AN: I had hoped to maintain a regular update schedule but life is just very busy, so that's gone straight out the window 😂 although with all the site issues at the moment maybe it's good timing?! If you want updates please join my author group on facebook — Here For the Tea -Hotteaforme Fanfiction.
Massive thanks to Ciara, May, Mel and Meg for looking over this for me. All mistakes left are mine as I can never leave stuff alone.
Chapter 5
Greedy
"It's weird, don't you think?"
Rose stifles a laugh behind her hand before composing herself. We're FaceTiming while I'm making dinner.
Evening has set in, and my plans for it have been altered. The emergency Sue had called about turned out to be nothing to do with my dad like I had feared, but everything to do with my recently acquired stepsister, Leah. A freak accident at work. A fractured wrist. The potential need for surgery. It was all I could do but exhale with audible relief.
It might make me heartless not having the same worry for Leah, but I don't love Leah more than my dad. I don't even particularly like Leah at times. She's abrasive—kind of like Rose but with none of the redeeming qualities.
"What?" I say, finding I'm annoyed that Rose is laughing. I dry my hands on a towel, bracing my elbows on the kitchen island where my cell is propped up, so I can look her eye to eye through the screen.
"Well, it's just… Do I think it's weird that the Senator of Illinois turned up to do a talk at the University of Chicago in partnership with the Institute of Politics? No. Do I think he used the opportunity to find out your real name with ulterior motives? Also no. You're reading way too much into this. You met him once."
My face falls into my hands, pressing fingers against my eyelids. "I know," I agree, finally looking up at Rose. "But it just felt too coincidental. And you weren't there at that point either. He was definitely … interested."
"So what? You're stunning—of course he was. But that doesn't mean anything." She takes a breath, biting at her lip. "Do you know what I think?"
"You're going to tell me anyway, so shoot."
"I think you're attracted to him because he's objectively a very good looking, charismatic guy who showed interest in you as a person. When was the last time any of your clients asked about you? And I think because you're under so much pressure at the moment, your mind is looking for an escape. You're connecting innocent things together to distract you from everything happening with Charlie. That's my take."
Inside I wilt. In many ways I was hoping for validation that this wasn't all in my head. Because regardless of what Rose says, and how much more sense that makes, when I remember the intensity of him in that room, it makes me second guess everything.
"How is he, by the way?"
"Huh?"
"Charlie?"
My lips tug into a sad smile. "In good spirits. Flirting with the nurse earlier," I say lightly. "Not that I'll tell Sue that. But you know, it's my dad. He'd like to see you, too."
"I'll visit soon," Rose promises. She shoves several kernels of popcorn in her mouth. "Also, I think I'm going to stick it out a few more months until I've decided exactly what I want to do. I need a plan."
She looks at me expectantly, like I'm supposed to have all the answers for her, which is nothing new. It was the same in high school when I'd angle Friday pop quizzes for her to copy off in AP English.
"I guess you need to start by thinking about what you want? What you truly want. What would make you happy? I think when you have that figured out, you can make a plan."
"But I just don't know."
"You've got to really think about it, Rose. Write a list. Stuff you like, stuff you hate. Go from there." She doesn't look convinced, but that's Rose all over. She has a tendency to want everything to fall into her lap. For her, it usually does.
"Okay," she tells me. "I'll give it a go… Shit—I just realized the time and I need to go. Got a hot date with James."
My nose wrinkles. "The journalist guy? Again?"
"Mhm. Although he's not really a proper journalist. He writes articles for Buzzfeed and Vulture, sometimes. Not sure where he gets his money from to afford me. Maybe a trust fund or something. One more time and Lauren will move him on to someone else. That can't come quick enough. I think he's getting attached."
"Oh, God. Really?"
There's a rule at the agency—no more than five repeat bookings. It helps keep anyone from developing feelings. Lauren is very strict about enforcing it, vocal about how many issues it causes. From a safety point of view, to a monetary one. She can't take a cut if one of us runs off with a client, and more importantly it's not safe for us if a client begins to think we're in some kind of real relationship. Sometimes the lines blur, which is when shit really hits the fan.
"Yeah," Rose says, a fleeting look of stress on her face.
"Please be careful," I beg. "You should cancel if you think that."
"It'll be fine," Rose says. "It will," she adds when she sees the look on my face. "Just look after yourself too, Bell. You're important to me."
