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Thank you to Sunflower Fanfiction and Mari, who rock.

Thank you to Yellowglue | LittleGreyAche for the inspiration.

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Stripped Desire – Chapter 12: Paint

"One of the most rewarding things in life is to always put a smile on your face."

Dr. T.P Chia .~

During my junior year of high school, I went out on a date with Peter Michelson. He was tall, blonde, and athletic.

He was a senior at the all-boy boarding school that was a few blocks away from ours. He was cool, fun, and careless. His fuck-it-all attitude and his broad back captivated me.

I had never felt so attracted to someone.

The date was a simple night: dinner and a movie. The exciting part—besides being on a date with the neighborhood's bad boy—was the ride in his vintage sports car. It was liberating.

During the date, I didn't talk much. He liked teasing me, and it made me even more self-conscious than his presence already did.

By the end of the night, talking was the farthest thing from both of our minds. We ended up making out for about forty minutes in the backseat. His lips felt like sin on my skin. His kisses made me dizzy.

When I flew home the next weekend, my parents sat down with me to tell me I wasn't to see Peter again. I shouldn't have been as surprised as I was that they found out, or that they disapproved.

But I accepted their words with poise and followed their rules.

After that, I only went out on dates with men I knew my parents would approve.

Peter never called me again, and neither did I.

Edward Cullen reminds me of him in a lot of ways. Not because they're anything alike, but because of the way they have made me feel and what they represent.

I wonder what would've happened if Peter had sought me out, if he had taken the obvious interest Edward has taken on me.

Would I have rejected him?

Maybe not.

But as I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, picturing Edward and the blonde woman, I wish someone—anyone—would've reminded me.

The Isabella Swans of this world shouldn't get interested in the Edward Cullens.

"You're late," he says, handing me the coffee.

I take it and walk past him. "No, I'm not."

He follows me into my office.

"You're usually here by this hour," he says, touching the nameplate on my desk.

I stay standing by the door, watching as he sits down. My purse and the coffee feel heavy in my hands. I can already feel my body rebelling against the warmth my clothes provide.

I can't do this.

"You can't stay," I say, staring at the back of his neck.

He turns around in the seat. "What?"

"I have a meeting."

I arch an eyebrow and lift my chin, daring him to argue with me. This is the reason why he can't be here.

He walks toward me, his lips pursed. He stares at me for a minute, narrowing his eyes.

"Is everything okay?" he asks. The concern on his face and voice takes me by surprise, making me lower my shield for a second.

Then, I remember the blonde on his arm, and how good they looked together, how carefree. That's the type of person he should be with.

I look at him, stoic mask in place. "Yes."

He nods and walks out, leaving me alone to count the hours until my meeting at four.

"The numbers don't match," I say, staring at the papers.

"Miss Swan," James Smith says.

"The financial plan for this trimester was 250,000 dollars," I say shaking my head. "You spent twice the amount we agreed on."

He frowns, looking at me with regret. "I know that."

I don't believe his fake remorse. This is not the first time I've had this conversation with James.

"I don't have to tell you this is not good."

He nods. "What can we do?"

I take a moment, looking down at the numbers, making quick calculations.

James is staring at the side of my face, desperate. I sigh.

"I'll make a new budget plan. I'll have it done by the end of the week."

"You're a lifesaver."

"Right."

I close the folder and stand up. He follows suit, walking with me to the door.

"When are you taking me up on the dinner invitation?" he asks with a smile.

I chuckle. "See you next week, James."

Before I can close the door, Edward's pushing it open.

"Who's blondie?" he asks.

I gape at him. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to invite you out for drinks."

"It's Monday."

He shrugs.

"You don't have to drink. I just want to hang out. We didn't get a chance to talk this morning."

"What do you want to talk about?"

He smirks. "I'll tell you over drinks. Or not drinks."

I shake my head. Something tells me I won't be able to cower away from this.

"Give me fifteen minutes," I say.

His smile is blinding.

"I thought you weren't drinking," Edward says with a grin after I finish ordering.

"Wine doesn't count."

He laughs.

I look around the small restaurant, amazed by how cozy and comfortable it looks. I have never been here, even though it's only two blocks from my office.

It's not empty, but it's not packed like most establishments in the city.

The waitress, who greeted Edward by name, arrives with our drinks. I thank her and take a sip from my glass.

Edward plays with the saltshaker, looking at me with a weird expression.

I tilt my head, urging him to speak his mind.

"So, who's blondie?" he asks, exchanging the salt for his beer bottle.

I could ask you the same thing.

"A client," I say, not letting the unexpected question rattle me.

He makes a humming sound around the bottle. It's distracting.

The waitress comes with our food, and I'm saved from Edward's knowing gaze. We eat in silence for a few minutes, the low murmur of the restaurant's activities serving as a companion to our evening.

I steal glances at Edward while he eats. He looks like a little kid who just got a sweet treat, enjoying every bite.

"What?" he asks when he catches me looking.

"Nothing," I say, shaking my head.

"You're smiling," he says. His tone is not accusing or surprised. He sounds almost grateful.

I touch my mouth with my napkin to hide my involuntary response to him. It takes me a minute or two to look back into his eyes.

"Why am I here?" I ask him, playing with the ends of the tablecloth. "You said you wanted to talk."

"I said I wanted to hang out."

I give him a look.

He takes a deep breath and arranges his knife and fork in the universal language to indicate a break.

"I have a proposition for you," he says.

I stare at him. "Another one?"

He chuckles as I reach for my wine.

"Yes, another one," he says. "But don't worry. You don't have to get naked."

"Thank God," I say under my breath. If he hears it, he doesn't respond to it.

He goes back to eating, then pauses again, takes several sips of water. He's fidgeting, attempting to speak, but stopping himself.

"You're nervous," I say when it hits me. I can't hide the smile on my face at the revelation.

He runs his hand through his hair and gives me a small nod.

He looks a little flushed.

I would be flattered if it wasn't for the uncomfortable look on his face. This is clearly something important.

Taking another bite of my food, I try to encourage him to talk with nonchalance, schooling my features into a blank expression.

"I have a friend who's a dance teacher," he starts. "For the last couple of years, she's been organizing an annual recital with little girls who love dancing but can't afford the lessons. She usually manages to get enough funds to cover all the expenses. This year has been tough on that end. She asked me for help, but with the gallery just starting and my moving back here, I don't have the means to help her."

I look at him, unable to use food as a diversion because I'm full.

"So you want me to donate money?"

"Well, yeah. But no. I mean, I want you to get involved."

I give him a curious look. I'm so taken aback by his behavior. I've come to expect to see him always on top of his game, always a step ahead. This fumbling version, though adorable, has me on edge.

He sighs. "These girls are exceptional. They're caring, loving, and talented. I think it could be beneficial for you to become a part or the project."

"Why?"

As if he has been hearing my thoughts, he straightens his posture and looks at me with fire in his eyes.

"Because, Isabella, you need more reasons to smile."

"What do you get out of that?"

He grins. "The satisfaction of watching you."

"Is that a good prize?" I whisper, looking away from him for a moment.

He doesn't answer until I meet his eyes again.

"The best."

Thank you for reading.

See you next time. xx