It's Thursday, which means another chapter!
Let's see if Bella can resist temptation...
BPOV
I'm unnerved and unprepared for the intensity accompanying Mr. Cullen's admission.
My pen fumbles through my fingers and drops to the floor, allowing me to stall as I bend down, retrieving it. Eyes shut tight, I count to three before standing and daring a glance at the sparkling emerald that promises thrills I'm not ready to explore.
"I'm not on the menu," I mutter, focusing on my notepad. It's too early in the morning to address this temptation.
He hums, his index finger running along the pink skin of his bottom lip. "Is that because you're otherwise spoken for?" The corners of his eyes pinch as if he's just now considering that there's another man in my life. I want to laugh. Even if there were, they'd be no competition for Edward Cullen.
I contemplate lying, telling him I'm engaged or in a long-distance relationship, giving a plausible reason why I'm skittish.
But I know he'll catch me in any lie I try to tell.
"No. I'm just not dating right now."
There.
That's an acceptable explanation.
He chuckles and cocks a brow. "Is that a challenge?"
Swallowing hard, my gaze travels across the room to Carmen, who watches as she refills coffee mugs. I widen my eyes, desperate for her to get the message. Save me!
She shakes her head and winks.
Bitch.
"I'm not trying to challenge you." I poise my pad and pen, ready to end this ridiculous conversation. "What would you like?"
"A date. Tonight after your show."
Damn it.
"I have a shift here early tomorrow morning." It takes effort not to cringe after uttering such a weak excuse.
"I have a feeling I can help you get it covered." He nods toward Carmen. She's not trying to hide her spying, wiping down a table two away from us.
Hand on hip, she pauses and waves her dish towel in my direction. "Give the guy a chance. Heidi's been asking for more shifts anyway. Go out and have some fun."
I scowl at her, some friend she is.
"See." Mr. Cullen's lips twitch in amusement as he leans against the booth, sipping his coffee before placing it on the table and tapping the rim for a refill. I huff and snatch the pot from a nearby counter. When I return, my eyes rake over his relaxed frame, arm draped across the back of the booth, legs spread under the tabletop. He's pleased with the idea of me serving him. I want his reaction to piss me off. Instead, I flush with warmth, tingles running through my core in anticipation of what he's offering.
My brain begins to conjure up all the other ways I could serve him, most of which involve much more skin than either of us is showing.
His fingertips rest on the handle of his mug once I finish pouring. "Tonight. Mare Di Sicilia- it's a Sicilian restaurant in my casino. Let me feed you. If nothing else, you'll get a five-star meal and a couple of glasses of fine wine out of it."
My pen twirls between my fingers as I debate.
He intrigues me.
He excites me.
He's offering to treat me to a dining experience I may never have the chance to experience again.
But I'm not in a place where jumping into a relationship is a good idea.
In the last year, I've lost myself. I no longer know who I am or what I want out of life. I'm a train that's derailed and toppled.
He rubs at the side of his face, calling attention to the five o'clock shadow covering the curve of his jaw. For the first time, I allow myself to truly drink him in. My eyes linger on his long fingers and angular features. I marvel at the masculine shape of his mouth. I can barely contain the urge to trace my tongue over his pout. His eyes glow under perpetually hooded lids and lashes so long every dancer I know would be envious.
Something deeper inside him has me intrigued and stumbling over my initial opinion of the enigmatic man. An element of danger hovers around him, making my stomach twist and red flags wave in my head. But the dark circles under his eyes accentuate a lingering loneliness that makes me want to hold him in my arms.
Jesus, Bella.
This man is not boyfriend material.
But…I don't want a boyfriend.
The end of my pen makes its way between my teeth as I take my anxiety out on the plastic cap. "One night?" I ask. Maybe I could give him the hook-up he's seeking, get a release, and continue on without intertwining myself in a mess I have no mental capacity to handle.
His brows crease, and he glances at the tabletop before nodding. "One night."
Emerald eyes trace my pen's path as it drops from my lips to my clavicle. "Where should I meet you?"
"I'll wait for you at the entrance to the restaurant."
"I'll meet you there after I change," I say, nodding to convince myself because I'm still not entirely sure this is a good idea.
Four girls, still in their dresses and heels from their night out, slip into the booth behind us, and I greet them, remembering I have a job to do.
"Scrambled eggs with toast and hashbrowns," Mr. Cullen says, handing his menu over.