We say goodbye, and I find myself staring at the mug I've been propping my cell up with—a souvenir from a road trip to New York before I started high school—one my dad chose from Coney Island. That trip was one of my favorites for so many reasons: the spontaneity of it, the terrible Beach Boy classics blaring out of the truck across miles and miles of road—the excitement of NYC and being tourists, candy floss and slushies that stained my tongue blue, and the infamous Nathan's hot dogs all evidenced on Walmart disposable cameras. Most of all, I liked my dad being relaxed, and happy. It was all too easy for him to slip into cynical monotonous moods when he was working shift after shift back home. That trip, though—that was the real Charlie Swan.
When I take my dad his dinner, I make sure to use that mug for his drink, adding a straw and ensuring all his food has been cut into bite-sized pieces so it's easier for him to manage.
"Good trip," he says when he sees the mug, his voice scratchy.
"My favorite."
"You should dig out that box of photos," he says. "I'd like to see them again."
"I'll find them later, I'd like that too."
We smile at each other, and I do exactly what I should have done in the first place and put all thoughts of Edward Cullen firmly to the back of my mind.
▪︎
The following Wednesday, I find myself in familiar territory. Traipsing down a hallway with a keycard in my hand to white double doors at the end. I already know what lies behind them: a large suite with near panoramic views of downtown Chicago.
It's the same suite Emmett and I had spent hours in. Where we'd had sex. Where we were going to have sex again—a mid-afternoon, mid-week rendezvous booked through the agency last minute. I almost declined, but the lure of more money and a couple of hours distraction—I need it probably as much as he seems to. A repeat experience is often also a good one. We both know what to expect, and I find I'm actually looking forward to it.
Knocking on the large expanse of door, I tap the keycard against the black electronic lock. Green blinks back at me before I carefully open it. Light pours through, bright against my eyes as they adjust from the darker corridor. There, silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, watching the world below with an arm by his head is Emmett, already waiting.
It makes me smile to know he's here already.
Eager.
The door shuts behind me as I walk further into the room.
And it's then I realize I'm wrong.
It isn't Emmett at all.
The figure is taller, leaner…
My footsteps falter as quickly as my smile fades.
No.
"This isn't what you think," Edward says as he finally faces me, hands retreating into the pockets of grey slacks, white shirt rolled up at his elbows, no tie in sight.
My whole world tilts, my mouth parting in surprise. The validation I was craving stands in front of me, every bit the picture of nonchalance, like he has every right to be in this room, when in my mind he absolutely doesn't.
And all I can think is that I was right.
"Where's Emmett?" My voice comes out half strangled.
Edward reaches for an open bottle of water sitting on a side table as I fight the urge to walk straight back out of the room.
"Emmett's not here. He won't be here. Sorry if that disappoints you," Edward replies simply, eyes flicking from my face down to my cream blazer, short black dress, and matching high heels.
My face feels hotter.
"You look worried, Bella."
He uses my name with mirth, lips pulled into a smile as I fold my arms across my chest.
"That's because I am. First you show up in my post-grad lecture, and now, after being under the impression I was meeting with Emmett this afternoon, you're here. Of course I'm worried. How do you think this is coming across?"
He doesn't reply quick enough for my liking so I continue, cutting him off, letting him feel my ire.
"I'll be completely honest with you, Senator … I don't feel comfortable being alone with someone who has … is pretending to be someone they're not. This goes against what I consider to be safe."
Edward laughs, unperturbed, sitting himself down on the blue-grey sofa, arm stretching along the back of it. "You're completely safe," he promises. "But I acknowledge this is … bold. Probably one of the most outlandish things I've done, and that's saying something. You feel blindsided, I get that. I'm not who you expected. And you're not going to be doing what you thought you'd be doing." He smiles, as if he finds the thought of it funny.
"Blindsided is a tame way of putting it." I scoff, still reeling. "Why am I here?"
"Now, that's more difficult to explain." He pauses, taking his time as he sips his water. "You know, after I met you the other week, I couldn't shake you from my mind. I'm not sure what it was," he admits. "Maybe your situation. Maybe because you fucked one of my best friends for money. Maybe because you're obviously incredibly smart, and I enjoyed your honesty… Your naivety on the other hand… Sit down, please."
He gestures to the empty sofa opposite him, separated by a chrome edged glass coffee table. I hesitate. The last thing I want to do by sitting down is make him feel like I'm comfortable with any of this, because no matter how attractive Edward Cullen is to me, I'm most definitely not.
"Please," he reiterates.
