was a perfect job for her. She was already overly excited about everything, so why not transfer that excitement into a job where you can convince people that they are looking at "Absolutely the most perfect house that you will ever find!"
The other branch of the company, Masen Homes, specialized in restoring old estates and mansions and putting them back on the market. Esme had inherited the company from her parents and managed the company until just recently, when she passed along the reigns and hired a new CEO. Now she focused on the charity and PR, which worked perfectly with her upbeat and pleasant nature.
So today Alice decided on filling me in on her mystery brother, of whom I wished she would have mentioned before so I could solicit her help in getting him off my company's case.
"He didn't want the family business," Alice informed me, taking a seat at the end of my bed. "You know, he wanted to do his own thing, make it big for himself, so he started his own investment firm of Cullen & Co. He built the company from the bottom up and managed to turn it into one of the most successful mergers and acquisitions firms on Wall Street," she paused, "and the world." Her eyes widened with excitement.
"Yah, well you should be proud of him for that," I replied, implying that there's little else to be proud of. She didn't seem to pick up on that detail.
"For a twenty-six year old, my big brother's not doing so bad, is he?" she said, shrugging off the fact that her father was one of the most successful and skilled doctors in the country, her mother was an heiress of a huge real estate empire, and her brother owned the single largest investment bank on the Western hemisphere.
And the bastard was out to destroy my life so he could build a bigger boardroom for his office.
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