I give him a timid smile as I turn toward the kitchen, peeking back before I push through the swinging doors. The styled strands of his hair are left in disarray as his hand tugs through them and falls, palm flat, against the Formica tabletop. I don't linger, unwilling to address the meaning behind the flips and turns inside my stomach. But the further I distance myself from Edward Cullen, the harder my pulse pounds, and the more I worry that I'm descending into a trap I won't escape.
oOo
Twelve long-stemmed red roses greet the cast of dancers as we filter into the dressing room after the show's finale. Murmurs of "Aww, how sweet" and "God, she's lucky" mix with jealous glances as each girl takes note of the garish display.
"Who are they from?" Jessica asks, unable to keep herself out of other people's business. She props her hand on Rachel's shoulder, peeking at the envelope she plucks from Rachel's vase.
"You're a star on the stage and in my fantasies. Signed, the man who only has eyes for you." Rachel's sly smirk punctuates the message as she drops the card onto the table and leans in to sniff the bouquet.
"Oh, my God! I totally know who it's from!" Jessica squeals, bouncing on the toes of her silver heels, making her cleavage jiggle. "Mr. Cullen was watching you!"
Someone claps across the room and calls, "Go, Rach!" I bite my tongue to keep my secret from tumbling out. Edward Cullen is my date, not Rachel's.
Despite the flattery and confidence boost that comes along with Las Vegas's sexiest bachelor taking an interest in me, I don't want the type of fame that will come along with my coworkers knowing about my evening plans.
After all, this is a one-time event. As long as I'm careful, none of these girls will ever get a hint that I scored a night with the elusive Mr. Cullen.
While a hoard of giggling dancers gathers around Rachel, I change out of the bejeweled corset that has my boobs defying gravity and into my standard sports bra and sweats. The only difference tonight is that I don't wipe away my foundation and eyeliner.
I fake a yawn and call out, "See you all later," giving a wave to the distracted women gossiping about Rachel's good luck. Jessica is already planning a wedding in the chapel at the Bellagio, where she's somehow weaseled her way into being a bridesmaid.
My duffle bag is bulkier than usual, bouncing at my side as I take quick steps down the employee hallway. Although the strapless navy dress I brought to change into doesn't take much space, the lace-up stilettos do.
Checking for witnesses, I turn toward the employee bathroom where I first met Mr. Cullen and hope the latch is fixed. For good measure, I place my duffle on the floor behind the door, even after double-checking the handle.
I make quick work of my warm-ups, throwing them into the bag before hooking my strapless bra and twisting it into place. It's plain and black but matches the black lace G-string I talked myself into wearing. If I want every benefit out of tonight, regular cotton panties won't cut it.
My bodycon dress is so tight that I have to wiggle it up my hips and over my breasts, reaching in to adjust them until my cleavage lifts just right. I turn toward the mirror above the sink, smiling when I see how the pale peach of my skin tone contrasts with the deep blue of the fabric. The stark difference draws attention, and I know where my date's eyes will hover tonight.
My tangled hair is desperate for help, so I dig through my bag until I find my brush and begin to work out the knotted strands. I went easy on the hairspray, but regardless, it takes a good five minutes to get the mess under control.
I grimace when I check my phone. Mr. Cullen is probably waiting, wondering where the hell I've gone. I give my reflection a last glance. My makeup is heavier than what I would usually wear out but lighter than how much I normally wear on stage. It will have to work tonight because I'm out of time.
After switching shoes into my stilettos with black string lacing up my calf and a silver four-inch heel, I sling my bag over my shoulder and freeze.
Shit. I can't go to Mare Di Sicilia with a giant duffle bag as a purse.
I recheck my phone; it's been twenty minutes since the show ended, but I don't have a choice. I'm going to have to go to my car.
Then what will I do with my keys, wallet, and phone? I forgot to bring a clutch.
Groaning, I leave the bathroom without a plan. I can assume that Mr. Cullen is covering the bill for dinner, so I can do without my wallet. I can hold my phone, but my clunky car keys are a dilemma. My dress is too tight to stick them in my bra, plus if there's a chance that the one-night stand I'm talking myself into happens, I don't want old Chevy keys falling out when my lingerie comes off.
Voices echo around the corner of the hallway, so I push myself against the wall as if I'll be invisible to the dancers exiting toward the employee garage. The telltale sound of the door opening and closing has the tension falling from my frame, and I resume gnawing at my lower lip in frustration.
If only I could have changed in the dressing room. I could have left my bag there.
My head pops up. The theater!
The cleaning crew hasn't left yet. I can slip in from the casino entrance and leave my stuff backstage. I know a perfect corner where no one will notice. And even if someone does, they are welcome to the dollar fifty in quarters I keep in my wallet for the laundromat and the thirty dollars in my bank account. As for the rusted truck, they'll probably figure out what car my keys belong to and decide stealing it isn't worth the effort.
