AN: Another chapter! Sorry about the delay on the review replies + teasers, some of you noted that it would be tough to tease on a chapter that wasn't yet written. It was-I had to write it first, and it took longer than I thought. So here we are, the much anticipated Jasper/Alice reunion :)

Thank you to my awesome beta JosieSwan, and to Dixie, who I adore.

Chapter 27: Jasper's Confession

Alice

I had been thinking it all night...through the eye-widening, stomach-dropping introduction to this man that I'd already met once, to the way Bella had grasped Edward's hand and literally pulled him to the dance floor to face down the men in the bar that tried to humiliate him, to Jasper pulling me close on the dance floor, my cheek barely reaching his shoulder. It had been impossible not to think it, and as we sat in his car, the silence growing between us, it finally erupted out of me like the very worst kind of word vomit.

"I didn't think I'd ever see you again."

Jasper didn't say anything at first; he merely turned the corner onto the long drive that led both to Esme's palatial home and the Mediterranean monstrosity next door—his employer's house. He was so hard to read (more like impossible to read) -if I hadn't known that we'd met before, it had been both jarring and intriguing, and then ultimately humiliating as he'd dismissed me- I'd never have known by the way he'd merely extended his hand with a friendly, polite, distant smile.

I wanted to wipe that smile off his face with my fist, but I gritted my teeth together and attempted polite conversation again, wondering if he a misogynist or if it was just me he didn't like.

"You don't like me," I said, "and—"

My bluntness got his attention fast enough. "Now, that's not true," he interrupted, his trademark Georgia drawl becoming more evident with the underlying heat in his words. "I like you plenty fine."

I looked up and to my surprise he had pulled into the driveway of the Mediterranean house. I'd been genuinely shocked when he'd offered to drive me home, though I'd assumed it was merely a Southern gentleman thing—what a boy born and bred in Georgia did, even though he might be completely immune to the girl he'd been set up with.

"I hate to break it to you," I said in a cool, measured voice, "but this isn't Esme's house." I was sick of his cold and colder reactions, and I wanted to know what the hell he thought he was doing. He might not come out and tell me directly, because that clearly wasn't his way, but I was going to be as up front and honest as I could manage.

"It isn't," Jasper confirmed, turning off the engine of the Grand Jeep Cherokee and extracting the keys, "it's where I'm staying. Would you like to come in for a drink?"

So he wasn't a gardener after all—he was a housesitter of sorts. I'd thought the fully-loaded SUV with the leather seats and the expensive looking stereo might be a reach for a gardener, and his words confirmed it. Not that I really cared anymore; I liked him. I liked him a lot more than I felt comfortable admitting to, and as such, I didn't want to do this if he was going to keep toying with me.

"Why?"

He sighed. "Because I want you to. Because you want to. Because despite the fact that we didn't meet under the most auspicious of circumstances and I probably shouldn't, I like you."

I forced down the grimace and offered him as carefree of a smile as I could manage. No man had ever told me that they liked me despite their better judgment before—I was the kind of girl that mothers were dying to have their sons bring home for Sunday brunch—but I was afraid to ask what it was that made him so unsure because I knew I wouldn't like the answer.

Jasper opened the car door for me, and as we walked to the imposing front door, he slowed the stride of his long legs to match my much shorter ones. He was definitely a gentleman, so his attitude regarding his potential feelings confused the hell out of me.

"The first time I saw this house, I thought it was ridiculous," I confided in him as he unlocked the front door, secure in the knowledge that he could probably care less what I thought of his employer's house.

Confusion knitted his brows together. "Ridiculous?" he asked, as I followed him into the gourmet kitchen.

"It doesn't fit," I explained, gesturing around me. "This is Massachusetts, not the coast of Greece or one of those Mediterranean islands."

"Oh." He switched on a few low lights in the kitchen, reaching into the fridge, pulling out a pair of beers. He opened both of them, and I clutched it in my fist as he leaned back against the counter, an assessing sort of look in his eyes.

The dim lighting made the cavernous kitchen seem way too intimate, and my sudden fear that he would kiss me—or that he wouldn't—made me chattier than normal. "He's probably one of those very rich people who just buys the showiest house they can find, no matter what looks good."

I wasn't sure, but there was an odd look in his eyes at that, and I wondered, almost belatedly, if the owner was a friend, and I'd crossed a line. "Do you know him?" I asked.

"The owner?" Jasper stripped off a piece of his beer label and wove it through his fingers. They were calloused and hard looking, as though he worked with them for his living. Maybe he was the gardener, after all. "I thought I knew him pretty well, but I'm beginning to think I didn't know him as well as I thought I did."