My breath comes out heavily, and against my better judgement, I want to hear what he has to say. Apprehension lingers as I sit down on the sofa directly opposite him, adjusting my dress, crossing my legs.
"I'm not sure what you want from me," I tell him. "Like I said before, what I do is my choice and it's misogynistic of you to assume that I'm not capable of making these decisions and I'm not happy with them. I've been navigating this world for a while, and it's working fine for me. But the fact is you … what? Faked being Emmett? To my agency? To be here—that is freakin' crazy to me."
"You didn't give me much of a choice on how to get in touch," he says, with a shrug. "You left my lecture early. I thought you might have taken the opportunity to talk to me again. This seemed to be the next logical option with what I knew about you."
"Because you couldn't possibly have gotten my details from anywhere else," I retort scathingly. "Being who you are."
"Believe me, I tried. You opted to keep that information confidential."
I can't help but tut.
"Because I take my privacy seriously! It's arrogant to assume that I would have wanted to stay behind to talk to you anyway, don't you think? I wouldn't have. What if I'm just not that interested in you?"
"I think we both know that's a lie," he counters. "Isn't it?"
I don't answer, because he's right. I am lying. I'm enticed by him—by the lengths he's gone to for us to be sitting here right now. It's as flattering as it is unnerving.
"Why did you leave early?" he probes.
"That's none of your business."
"You're right," he concedes. "It's none of my business. But for the record, I was disappointed you left. It felt fortuitous that you were there at all."
"Was it?" I counter, dubiously.
He smirks, and he doesn't have to say anything more. It says everything I need to know. The thought of him engineering these situations just to find me fans a flame that has been licking at the very edges of my heart ever since our eyes met across the bar.
And the simple truth of it all, underneath the sheer absurdity of the situation, is that we both know why we're here. It's unspoken, but even as I sit a few feet away from him, I can feel the swell of anticipation.
"If I were to offer you an internship in my office, what would you say?"
This proposal takes me by surprise. Unexpected—and undeserved I look at him with increasing incredulity.
"I'd ask what area you'd want me working in," I recover, slowly. My eyes narrow, watching as one of his hands runs through his hair.
"Whatever area you're most interested in. Free reign," Edward offers.
"Do you have that option for every intern?" I query with some skepticism.
"No. Apparently it's just you."
"Why?"
"I need an intern. You said you hadn't had the opportunity. I want to give it to you."
"You could have any intern," I point out. "You could put out a Linkedin post and be inundated with resumes. You'd find someone better. Why would you even want an intern whose resume you've never even seen."
"I don't want someone better. I want you to take it. Somehow, I think you'd do a damn sight better than the stream of nepo‐babies given it on a plate."
Edward leans forward, elbows braced on his knees. "Take time to think it over. I wasn't expecting an answer straight away, not after the way I've approached this."
His tongue darts out to wet his lips.
"I do have another..."
"Another what?"
"Proposition."
He slides the palms of his hands together, contemplatively. My eyes automatically zone onto his wedding ring. He looks at it too, but then his steadfast stare is back on me; hopeful as it is heavy.
"What if I paid you to sleep with me?"
I blink rapidly. It still manages to take me by surprise—the straight forwardness in how he solicits me for sex. There's no colour in his cheeks, no paleness of a man who's embarrassed or fraught with dilemma.
"You're married," I point out quietly, as if he doesn't know.
"And I'm alone for pretty much the next six months, as you heard the other night. I need discretion. You can give me that. You seem to need an income, I can give you that. And if you do want to carve out a career, you need an internship. I can give you that too."
"You…" I flounder, my next words bursting out with incredulity, a hand flung in the air. "Have you completely lost your goddamn mind? You are a senator! Where are your morals?"
"Where are yours?" he challenges. "It's an idea that grew traction."
"An idea that borders on insanity, you mean," I dismiss. "God, I need a drink."
I get up, crossing the room to where I know the fully stocked minibar is, reaching for one of the tiny bottles of rum.
"Am I that repulsive?" Edward quips as he swivels to watch me. I open the black screw top, downing a mouthful, neat. "You did sleep with Emmett after all."
"No. That's far from it and you seem to know that."
"Then what's so insane? Go on, tell me. I'm all ears."
I lean back on the furniture with my bare legs crossed, staring at the black heels I've worn for the occasion, pointed and stilettoed.
"You have a wife," I stress, finally looking him in the eyes. "You're supposed to lead by example. You're supposed to have principles. People look up to you. Your reputation—if anyone ever found out would be ruined."