I spin, rush to the other end of the hallway, and push through doors leading into the bustling casino. The slot machines ringing out winnings and cheers from a blackjack table meet me. I walk, as sure-footed as I can in four-inch stilettos, toward the velvet ropes where, a few hours ago, an audience waited in line to watch me dance.
The door furthest to the right is cracked open, so I squeeze past and do my best to go unnoticed as I hurry through a small lobby and into the back of the theater.
If anyone notices the rogue woman running by in a cocktail dress, they don't say anything. I dodge some guys from the lighting crew changing a ripped film on a floor light and make my way to the barre behind the backdrop. Glancing for witnesses, I hide my bag between a stack of chairs and the prop table.
Relieved to finally be on my way to the restaurant, I curse the time on my phone. It's been thirty minutes since I finished dancing. I wonder if Mr. Cullen is still waiting. He probably thinks I ditched him and went home. As thrilling as a microwave dinner in my seven hundred square foot, one-bedroom apartment sounds, getting wine drunk and giving a gorgeous man free rein is much more appealing.
I run-walk across the gaudy floral carpet of the casino, following signs for Mare Di Sicilia until the fragrant aroma of garlic and spices draws me toward the entrance. Slowing my pace, I scan the faces waiting for tables, my shoulders falling when I realize Mr. Cullen isn't among the crowd.
A maître d' stands behind a wooden podium, scrolling names on an iPad and directing his hostesses where to seat the waiting guests. Unsure what else to do, I approach him, my words tangling on my tongue.
"Excuse me, um…" Disinterest flicks across his brow when he looks up, likely assuming I'm another diner without a reservation.
"We have a sixty to eighty-minute wait. Chelsea can put your name on the list." He motions toward a perky blond with a tablet.
Shaking my head, I ignore her and try again. "I'm supposed to be meeting someone."
"Name of the party?" Chelsea asks as the maitre d' is clearly done with me.
"Oh, um. Edward Cullen." The name comes out in a whisper. I don't want to attract more attention than I already am.
Her brow creases, and she leans in. "I'm sorry I didn't catch that."
"Edward-"
"Cullen." A spark of excitement radiates up my spine as a strong hand settles against the small of my back. I lean into the touch, allowing the heat from Mr. Cullen's body to caress my skin like the desert sun.
"Mr. Cullen!" Suddenly ready to please, the maître d'' rushes around his podium, shooing Chelsea away. "Sir, I have your table ready. Miss, please follow me." I snicker as the man who could not have been less interested thirty seconds ago gives me a slight bow and motions for me to enter his exclusive domain.
"I'm sorry I'm late," Mr. Cullen whispers. "I had an issue I had to take care of."
"No. It's fine." He's so close that his scent of musk and spice overwhelms me. I consider holding my breath to avoid swooning in his arms. "I just got here."
He hums in response as we reach our table, and he holds my chair for me. While the maître d' gives us his practiced speech regarding the daily specials, my focus remains on Mr. Cullen's masculine beauty. The dim lighting enhances his strong, angular features, making me wonder how misfit we must seem to everyone else in the room. Mr. Cullen eventually dismisses the steward, sending him off to retrieve a bottle of Cabernet, and turns his attention to me, his eyes dipping briefly to the neckline of my dress. His wicked grin tells me the low-cut garment has the effect I hoped for.
Despite the anticipation I felt earlier, my words catch in my throat once we're alone. I don't know where to start with this man. How was your day? What's it like to have staff fall at your feet? My place or yours?
He's divine in a fitted black suit and recently styled hair. It no longer screams, 'I just had sex.' Now it screams, 'Run your fingers through me while we fuck.'
"You look gorgeous, Bella." His gaze darkens, too intense for a first date.
To slow my rapid pulse, I shift my attention to the servers passing with trays of entrees, the heavenly scent of cream sauce lingering in their wake. Linguine and clams, lobster drenched in butter- the types of food I dream about while I eat peanut butter sandwiches and cheap produce.
My fingers trace the edge of the white cloth-covered table as I take a break from ogling my date and force myself to appreciate the atmosphere. Flames from votive candles dance on each tabletop, and reflections from the fire bounce off the bronze fixtures and cream-colored walls. Beams and panels of deep mahogany wood accent the space, while paintings of the Sicilian countryside and coastline landscapes adorn the walls.