I wasn't sure what to say to that. Instead I let the beer tip down my throat and considered throwing myself out of a convenient window. Clearly I'd overstepped my bounds, and he was regretting asking me in. It figured that with men I didn't like at all, I could say exactly the right, absolutely charming thing, but with Jasper—who made my skin itch and my head go fuzzy—I could apparently only insult his employer's taste in real estate.

"So tell me more about you," he said finally, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "You know Bella, then? And she's Renee Swan's daughter."

If Edward hadn't vouched for him personally, I would have been suspicious at the question. Even though I forgot that Bella was technically a quasi-celebrity, other people might not have. "Yeah, she is, though she's not like her mom at all. Not usually, anyway," I added, remembering my jolt of surprise when Bella had come down the steps earlier tonight, looking the most like Renee that I'd ever seen her. "I don't know what was up with her tonight."

Jasper grinned at that. "Yes, you do. You know exactly what she was thinking."

"I suppose that's true," I admitted wryly. "Though, I'm not exactly sure that's a sane train of thought."

I fully expected that Jasper, being Edward's friend, would rush to his defense the same way that I'd rush to Bella's or even Rosalie's if they'd been quasi-insulted, but Jasper just looked at me with his steady golden eyes, and I realized that he was one of those rare friends that was actually honest.

"Edward," he finally said, "is an interesting conundrum. He's a good guy, but it's buried so far down that I'm not sure he'll ever be able to find it."

"She knows. And she's watching," I said, deciding it was only fair that such a straightforward admission be met with equal honesty.

"Good. Now, what do you do for a living?"

"I'm a fashion designer," I said, feeling for the first time that 1) it was actually true now and 2) that it had never sounded quite so frivolous when faced with those hard, aged calluses on Jasper's hands.

Clearly he seemed to agree with me, because he just resumed his semi-bored, lounging pose and murmured, "Interesting."

"And what about you? You're a housesitter?" I decided that I'd been on the hot seat long enough; my career choice might be frivolous to him, but at least I had one.

"Actually, this is more of a temporary . . . job," Jasper said, with what I thought might be a trace of embarrassment in his voice. "What I was doing before didn't really work out long-term."

"What were you before?" I asked, wondering if he was one of those stockbrokers or financial analysts who'd started in the business hungry and ambitious, but had burnt out before thirty. I'd dated a few of them before, and wasn't eager to repeat the experience.

He looked at his beer steadily, before raising his gaze up to me. "I was a baseball player."

"A baseball player?" I asked. Of all the things I'd expected him to say, that hadn't even been close. "So you didn't make the major leagues?"

"Actually, no. That wasn't it." He seemed embarrassed, as if he didn't want to tell me the whole truth, so I pushed.

"You did make the majors?" That explained the rather nice SUV he'd driven, but not the current job he was holding.

He nodded. "Actually, I haven't been totally honest with you," Jasper said, and I caught a trace of guilty embarrassment in his voice. "I was a rather. . . famous baseball player. I'm honestly a little shocked you didn't recognize me or my name. I thought you had—that's why I acted like I did when we met."

A feeling of unease was increasingly exponentially in my stomach like acid. "Famous? What team did you play for?"

"The Boston Red Sox."

As soon as he said it, I saw him as he'd been. In a pristine white uniform bordered in red, his hair short and business-like, his laidback amber eyes sharp and deadly, standing on the pitcher's mound as if it was his throne and Fenway Park was his kingdom.

Jasper Whitlock—the all-star closer for the Boston Red Sox. I'd seen him on billboards and in commercials on TV for years. Why hadn't I recognized him? Because I'd seen him mowing a lawn and had just automatically assumed he was the fucking gardener.

My face flamed red and I felt vaguely like vomiting all over the cherry wood floor of the kitchen. The floor—this house. Oh god, what I'd said about the house! About him! I'd basically implied—or maybe it hadn't even been an implication—that he didn't have any taste.

"I'm sorry," I stammered. "God, I should just go." I set the beer on the counter, but my hand hesitated indecisively and I made the mistake of looking up at him. He was smiling, practically glowing, and I could only imagine what he thought of me.

I'd fought most for years against my detractors who said that fashion was for morons not equipped to deal with anything more mentally taxing than which shoes to pair with which dress. But today I hadn't done much to disprove their theories. I'd behaved moronically, and deserved every bit of his derision, but that didn't mean that I could face it.