"I'm not the first and definitely not the last to take a risk," Edward says, firmly. "As you reminded me, life's all about taking risks. As for anyone finding out? No one would because you wouldn't tell them."
I wouldn't, I silently agree. But that doesn't make this right.
"Have you ever cheated on Tanya before?"
"Once," he replies, with an honesty I wasn't expecting.
"Does she know?"
He nods. "Yes. Yeah. It was a lapse in judgement very early on in our relationship. She forgave me. We moved on."
"She wouldn't forgive you again. You shouldn't," I urge him, flatly. "You shouldn't want to do that to your wife. She's—talented, beautiful and she seems to love you very much."
"She's all of those things. But she's also not here." He looks bemused. "Does it usually bother you this much sleeping with married men? Do you do a questionnaire?" he mocks.
"No," I retort hotly. "That's on them. I'm not the one who made vows."
"Then let it be on me," Edward urges, his voice so low and calm it makes me wonder whether he's lying. Whether he's done this before.
I'm shaking my head, because as much as I would love to let myself not care, I do.
"What if I want to do the internship but not sleep with you?" I wonder out loud. "Would that be possible?"
"It would limit your time for pursuing your current work. Late nights. Early starts. Paid, but not as well as this I would imagine. I'll meet whatever fee you charge, although this would be strictly between you and me. No agency involvement."
It's not a yes, but it's not a no. Life would be more difficult, is what Edward is saying, and I have more than myself to consider.
We lapse into a silence that stretches so loud I can hear a door slamming shut in the distance and my pulse throbbing against my ears.
I didn't overthink things. I didn't overthink clients at all. I don't ask questions; their marital status is of no concern to me. Yet, I'm overthinking it all. This is somehow different. Complicated. Messy. So I spend time grappling with the choices Edward has so quickly laid on the table.
Edward lets me. He doesn't push. Instead, he settles back on the sofa and waits patiently.
I knock back the final mouthful in the bottle, wishing that the burn would singe all the wings of the traitorous butterflies in my stomach.
Pushing off from the sideboard, I feel emboldened, knowing Edward is listening out for every movement I make, regardless of where his eyes are. It feels like I'm in some sort of production, where the stage has gone dark and it's just me and the audience; where I divulge the inner workings of my mind, debate aloud whether I should let myself surrender to someone like him. What good could come from it? From being involved intimately with him for months—a god with the world at his feet.
And a wife.
I slip off my heels, soft cream carpet welcome beneath my feet, and say nothing as I gravitate toward him, into his line of view. Caught there, I enjoy the way his eyes dance, his unwavering focus all on me. I'm greedy for it, flushed with anticipation.
Maybe he knew this was coming … my determination to find out whether he really wants to betray his wife, because there's only a fleeting look of satisfaction on his face when I straddle his lap. It's just as bold as him, and he seems to like it.
Knees planted firmly on either side of a taut stomach, his large hands slide to my waist, heat transferring through the flimsy fabric.
I'm more than familiar with being up close to men just like him, with hands just like his, just like this … but it's immediately strange to me that none have sent thrills through me quite as much as this does. How much chemistry there already is.
I study every fine line around his eyes, the grey hairs in the scruff on his face. I can smell the cologne he's wearing. Feel his breath fan gently across my neck. Watch as he swallows hard.
"This is insanity," I repeat.
"Is it?"
"No."
"No," he agrees. "This can be as simple as you like. Two mutually attracted people in an arrangement that benefits us both."
"I feel like you're trying really hard to convince me, Senator," I murmur.
"I work hard for what I want. Are you not convinced yet?"
"No," I utter. "I need to know. Are you sure?" Slowly I start to grind against him. "Are you absolutely sure this is what you want?"
"You? Yes," he rasps, gripping my hips tighter. He's hard underneath me as I roll my hips again, over and over, the low unmistakable growl of frustration he emits making me more aroused. "Ever since I first laid eyes on you."
I get off on this: men like putty in my hands. But closing my eyes, I tell him what I know deep down, what he should know too.
"This is a mistake."
"No it isn't," he consoles, bringing a hand to my face, tenderness as he tilts my chin, his palm against my cheek, his thumb finding my bottom lip. He pushes it inwards, just the tip: a groan as I engulf it with both lips and a little tongue, his fingers grip my face, holding me still as he withdraws the tip and traces it over my mouth.
Undeniable.
Inevitable.
I stare into hazel eyes and see everything: his desire, my own reflected right back at me … and yet I've made no decisions—none at all.
Until he leans forward and kisses me.