"Your restaurant is beautiful," I say, changing the subject. It's easier to talk about inanimate objects than to address my building attraction toward this man.
"Thanks." He folds his hands on the table, allowing his pinky finger to trace a drop of condensation from his water glass. "Wait until you taste the food."
"Right." It's not until now that I notice our lack of menus.
"I'll order for us," he says, reading my mind as his fingers tap against the cloth.
I can't decide if I like giving him that control. Although, I don't seem to have a choice. "Oh."
"If that's okay," he offers. But the way he looks at me tells me he expects a specific answer. He's not often second-guessed. He's always in charge, and that's how he likes it.
Submission isn't usually my strongest attribute, but God help me. My instinct with him is to give in. How he holds himself, the set of his shoulders, and his practiced indifference scream power. He's in control, not to be messed with, or heaven knows what kind of hell he will unleash.
I shiver, wondering what the punishment is for misbehaving behind closed doors. Does he spank? Is he a rough lover who takes pleasure as he sees fit, leaving women satiated and used in his wake? God, I hope so. I need a man like that to make me feel alive. I need him just once before returning to my mess of a life.
"I don't like shrimp," I acquiesce to letting him take charge of our order. My wine glass flips, and I jump back, eyes darting to our server.
"Silver Oak Cabernet, Sir." He pours a tasting amount of wine into Mr. Cullen's glass. Mr. Cullen swirls it, sniffs it before bringing it to his lips, and takes time with his first sip. The edge of his tongue peeks out, retrieving a spilled drop before he nods his approval. My core tightens as I imagine that tongue running over my body, tasting me.
My glass fills, and I reach for it eagerly. I'm wound up, and alcohol will be a sweet relief.
The best wine I've had up to this point in my life was a forty-dollar bottle from Trader Joe's my ex-boyfriend bought the day I got promoted to soloist.
Edward Cullen's wine isn't a forty-dollar bottle from Trader Joe's- rich flavors of oak and plum swirl across my tastebuds. The smoothness of the drink begs for a second sip as soon as the first rolls down my throat.
"Good?" Mr. Cullen smirks over his glass.
I bring a finger to my lips while I swallow and place my glass back down. "What is this?"
"Silver Oak Cabernet, Napa Valley. They have an impressive collection."
"So, from California wine country?" My cheeks heat when he chuckles at my question.
"Yes, California. Have you ever been?" He leans in, genuinely interested in my answer.
I sip my wine again because I'm giving myself over to everything pleasurable tonight. "California?"
"Napa." His glass lifts.
"Neither." Mine lifts again.
"You've never been to California?" His brows crease like never visiting a particular state is entirely unbelievable.
"No. I'm from the Pacific Northwest. I spent a few summers in New York dancing and a few seasons in Utah, but I haven't traveled much besides visiting family in Arizona and Florida." While it's never bothered me before, here in front of Mr. Cullen, who has probably visited every continent, my admission has my shoulders hunching and my cheeks flaming.
Our server saves us, returning to take our order. Mr. Cullen requests Calamari and a Caprese Salad as appetizers, then proceeds to order what seems like half the menu as entrees. The server doesn't bat an eye, impressively memorizing each item and praising his superb choices.
"You needed Filet Mignon and Risotto?" I ask, astonished.
He laughs, faint smile lines crinkling in the corners of his eyes. When his features lighten with levity, he's so beautiful it makes my breath catch in my chest. "Two of our best dishes. I noticed you eyeing the linguine and the lobster, so I figured I'd add those."
"That's four entrees and two appetizers!"
He shrugs, fidgeting with a cufflink, the diamond on the end sparkling when it catches the light from our votive. "I want you to enjoy yourself."
"You want me to be carried out of here." I roll my eyes.
"I'm happy to oblige if needed." He's teasing, but there's an undercurrent to his words. I sip my wine and flick my eyes across the room, needing a break from being the focus of his attention. "So, you were telling me something the other day," he says, moving us to safer ground. "About how you grew up wanting to be a ballerina."
Maybe not safer ground. "I did."
"What happened?" He gently tilts his wine glass from the stem, causing streaks of liquid to run down the inside.
I sigh. "I dedicated my life to a career that relies on staying healthy. I didn't stay healthy." His brow raises, indicating I should continue as he lifts his glass. "I began dancing when I was three years old. My mom thought dressing me in a pink tutu and tights would be fun. She didn't realize what she signed herself up for." I laugh, remembering the first year of summer intensives when I was fourteen. My parents balked at the five thousand dollar price tag.
"I was good." It's a humble brag, but it's the truth. "I began getting scholarships for training, and at sixteen, I moved to Utah to study with a major company."