"I'm sorry," I said again, this time in a rush, my hand completely abandoning the bottle on the counter. "I'm just going to go. . .it really is a beautiful house." And, like a coward, I fled. I was out the back door, off the deck, racing for the trees that marked the edge of Esme's property. I didn't really expect him to follow or to try to stop me and so I wasn't surprised when he didn't.

That didn't mean that my pride wasn't seriously wounded or that I wasn't trembling with outraged indignity by the time I climbed up the stairs to my bedroom. Had it just been a joke to him? Trick the star-struck girl who'd spent so much of her life gawking at celebrities from a distance? I stalked in the room and paced up and down the length, feeling more agitated by the second.

All I could see was Jasper's amusement, his glee that he'd managed to fool pathetic little me. Finally, knowing I wouldn't get a second of sleep until I calmed down, I opened the door and walked down the dark hallway to Bella's bedroom. I hesitated for a second, hoping I wasn't interrupting anything, but Bella had said she was tired as they'd left the bar, and if I wasn't mistaken, she'd subtly been indicating to Edward that a visit to her room tonight wouldn't be welcome. Whether he'd picked up on that or even cared if she didn't want him remained to be seen. Since it was Edward, I wasn't all that confident. Still, I listened at the door for a moment, and when I didn't hear any suspicious noises, I knocked.

Bella opened the door so quickly that I knew she hadn't been sleeping, despite her claim to Edward that she was exhausted. Silently, she held the door opened and closed it behind me.

"Jasper is Jasper Whitlock," I announced, plopping down on Bella's bed, not even caring if my dress wrinkled. "I'm such a fucking idiot that I didn't figure it out until he practically handed it to me on a silver platter."

Bella raised an eyebrow, and I continued. "I even insulted his house. And said he had no taste."

She settled down at the end of the bed, picking at a loose thread on her short cotton night shift. "That's pretty serious, even for you," she said softly.

"God, I know. I don't know what I was thinking . . .I said his house was ridiculous. Ridiculous." I buried my face in my hands, feeling it flush bright red again, just remembering how stupid I had sounded. Stupid and insulting. It would be a sign of the apocalypse if he ever wanted to even speak to me again after my behavior—nevermind that no man wanted to date the village idiot.

"I'm sure it wasn't that bad," Bella said reassuringly, but even she didn't sound convinced.

"It was exactly that bad," I groaned. "And I don't even get why he would let me babble on like that."

"Maybe he thought you knew? I mean, if you follow baseball, he's apparently pretty famous."

"He's grown his hair out though," I defended. "It looks different on all those posters."

"Sweetie, it's alright. I didn't recognize him either, at least not until Edward said that he was a big fan and I had no idea what he was talking about until he confessed that Jasper was some famous baseball star."

"You knew?" I asked in outrage. "And you didn't tell me?"

"I didn't think you'd go around insulting his house or his taste," Bella shrugged. "I figured he'd tell you eventually."

"He didn't even want to tell me when he did," I said bitterly. "I had to practically drag it out of him, which makes no sense whatsoever. If you're rich and famous, wouldn't you at least use that to pick up stupid clueless women?"

"If you're Edward, you do," Bella said, her voice curdling in the quiet room.

"Ouch. That doesn't sound very promising for Edward's chances."

Bella sighed. "It's not that I don't like him; I do. I like him a lot more than I should. But how long is he going to keep this up? I don't think anyone honestly believes he's really changed for good."

"He could have," I said, but Bella gave me her 'cut the bullshit' glare, and I knew she'd heard the hesitation and doubt in my voice.

"Did he figure out that you weren't really tired?" I asked gently.

Bella shook her head. "I'm not giving up. I just. . .I needed some time. Away. It's exhausting turning off my brain all the time."

"Turning your brain off?"

"I'm giving this a try, remember?" Bella said with exasperation. "But I know it's a bad idea, so while we're together, all I can hear is this constant litany of how I'm going to end up heartbroken and alone. Like Rosalie."

"Rosalie's hardly heartbroken and alone," I said wryly.

"You know what I mean. That Emmett was there to pick up the pieces was lucky for her. But I'm not Rose, who's gorgeous and sweet and who men fall in love with without her even trying. I'm not going to have some hunky bodyguard lusting after me while my life falls apart if I throw it at the wrong man."

"No, you won't. But you have me, and even better, you have you. You're smart and talented and levelheaded. Which is nearly a miracle considering who your mother is. You'll survive because that's who you are—survivor."

