3. Isa
He seems a little cool. His looks might be off-the-chart-hot, but his demeanor is everything but. I guess I could have anticipated that. Men like him have other things to worry about than people-please.
So, I step up, and I act as if I've sculpted the man of stone into something more malleable. That's what I'm here for. I know what's expected of me. I don't do nerves, normally. I do excitement. But next to this man it all seems to blur together. Because that's what this persona would feel. I embrace it, the firm grip he has on my hand only amplifying my inside emotions.
"Lead," I tell him. "Whisper something genuine into my ear." It's a trick that always works. It makes your face light up and catches you off guard, melting every type of negativity. It's the best first impression you can give off except for a real first impression. I've mastered it over the years.
Edward's big strides leave me one and a half step behind him, so I curl a hand over his lower arm, tugging myself closer to him, my heels loud as a gunshot at dawn on these marble times. I'd feel underdressed if not for his outfit. Never have I seen a man wear light wash denim and a black shirt so well.
Once we're around the corner, into a more secluded area of the restaurant, his head whips over his shoulder, and he leans down a bit, the heavenly scent of his spicy, woodsy cologne almost making me lightheaded, his minty breath sending tingles through me like little electric currents.
"If your lips were a bottle of Château Pape Clément, I'd already be drunk." His words are soft, the accent immaculate. Their effect is instant, as heat rises to my cheeks for the second time in mere minutes. If we weren't within sight of his table, I might have stopped him and drowned him in whatever swanky wine he just named. I'm so impressed I already forgot what he just said.
There's no time for that, though, because I already see target number one standing from her seat, raven hair in an elaborate braid that shimmers as if she soaked it in liquid diamonds.
"Brother," she beams. The smile is real, perfect teeth framed by carefully injected lips, so subtle they'd look real to the untrained eye, her lipstick the shade of pink that rivals raspberry macaróns.
"You must be Alice," I smile like Audrey Hepburn would, elegantly and innocently. "I've heard so much about you."
Alice stares at her brother, their jewel eyes meeting for a stare-off until she lifts a thin brow and rolls her eyes.
"I know how he talks about me, Isa."
Fuck. He didn't follow my policy. I choose the name of the night.
Edward gives me a look I can't quite place, but I decipher as remorse. So I recover quickly.
"Babe, seriously? you know I hate that nickname," I say playfully.
"Isabella, nice to meet you." I go for it, breaking all rules. In company with money, both old and new, I avoid my so-called stage-name at all costs. You never know who you might run into.
Alice's husband types on his phone after shaking my hand, obviously too busy to be dragged out of his practice for this fun, early dinner.
"Don't mind their bickering, sweetheart. They've been keeping up with that habit since they were entangled in utero." Twins, heh?
I flash the madre de familia my best doe-eyed smile.
"Mrs. Cullen, thank you for the invitation. How lovely to finally meet you." Edward is the spitting image of his mother. They share the same features, and unusual hair color. A tarnished gold and copper mix I swear would cost thousands if you'd try to replicate it in a salon. She's a beautiful woman, clearly going for a stealth-wealth look, dressed in a blue tie dye Proenza Schouler number that she probably wears out for errands. I never would have classified a thousand dollar dress into the casual pile.
"Mrs. Cullen is my mother-in-law, Isabella," she starts. As she smiles, I notice the dimples in her cheeks, her apricot blush complimenting her lip color. "Call me Esme, I insist."
I nod, then feel Edward's hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently. When I look up, his eyes smolder into mine. I guess the layers of ice wear off when he's trying to prove something to his family. I'm sure his brother-in-law would know some sort of diagnosis for that. Jasper Whitlock, the six-year wait list psychiatrist. But I'm not here to judge.
"Well, well, son. It's nice to see your face again." Ding. Ding. Ding. There he is, Mr. Dr. Carlisle Theodore Cullen.
The look on Edward's face is one of a man unimpressed by his father's demeanor.
"I've been rather busy, Dad." God, not that line. "The trials for the testing of the Rousseau-Cullen theory are taking up all of my free time." Oh.
"Plus, there's this girl who keeps dragging me out of the lab, too." Gosh, he's good at improv. I'd never have guessed.
"Guilty," I giggle.
"I never thought I'd live to see this day…" Alice sighs dramatically.
"Sit, both of you. Let's order some drinks." Esme nods at the Maître D'. I knew I was going to like her, the sixties baby who grew up to be a socialite while she still doesn't let go of her activist ways. Esme Platt-Cullen was somewhat known to be a wild girl back in the day.