"A ballet company in Utah?" He leans against his chair, getting comfortable but still giving me every ounce of his focus.
"It's a misconception that all dance training is in New York. You'd be amazed where you can find fantastic companies." I pause as our server returns with our appetizers. Mr. Cullen gestures for me to choose first. The golden morsels of Calamari call to me, and I dip one in cocktail sauce before popping it in my mouth.
He follows suit, wiping his hands against his napkin and then picking up his fork to place pieces of tomato, mozzarella, and basil on his plate. "You were in Utah…"
"I got my first studio company job with the Seattle Ballet right after I turned eighteen. My father was thrilled that I was coming home."
"Your mother wasn't?" He asks through a bite of mozzarella.
"My parents divorced. She was already in Florida with her new husband." I steal a piece of tomato off the plate in the center of the table, dripping balsamic dressing on the tablecloth. "Oops, sorry."
"Are you apologizing for spilling?" Amused, he eyes the small dot on the otherwise spotless fabric.
"I'm making a mess of your restaurant." I consider dipping my napkin in my water to clean it up, but think better of it when he shakes his head and digs into the Calamari.
"Seattle Ballet," he urges.
"My life was exactly where I wanted it. I rose through the ranks quickly. Met a guy at the company, and we started dating. Made soloist at twenty-two. It was perfect."
"I sense a but." He's stopped eating. His hands steepled in front of him. Concern settles in his gaze and a piece of my heart that's laid dormant since my life turned directly toward hell double taps.
"Not so much a 'but''… more of a cataclysmic shift." I breathe in, blowing the air out slowly, not quite ready to relive the worst years of my life. "My boyfriend and I were partners on and off stage. We were promoted to principals at the same time and were rehearsing for our first starring roles in a production of Don Quixote when I found out he was having an affair."
Mr. Cullen's jaw ticks, eyes narrowing as he glares across his restaurant. "Jackass."
"Yeah, my dad said the same thing," I snort into my wine. "He was four years older than me but preferred his women much younger. I caught him in a dressing room in a compromising position with a nineteen-year-old apprentice."
"Christ."
"We had rehearsal that afternoon. The production was opening in a week, so I had no choice but to show up at the studio. I looked like hell. My eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, my nose raw from blowing it all morning, but I was determined to keep my personal life off the stage. The thing is, when you're dancing with someone else, being lifted in the air, you have to have unwavering trust in that person, and there was no one I trusted less at that moment than my partner."
I grimace, replaying the fall in my head, moment by moment, knowing exactly where my misstep was. Knowing that it could have been prevented if anyone else's hands had been reaching for me. "I went to jump into a lift and panicked when I felt his hands on my body. I threw us off balance and fell. My foot took the brunt of the fall, buckling under my weight and then his when he landed on top of me."
Mr. Cullen is silent, giving me time to share at my pace. He sips his drink, a long finger stroking along the stem of the glass. I use the repetitive motion to ground myself and escape my sense of grief.
"I shattered three metatarsals in my foot. Screws are now holding the bones in place." I want to be as indifferent as I sound- be matter-of-fact and accept this twist in my story.
"But you still dance."
My smile is wistful, lost in years past, when I explain, "Not in Pointe shoes."
"Lobster?" A dish runner stands at the end of our table with a tray full of entrees that have my mouth salivating as I work to ignore the weight of what my life could have been.
"Just put it all in the center," Mr. Cullen orders, clearing away space by stacking the half-empty appetizers.
I lift my glasses, shifting them to the side, while I decide what to taste first. "God, this looks delicious." As soon as freshly grated parmesan is sprinkled over the top, I pull the Clam Linguine in my direction and roll it onto my fork.
My tongue explodes in a symphony of taste and texture, the creamy wine sauce mixing perfectly with the handmade pasta. Moaning in pleasure, I close my eyes and enjoy the moment, pushing my past into the recesses of my mind to be dealt with later.
"Bella?" I raise my head to find Mr. Cullen's heated gaze fixated on my lips. "Is it wrong that I'm really fucking grateful you're not a ballet dancer anymore?"
My mouth twists as I stab at a clam. "Why?"
"Because if you were, I wouldn't be sitting here with the sexiest fucking woman I've ever met, listening to her make the sexiest fucking sounds imaginable."
I take another bite, making sure my moans are a little louder this time.
A/N: So she gave in, but just for the night. Is she going to be able to stick to her plan and cut things off?
Let's just say he's going to make it a lot harder for her to walk away in the next couple of chapters ;)
See you next week!