Bella sighed, but I could tell that a little of what I'd said had made it through that thick skull of hers. She might have been convinced that this would ultimately end in disaster, but I liked what I saw from Edward lately. He clearly cared about Bella a lot, even if he couldn't admit it to her—or to himself. I just hoped that he wouldn't do anything stupid because one mistake, and she'd be gone.

"And what are we going to do about you?" Bella asked.

"Nothing," I said in a hard voice. "We're going to forget that I ever had an ill-advised blind date with Jasper Whitlock. If you ever bring it up again, I'll never forgive you."

"You could maybe ask him. . ." Bella began, but I cut her off.

"Ask him what? Why he thought it would be funny to pretend to be someone he wasn't? Why he thought it would be funny to lie?"

"Did he lie, though?" Bella asked, and I'd have to be stupid to miss the hopeful note in her voice. She and Edward were in on this—there was no other explanation for how she kept defending the lying bastard.

"Yes," I insisted before I could really think through what he had said.

"Okay," Bella said with a shrug. "If you're certain he lied, then, yes, he's a douchebag, and you're right to move on."

"Yes," I said, but uncertainty had begun to creep in. "You're tired, I should let you get some sleep." What I didn't mention was that it was extremely unlikely that I'd be sleeping any time soon. I already knew that I'd be spending hours going through every single thing Jasper had said all evening, searching for proof that he'd lied.

Bella gave me a quick hug, and I felt a renewed sense of relief that my best friend had been returned to me, safe and sound. I didn't want to know what I would have done without her.

"I'll see you in the morning," I said as I exited the room.

I got ready for bed, hoping the routine of washing my face, and brushing my teeth and slipping into a pair of airy cotton shorts and a t-shirt would relax me enough that I'd be able to fall asleep. It didn't. Even an hour after crawling into bed, as the clock creeped to 2 in the morning, I was still wide-eyed, staring at the ceiling, Bella's words running through my mind in an endlessly annoying loop.

If you're sure that he lied . . .

The problem was that I wasn't sure at all that he had lied. I'd searched through everything he'd said throughout the evening, and the only conclusion that I'd been able to come to was that he'd specifically done everything he could not to lie. Instead, he'd done the exact opposite, and when I'd pushed him, leaving him no choice but to come clean or to lie, he'd chosen the former instead of the latter.

Morning dawned with a warm blue sky, and I dragged myself out of bed reluctantly. I'd only gotten a few hours of sleep, and I felt more conflicted than I had the night before, though I wasn't sure what the purpose was of continually re-examining Jasper's motives.

Whatever they'd been, I'd ruined whatever chance I'd had with him. Our initial meeting coupled with possibly the worst first date in history wasn't the most auspicious beginning to a relationship. I dragged a hand through my hair, and refused to even look in the mirror. If I felt crappy, then it made sense that I should look crappy too. Besides, who was I even dressing up for? Carlisle? Esme? Bella, who liked to sleep in oversized t-shirts and sweatpants?

I got an answer to my theoretical question when I walked into the breakfast room and not at all what I'd been expecting.

Edward and Jasper were sitting around Esme's round table, eating pancakes. I froze in the doorway, wondering if I could escape before they noticed I was even here. How stupid had I been to think that I'd never have to see him again? He and Edward were friends and he lived next door. The only way I'd probably be able to avoid him would be to go back to Boston, and Rose and I were too deep in the planning stages for the business for me to run away.

Of course, he looked up first. "Good morning," he said, smiling so wide—no pretension or secret amusement at my idiocy—that my confusion only grew. What the hell was he playing at?

"Good morning," I said cautiously, as I walked into the room, only remembering when I was halfway to the table that I hadn't even glanced in a mirror this morning to make sure that my hair wasn't sticking straight up. Because this whole scenario hadn't really been bad enough before.

Edward briefly glanced up and choked on a mouthful of pancake. "Your hair," he laughed, "is really priceless."

I mustered up the most freezing glare I could manage—it was practically Esme-like in its ferocity—and self-consciously patted my hair down as best as I could manage while taking a seat as far away from Jasper as I could manage.

I'd behaved like a silly schoolgirl last night, bolting at Jasper's humiliating admission, but this time, I would be dignified, and pretend like he didn't bother me at all.

"Did you see Bella?" Edward asked as I spooned fruit onto my plate and added a piece of toast that I knew I'd only pick at. My stomach churned with embarrassment and I didn't think I'd even be able to meet Jasper's eyes, even though I could feel his gaze on me.

