..::.. Chapter 27 - Training Day ..::..

Present ...

I awake and then I remember. I look down. Naked. The pillows all sprawled. I see one of my fluffy socks hanging off the edge of the bed, right over his shirt.

He whistles a Sinatra tune, and I silently cry wondering how I let the insane neighbor into my apartment this time. I bury my face in the pillow I'm betting he used, because it smells of him.

I find myself smothered in it for far too long. I tear it away.

How did I go from wanting to slice his neck to holding on to it while I—?

I cringe. I wipe at my cheeks.

He whistles, and it rings too sharply in my ears.

His bare feet pad on my kitchen linoleum. The spatula hits the pan one too many times.

Is he seriously cooking? I look over my shoulder. He looks over.

Wink.

He turns to the stove in nothing but my apron. His ass bare, and that dip to his back, the dimples? I dug my nails into those.

My heart pounds.

I get so angry. I was disarmed completely. Memories gripped me and ruined the empowerment and grit I was trying to build going into this deal. Now he'll look at me and all he'll see is … what we did.

Something sizzles in a pan. At my stove. Mine. He takes over that and anything I own, anywhere I go. Back at the house and now here.

"Get out," I say. It comes right out.

He continues whistling.

"I said leave," I say more loudly.

He looks over. He turns back to his task without a word.

I get out of bed. I charge toward the kitchen. "You come here, and you manipulate me! I'm not one of your fucking clients."

"Sure you are," he finally says. "This is how I seal all my deals. Well …" He pauses to think. "Definitely not all night. One fuck usually does it. And they certainly don't come all over me." He winks at me again.

I grab a plate from the setup he put together at the table and throw it. It clatters by the cabinets at his legs.

"Take your shit and leave." I point at the door.

He tilts his head at the plate. His eyes darken. Now he's pissed.

He tosses the spatula onto the stove and pulls off the apron. And maybe I shouldn't have pushed. He's bare, and this sight really isn't what it used to be. He's gorgeous, and more and—

I look away.

"Come here," he says. His fingers curl, beckoning, lips pale with anger.

I look from under my lashes. "You don't tell me what to do, and certainly not in my house."

"As of last night, when you said you wanted in and fucked all over me, it's not up to you anymore. It's training day, and I'm boss," he says sharply, pointing at his chest. "Come here."

I cringe.

I did do that. And even when we were soapy and rinsed each other off in the shower, and fell back in bed, I initiated another round of … tragedy. I was eighteen again, and his fingers at my lips are all I remembered.

I bite my tongue and humor him. I get close to the cabinets, but not close enough to him. He reaches out and yanks me, leaving the sheets I dragged here pooling at our feet. He tugs my arms around his back securely and makes me make two fists. Locked in.

I take him in, my front pressed to his. And that pillow had nothing on it compared to this proximity. I try not to take a long and deep consuming breath, and definitely not nose to chest.

He brushes my hair back off my face, runs his hands where he likes.

"Now, how do you politely greet someone in the morning?"

He waits.

"Good morning," I say tightly.

"That's right. And what do you say to someone who has slaved over the stove all morning while you snored your little nose away." He bops said nose with a finger. I glare. "Who, by the way, had to send out for eggs and bread because your irresponsible self ran out and didn't fetch more for your guest. What do you say to that?" I feel his hands on my ass.

I look around. Bacon and sausage links are sizzling. There's artisan bread in the oven and eggs Benedict on plates with that cream sauce you pour over it that I love so much.

"Sent out for some …? Who the hell came in here?"

He spanks me back to focus. "What do you say?" he says, running a hand there.

"Thank you."

"I'm sorry, what was that?" He turns his ear a hair away from my lips. I could easily bite it off.

But I don't.

"I said thank you … for the excessiveness."

"See? That wasn't so difficult, was it?" He kisses me hard. "I could cut that smart tongue of yours," he says against my lips and puckers again. "Go get the plate you rudely threw at me and come sit and eat with me." He nudges me toward it. "It's the first morning I get to cook for my favorite girl." He grins.

I'm quietly devastated inside, but he isn't. He's cool as a cucumber. I'm halfway through my Benedict, and he's tucked over the Sunday paper, a fork in one hand awaiting his mouth, and all of this transpires with a toned bare chest that goes up and down with his easy breathing.

He flips the fork on its side and cuts a perfectly shaped bite. He stabs a chunk of sausage and stacks it all in a neat wedge of tomato. The cucumber he drizzled in olive oil and seasonings caps it off. He pops all of that into his mouth and hums just faintly.

That quite literally goes straight up my thighs.

And it pisses me off.

I watch the lines of his jaw as they get going. And it all finishes off with a terribly sensual bob of his throat as he swallows.

He flips the pages, looks around. Scratches a pec with a thumb and reaches for his glass of orange juice I definitely didn't have in the fridge.

I do remember Sundays being his fresh start. I wonder if they still are.

He's so much. Too much. He takes up the entire room by simply existing. The memories flash behind my lids, and it's definitely the same boy I fell head over heels for, but the boy grew up. He had experiences, trials, and struggles. Saw through bloodshed, and all the impossible things one could never fathom. And he came out of it unscathed. He sits here, by me, and it's probably nothing short of a miracle.

Except, I never expected to be this muddled around him. Better yet, I never knew this intensity existed. I never felt it with any of my exes.

He reaches over and stabs more food to go on my plate.

"Eat. We have to leave soon."

"Where?"

