A/N: I always pictured this chap scenario under a bright sunny day, like today. Sharing another chap because the reviews were lovely. Enjoy Saturday.

..:.. Chapter 23 - The Subject ..:..

Present

"Baby," Sue calls. I snap to. She gives me a sad smile. "You know, we're going to dinner tonight, you should come. He misses you."

She has no clue. None. She wasn't in the house to hear Dad, and I argue. I realized that when she called and made the arrangements for lunch, just us two. I thought I would get the Spanish Inquisition but she just excitedly wanted to help me get settled back in the city. She nonchalantly mentioned Dad from time to time.

She doesn't know the big family secret.

I wanted to laugh at the table while stabbing a fork into my quiche at our lunch.

Of course, she wouldn't know. Nothing farther than knowing there was an argument between Dad and me. She's the peacemaker.

I give her a faint smile now. She waits for my reply about dinner. "It's all right. I have some friends to catch up with."

"Oh, good! That's exciting. Please have plenty of drinks and find a cute, poor chump to take home. You need to loosen up, babe."

I roll my eyes, tapping on the laptop keys extra hard.

Claire, the heel clacking assistant, purses her lips as if something's hilarious.

"No, thanks, Sue. There's enough loose estrogen out there. It's tacky and clingy. Not my style."

Her purse turns sour. I seem to wear a grin now, and I really like it. It seems so does Sue since she chuckles. The woman is not blind. She sees that the assistant is only assisting male clients.

As if the topic evokes said testosterone, the bell chimes from over the door and in walks another male needing a suit or such. Claire is already adjusting her bra. I don't care so much to watch her embarrass the existence of all womankind, so I plan for lunch.

Sue is already her joyous, talkative self when I decide I should pick up something for her on the way.

I adjust my shirt and jacket over my jeans and stand tall on heeled boots, because it's not like you'd ever want to come to work looking sloppy in a place like this. I did at first; fuck-the-world-and-everyone-in-it was the intended daily outfit. I was a runaway from reality. But Sue's polished style is infectious. I grabbed my makeup bag on the way out the door every morning in an attempt to do more than the minimum. Mostly to not look dead. It's how I've felt lately anyway.

I grab my wallet, and it drops soundly to the floor just as quickly.

That voice.

That deep throated chuckle.

The sound crawls up my spine and back down again. I feel faint. The world seems to tip on its axis. I hold onto my chair.

I turn to see the new customer who's just entered the shop.

The last time I saw him through my kitchen window I glared at him. The night before I held a gun under my pillow. I swore I'd kill him. I swore I'd end this for good.

It did work for the most part. He came to my room. I just never had the chance to pull the trigger.

I woke that morning tucked comfortably under sheets and a quilt, sans Glock under my pillow. My hand empty, my heart ready to explode.

Oh, how I cried. Sheer rage ripped through me. The exhaustion of those last few months sent me into a deep sleep.

I felt him laugh at me, at the weak attempt. Plans to get away transpired that day. I gave it a shot. I've run away before, and he didn't follow for years. I hoped it would be the same, but one does forget the small details.

Sue, his personal tailor, is a bit flustered. This time, she's the one to fumble in the presence of a client. Everyone seems to gravitate toward the front of the shop.

I back away.

Assistants pour out from the back room, and I find the bend of a wall. I watch a fresh-faced, dark-haired, Edward Cullen Jr. gingerly cupping Sue's hand to kiss.

Claire's skirt almost flips over her head with excitement when he offers her a smile.

I hide to take deep breaths.

My heart hammers.

How stupid of me. What did I expect from this escape? To locate me is to locate my father, then Sue. Piece of cake. I'm more embarrassed than horrified. A silly cat and mouse chase.

I look. His gaze bores into me from behind his dark shades; his chiseled jaw tense.

My stomach curls up again.

He's not afraid to ante up the idled game.

"New assistant?" he asks Sue. She looks over and smiles.

Fuck it. I lift my chin, square my shoulders and deal with this like a grown woman.

So, I definitely pretend I didn't hear him inquire. I search for my wallet off the floor with trembling hands.

"Allow me," he says. He strides over the few steps between us, and he reaches for the wallet before I do. I straighten, and there he is; handsome as ever and not a smear of crazy over his features.

It doesn't suit him. The hair dye. Last time, he went lighter; blonde. It darkened his features. But he was far away. Now, I get lost in this version up close and see that the dark hair dye does bring out his eyes.

"Isabella Swan," Sue introduces. Claire rolls her eyes, and sashays to her desk. "She's my beautiful stepdaughter who's helping to market my brand. She's smart and very much single."

I snap my head toward her. She covers her lips with a hand.

The fucker smirks.

He takes my hand and kisses it. I hold my breath. And when I try to shake him off, he tightens his grip.

"I'd kiss those lips ..." he says for my ears only.

"That's really not your color," is my reply.

He grins.

Sue comes close just in time to miss me taking back my hand.

I walk to the door. My body hums from his touch. Damn him for this. Damn him for looking so much like the last memory I had of him; dark, cold, and gorgeous—just like his father.

"Miss Swan? I think you forget something," he calls from behind me.

I turn, my neck still heated and red. He shows me my wallet.

I snatch it before his hands come any closer to grip at my composure.

I try to take my time getting lunch, but it's inevitable. If Sue doesn't suspect a thing, maybe she will today if I stay away. I buy her a salad and walk back to the shop.