It was too bad Bella was still in bed because the concerned and interested expression on Edward's face was nearly priceless. He'd probably never be the most typical or the most traditional of boyfriends, but she was insane if she honestly thought that he hadn't fallen for her.

I shook my head, and didn't mention that I'd even talked to her last night despite her "exhaustion," because that would mean 1) breaking girl code (and that was one of the few things I held truly sacred—like Manolo Blahniks or Versace) and 2) bringing up last night which I never wanted to speak of ever again. Especially with Jasper in the room.

"I'm going to the studio today," Edward said, "and I wanted to see her before I left. But I'll be back tonight. You'll tell her?"

"Sure," I said, briefly debating telling him that I was sure Bella wouldn't mind an early-morning wakeup if it was him doing the waking, but I decided that Edward was too new to all of this. It wouldn't be a good idea to push him. With my luck lately, he'd freak and bolt and then I'd have myself to blame not only for the debacle with Jasper, but for the demise of Bella and Edward's nascent relationship too.

"Thanks," he said, and got to his feet. "I'll see you later, Jaz. Xbox tonight?"

"You're not going out?" Jasper asked, sounding surprised.

"Eh," Edward shrugged. "It's the first day in the studio. I'll probably be tired when I'm done. Too tired to go out, anyway."

"Alright. And yeah, I'll be home."

I felt a surge of annoyance when Jasper mentioned his house and my fingers clenched the napkin I'd been folding and re-folding in my lap. I had to remind myself that it hadn't been directed at me, and the fact that he was here at all had nothing to do with me and when Edward left, he'd leave as well. He'd eaten his pancakes and was leaning back in his chair with the satisfied look of a man who'd just eaten a good meal.

Picking at a piece of pineapple, I smiled at Edward as he disappeared out of the room and mentally prepared for the awkward goodbye to come. Don't look up, I chanted at myself, don't look up even though Jasper looks seriously gorgeous this morning. Don't do it—just. . .don't.

"Are you ever going to look at me?"

It was too hard to keep my eyes glued to my plate. I glanced up at him, in surprise, because last night he hadn't seemed to be a fan of either the difficult conversation or the blunt statement.

"I don't know what you mean," I said, trying way too hard to keep my voice steady, aware that I was losing and there was a very defensive edge to it. "I'm eating."

"You're not eating," he said, "you've been picking at the same piece of pineapple for the last five minutes."

I looked up then, and decided if he could play hardball, then so could I. "And you're awfully observant."

"I like watching you," he shrugged, not looking the least bit embarrassed by this admission. "You're so delicate but you've got this spine of steel that I find fascinating. And every so often, it flashes out of your eyes and I'm amazed you're not seven feet tall and built like a wrestler."

I gaped at him. "Nevermind, you're not observant. You're practically a stalker."

He just shrugged, as if I'd accused him of something far more pleasant. "I told you last night; I like you."

You could maybe ask him . . .

Bella's advice echoed in my head again, and I wanted to tell her to shut up, because she was making this a lot more difficult than it needed to be—but like all of advice of Bella's, it was sound and I couldn't ignore it anymore. Besides, he apparently wasn't going to go away quietly, and so I needed to know what the hell he'd been thinking. I'd speculated all through the night and I wasn't any closer to answers—only he could give me those.

"Why didn't you tell me who you were?" I'd envisioned the question in my head as an offensive chess-like move, full of annoyed outrage, but instead it came out soft and weak and vulnerable. As if it had really hurt my feelings because of what he'd done.

Of course, he had, but the very last thing I'd ever wanted him to know was that he had.

"And right there," Jasper said, his voice equally quiet, "is what I'm talking about. God, you just made me feel like the world's biggest ass."

"You are the world's biggest ass," I retorted. "It wasn't your secret to keep."

"I didn't mean to make it a secret," he admitted, and to my horror, he stood up and moved two chairs over, until he was right next to me. "You're not eating, and I don't think you will until we settle this, so let's take a walk and talk about it." He offered a hand to me, and I hesitated.

"I'm wearing pajamas," I blurted out. "And I haven't even brushed my hair."

"You look beautiful," he said, his eyes serious and honest, reaching out to smooth a lock of hair behind my ear.

It was hard to argue after he'd said that, so I gave up and slid my hand into his. The calluses didn't feel like I thought they would—instead they made his hand feel strong and reassuring, as if I could anchor myself to him and never worry about falling.

Except that was the whole problem. I was falling.

We walked out onto the veranda, and Jasper shaded his eyes with his free hand. "It's going to be a gorgeous day," he said. "This was always my favorite kind of day to play ball."