He doesn't answer but takes another bite. I sigh and eat everything on my plate because frankly, it's all fucking delicious.

"Don't worry. I'll take you to bed before we shower and leave."

I straighten; the heel of my foot is still comfortably hooked to my chair like I always sit at my table, the bedsheet still loosely around me.

My table, my sheets, my place—and I lured him over.

"Excuse me? What the fuck gives you the entitlement over that choice?" I argue.

"You're staring," he says. "I can sense you want to. Definitely right over this table if given a chance. You're already wet, aren't you?" He flips his utensil and licks it, never once looking my way.

My mouth drops open. "I don't know what the fuck I ever saw in you. Self-righteous, vulgar piece of … " I jump.

Before I can finish, he reaches down to dip his hand under the sheets and aims between my legs. I gasp and bat him away.

His fingers come up glistening. "Here or on the bed?" he asks.

I'm speechless.

He calmly folds up the newspaper and neatly stacks the few empty plates in front of him. I'm quickly perched on the edge of the table before I can react.

I brace with arms behind me, and he's already nudging my legs open, pushing inside me.

"Ah!" My head dips back, and there goes my fight as I feel his teeth on my neck. And he moves like there's nowhere to go and we have all day.

I've never been so appalled—and turned on—in all my life. This feeling is alien.

We step out of my apartment, and two men greet us, standing by my door. They nod at Edward, who is now wearing a suit. Where did he get it? I give up asking myself. I just stared from my vanity the entire time he slipped something on and buttoned it up. My hands trembling on the buttons of my blouse. Not to mention how he walked over to hook my bra himself, before tucking into my shoulder. He took a long pull into his lungs and walked away to finish dressing. I just stared blankly at myself in the mirror. Screaming at my insides for letting all this happen.

Point is, his little helpers were standing here listening to everything we were doing.

I wipe the sudden perspiration off my neck out of shame. And then Edward holds my other hand.

I stop. I look down at that. So does he.

"I would say it could be worse, but we've already done worse. Don't you think?" He pulls on his shades, and walks, tugging me along.

Here's how this goes for the next several hours. I tag along, no one gives me a second look, but I'm included in all of the commutes, planning, and meetings. His 'clients' refer to Edward and me by name, before they continue their pitch for Edward's next endorsement.

This is how the Cullen's make their money. But as we sit in the back of a restaurant Edward owns—no customers in sight since we're by the kitchen—I figure this isn't the only way they make their money.

There's more, and he's holding back.

I lean close to his shoulder after a client leaves and ask, "This isn't everything, is it?"

He turns his eyes to me. Guards stand around, and everyone is quietly talking to themselves as they take the break.

"What do your uncles do? Do they work with you?"

He slowly shakes his head, like he's hesitating. "There are many divisions. They hire their own men for the jobs. They just report to me on progress."

I nod, thinking. It explains why he wouldn't know about Ben. Not that Edward would ever remember a detail like that. High school was long ago, and they were never in the same crowd of friends. I ease a little with that thought alone.

I stand, put on my jacket, and aim for the back door. Edward tenses, looking up at me. "Where are you going?"

"You know, I'm not here to be distracted with silly details about your work. I want to know what you really do. I want to see the gore and blood you all hide so much. The work you would never show your mother—God bless her soul—because I'm not sitting here to waste my precious Sunday on bullshit. So, I'm leaving. For dinner. A movie. Or a fucking manicure. I don't know. Anything sounds more entertaining than this."

At this point, everyone is quiet and listening. The few dings and clangs from the fully running kitchen are the only sounds around us.

Edward's jaw goes sharp, and if looks could broil limbs I'd be burnt coal in the oven.

His eyes cut to someone behind me and the door is suddenly blocked.

"Signore, una pasta con gamberetti, per favore," he says while watching me.

"Si, si," says the chef at the busy line. He's polishing off the dishes about to be served. He shouts the order, and it's an echo to the back of the kitchen as everyone repeats.

Edward taps on my vacant chair. "Sit."

I sigh, and I do, because right about now shrimp scampi sounds fucking delicious. It's not a restaurant I've been to because money and me not having much of it.

Edward leans in. "Just so you know, every detail is important. Not everything is gore and blood, Bella. Businesses and families depend on these meetings."

I snort. It comes out. I can't help it.

He glares.

"I'm sorry. It's just your concern over families and their needs is comical. I just can't see how they depend on loans that only bring more problems, a family who preys on the unfortunate. Then they're beaten half to death when they don't pay up on time, with more interest than any lender out there would have the heart to charge. And that's a corporate bank we're talking."

Edward shifts in his chair like he's all in and feigning interest. "And tell me, how do you think these banks get their money to lend, shuffle around, and make fair deals with customers?"

I'm silent. Apparently this family ... They're much wealthier than I thought.

"That's ridiculous," I say. He lifts an eyebrow challenging me.

"Times have changed since you were last … with us."

The plate of pasta is placed in front of us. A hefty mound of it and empty plates to serve. A waiter serves a portion to each of us.

"You hungry, you let me know next time instead of walking out," he says annoyed as he sips on a glass of wine.

I'm not hungry. Breakfast is still lingering … and everything that happened after. I was just trying to make a point. Now I'll just have to muscle through this and eat my entire portion and more, because, frankly, it's all fucking delicious.

Dammit, I forgot about the perks.

"Finish up your wine, and I'll show you gore and blood, Isabella Swan."

That just sounded alluring coming from his lips. I never knew words like those would bubble up excitement in my full belly.

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