The moment Edward sees me he smirks and winks. Sue is marking a new jacket on him. The slacks he wears still have pins at the cuffs. They hang low on his hips.

Claire watches from her desk, hand on chin, dying inside that she can't get closer than an inch. Calls come in, and she has to take them begrudgingly. She grabs her things to head out for lunch when she sees I've arrived—and notices the wink.

"Oh, good. You're back," says Sue. "Come, I need your opinion."

I take a deep, angry breath, and slam the bags on my desk. "I'm good from here," I say.

"Honey, I need a non-designers eye."

I'd like to wring her neck. But since this isn't new, her asking for opinions, I sense her sincerity. I take a few steps closer, but that's it.

Edward catches my eyes through the mirror. She turns him to face me. He opens the lapels of his jacket, and there are his perfectly sculpted abs. I've seen those, slashed him good. The scar healed well.

"Not my color?" he asks when I don't speak. I look up at his eyes, caught.

I shrug a little. "I don't think the problem is your work this time, Sue. It's purely the subject."

Sue gasps. "Bella!" she mouths.

Edward's grin widens.

Sue fidgets where she stands. And maybe my critique wasn't far off. "Let me grab another one in the back," she says. So she does, and it leaves me alone with this lunatic for the rarest of moments in a usually busy shop.

I take a step back. He advances and catches my arm before I bolt out the door.

"What the fuck do you want? Wasn't it obvious enough that I want to be left alone?" I hiss.

His eyes travel up my body. His fingers weave into the hair at my nape. I struggle with him until I can't. He tugs me close and not a streak of humor shows on his face. He kisses rigid lips. His smooth-shaven face is different at the touch. I'm transported back to eighteen.

I turn my head as much as I can. His warmth at my neck. I try not to cry with the aching memories.

"You should've tried harder if you didn't want to be found," he says of my weak attempt. "I gave you time."

I roll my eyes hating myself. Then they drift closed at their own accord when I'm pressed to him like this.

"I missed you. You missed me?" He tugs on my hair to look at him. "All I remember is you, bare, in bed, for me."

"All I remember is my mother crying, pleading for me to leave you."

His eyes hop-skip over mine. He lets go of me.

He runs a hand around his neck, looks out at the street. There are some men out there, waiting for him. Wherever he goes, they go.

"There's a … complication. It's why I came. I figured you didn't want to see me, but I wanted to know you were safe." He looks back.

"Safe from what, exactly? What kind of mess have you gotten me into now?" I cross my arms over my chest.

He shakes his head. "Nothing you should ever be concerned about."

I'm sick of this vagueness. Always a secret with him. "Cut the shit. I'm not eighteen anymore. What's happening?"

His lip lifts from a corner. "Trust me; it never stopped you when you were eighteen either." He observes me like he's remembering. "Aren't you just as curious as I am to know who was sent to kill me at the house? I could have died in your arms, softly choking on your name."

Dramatic.

I motion a frown and a shrug. "How do I know you didn't deserve it? Edward Cullen Jr. at large for committing all kinds of heinous crimes. Maybe I should've helped."

His eyes narrow.

"Maybe," he says. "One day I'll let you do it. It's what you want, isn't it?"

"It has crossed my mind a few times." He can't help but let that suppressed grin show.

We stand here, but it's far from idle. I feel the energy, pulse after pulse; him wanting to pounce. He licks his lips, I look at that.

"Follow me, right now. I'll show you what's happening," he challenges. "You can be my right hand again." He pauses, and then he smiles menacingly. "My right hand in all aspects, really."

My stomach seems to knot.

Again?

What does that mean?

He looks away, at his feet when he sees the questions in my eyes. He patronizes, but he stops himself. Out of guilt? I don't know. I can't read him like I used to.

"Oh, don't stop now." I challenge right back.

He turns to snap the lapels of his jacket straight. He tugs on a sleeve and keeps his eyes on his own reflection.

I hate, so very much, how appealing he looks. From memory, those shoulders have broadened, that chest has filled out and those hands that held mine so closely look stronger.

He's grown, and so have I. Don't we look like a pair as the reflection shows us standing side by side.

His eyes smolder.

I move away.

"Why do you still do this? This exhausting switch? After all these years, is it even relevant?" I ask. I'm curious. He's always alone. He hides. He schemes, and that's his life. "Don't you ever want something honest?"

He stares. And just when I think he'll leave untold answers, he curls his arm around my waist. "You and me, far away. I'll build a boat, a house, put some babies inside you. I'd leave it all. Say the word."

I'm disarmed again. His words; the same as the first night I remembered everything.

I slip off his hold and stagger back.

Sue pushes out a rack of suits, every one of them with his measurements on them.

He watches me from over her shoulder. He pulls off the marked-up suit. Sue is frantically apologetic as the pins have stuck to him in places.

He never complained about the pain, just his eagerness to be close. The price he'd pay. He's been through far worse.

He pulls on his dark shades and steps out of the shop with one last look my way. And the way he looks is deadly.

And I wonder—as he leaves with a new suit hugging him like a glove, new shoes, and a new identity—how honest is he these days? Has the insanity leaked into his real life? But then, which is his real life; the one back at the house or the one here?

At least, for today, I push the anger away and soak in this overwhelming feeling of wonder over everything he just said.

I don't see him for weeks.

. .

. .