Jasper led us off the veranda and onto the wide expanse of grass, as if he had a definite destination in mind. "Where are we going?" I asked.

"The beach. I like going there in the mornings—when it's just me and the ocean."

We were silent for a few minutes as we walked across Esme's beautiful grass. Even her lawn was flawless, I thought with a pang of envy. "So you miss it then?" I ventured as we reached the edge of the beach.

Jasper helped me down the rickety wooden stairs that led to the beach and followed behind me. "Every day," he confirmed.

Like he'd said, the beach was astonishingly empty so early in the morning—it was just us and the crashing surf and a wide swath of golden sand.

"Couldn't you still play? Not in the majors, obviously. But recreationally?" I slipped my shoes off with my free hand and dug my toes into the warm sand.

"Do you really think that anyone would want to play against me?" He shook his head ruefully. "Actually, they probably would. Even if they had to face my curveball. But I couldn't, it's . . ." Jasper took a deep breath of the salty air, "it's hard to explain. Baseball is part of who I am, but it's not just playing the game, going through the motions. It's the way the crowd at Fenway roars my name when they hear Athair. It's the smell of the old stadium when you walk to the clubhouse. It's the guys in the bullpen and in the dugout. It's the night sky when I stand on the mound and look up." He shrugged. "It wouldn't be the same. Not playing for a major league team; not playing for the Red Sox."

If you'd told me last night that I'd be feeling sorry for Jasper Whitlock, I'd have said you were crazy, but he'd just poured out his heart to me, and I began to think that maybe I understood, and maybe I even sympathized a little bit.

"So," he continued, "you probably think I'm crazy. That I didn't tell you. But I don't know if I'm really Jasper Whitlock, All-Star Red Sox closer, anymore. He feels like a different man, from a different time. And, on top of that, I don't understand the fame and the money. I'd have paid them to play ball—to be paid so much for doing something I loved never made sense to me. For that reason, I don't really go for the whole 'rich guy' thing, and well . . ." he hesitated. "You're a fashion designer. You're friends with Rosalie Hale and Renee Swan. You vacation at Esme Platt's summer house in Hyannis Port."

All of what he'd said was true, and I couldn't deny it. I could explain however, but I wasn't sure where to begin. I'd have to leave out that Bella had been kidnapped with Edward, and I'd been forced into coming to Esme's house—that it hadn't been by choice and it certainly hadn't started out as a vacation. And that before the last week, I'd been a fashion counterfeiter—not a fashion designer.

It felt wrong to stay silent when he'd just been so honest with me, but I couldn't tell him the truth, even if I thought he might like me more if he knew I wasn't rich at all. And suddenly, I knew why he'd said the night before that he'd liked me despite his better judgment; he'd been worried that I was just another Rosalie Hale. While I loved Rose, and I was incredibly grateful to her for the opportunity to start my own line, I knew I'd never be her. I'd always be fighting to do what I wanted, even with money in the bank.

So I decided to tell him what I could and hope that when he inevitably discovered the truth later, that he wouldn't be angry. "That is true," I admitted, "but I don't want you to think I'm like all those aimless, daddy's little rich girls. I've always known I wanted to be designer. This isn't just a phase for me."

"I know," he said seriously. "I discovered that pretty quick. You're a different kind of girl, Alice Brandon." He stopped and took my other hand in his. "I'd like to take you out again tonight. Just us. No bikers, no potential roofies, no Edward and Bella and all their problems, and most importantly, no misunderstandings."

"Do you think we even deserve a third chance?" I asked skeptically.

"In my defense, the biker bar wasn't my idea," Jasper chuckled. "Say yes."

With him looking at me that way, the sun lighting up his blond hair and his smile crinkling the corners of those incredibly amber eyes, I couldn't say no. So I said yes. "Yes."

"Good. Because I've been wanting to do this, and I couldn't until you did." He leaned down and brushed his lips over mine softly, cautiously, as if he was afraid that I'd push him away. For a guy who was that observant, he'd clearly missed the most important thing of all: I really liked him too.

I reached up and grasped his head, pulling him down more insistently for a second, longer kiss. He tasted like fresh cut grass and sunshine and maple syrup. "I've been waiting for you to do that a long time," I told him, leaning into his chest as his arms wrapped around me.

"Sorry, ma'am," he teased softly, "I'll make sure not to wait so long next time."

AN: I couldn't help myself, I wanted to see if I could still work the quote in :)

Next chapter is tentatively titled "Karma." Review = a reply + a teaser!