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ten
i forgot that you existed
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"Bella?"

I look up from my phone to see Edward standing beside my table.

I'm so caught off guard that my phone flies out of my hand and lands on the concrete.

He leans over to pick it up, holding it out to me.

"I guess it's a good thing it was already cracked," he says.

I take my phone from him, unable to look away from his face.

His eyes delightfully spark. "Hi."

"Hi?" It comes out like a question.

I've only taken off two weeks from watching him, but he looks different today. Scruffier than normal jaw and cheeks, dressed in a black T-shirt, worn jeans, and a baseball cap.

He also has a new accessory accompanying him today—a brace on his left wrist.

"Long time, no see," he jokes.

"Um…"

I can't think. I'm not used to being caught off guard like this. Other than watching him from afar, I've orchestrated the only other time his eyes were on me.

I'm out of my element right now.

I fucking hate it.

I'm also pissed I didn't take more than ten minutes to get ready today. I'm in a relaxed black blazer and nice jeans, and my hair is pulled back into a low bun so I'm not a total slob. But I'm not nearly as done up as I was weeks ago when he saw me. Today, only tinted moisturizer, a little mascara, and lip gloss grace my face.

"Can I sit?" he asks as the barista calls out my name. I start to stand, desperate to get away, but he shakes his head. "I got it."

I'm glued to my seat, watching as he walks back inside to grab my order. He says something to the barista, which must make her fucking year from the way she beams at him.

God. Either he's a barista whisperer or she's desperate.

Then again, I can't talk about desperation. I took off my top in front of him and the fucker didn't even ask for my number.

He returns to the table carrying a drink holder that has two paper cups and two pastry bags nestled on the empty side of the to-go tray.

"Sorry, are you meeting someone?" he asks, sitting down anyway.

"Um. No. No, that's for my boss," I say, still wary of him approaching me out of nowhere.

"Ah. 'Cause you work around here, right? I remember you said that."

He's steering this interaction right now and I don't like it.

So I jerk the metaphorical wheel and guide us off the road and into a fucking ditch.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" I ask, feigning confusion.

His expression falls.

"You don't remember me, do you?" he asks.

"Should I?"

He doesn't hide his disappointment and I wonder how many times he's ever felt it. Probably not many.

"Our encounter was certainly brief but memorable…" he trails off. "At least, it was to me."

"It's not you, it's me," I say nonchalantly. "I was in an accident weeks ago, hit my head, and had some memory issues."

Concern floods his face now, his brows knitting together under the brim of his hat.

I genuinely laugh, unable to keep this charade for long. No way I'd be able to keep up fake amnesia on top of everything else I'm hiding. And fine, maybe I feel a bit mean joking around like this considering he saved my life and all.

"I'm sorry," I say. "Bad joke."

"Christ," he exhales, seemingly relieved. "Really bad joke. I'm not usually that gullible but head injuries aren't anything to fuck around with."

"Sorry," I say again. "I do remember you. Edward, the surgeon, right? The man who saved me."

Self-deprecation coats his tone. "Otherwise known as the man who ruined your top and gave you a concussion."

I wave off his addendum. "I went to the hospital like you suggested. I'm okay."

"Are you?" he asks with a sly smile. "Has your sense of humor always been this dark?"

I smile.

If only he knew.

"I've been thinking about you since that day. A lot, actually," he admits, and it's so damn satisfying to hear. "I'm glad to see you're okay."

"Are you okay? What's with the brace?"

"Ah, right." He holds it up. "Sprained the damn thing trying to save this woman who was jaywalking."

"I was an idiot that day," I say, offering my own self-deprecation because I'm still annoyed that even happened at all.

Edward chuckles politely. "Don't say that. Shit happens. Just happy you're okay."

A bird suddenly swoops overhead to land on the table beside us that has leftover pastry crumbs, and I yelp in surprise.

Bringing a palm to my chest, I feel stupid for my lame reaction. But between my irrational phobia of birds and Edward's sudden appearance, I'm on edge.

"Not a fan of birds?" Edward asks, reaching over to shoo it away with his hand.

"Not really. What other animal can swoop in with a weapon on their face and assault you?"

"Did you have a bad experience or something?"

"Other than being exposed to Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds at too young of an age? No. I keep my distance from them when I can." In his defense, he tries really hard not to smile. "You can laugh," I tell him. "It's fine."

"It's a little funny," he admits. "And a little cute."

I add "has a thing for damsels" to the mental list of things I know about him.

"So, do you have the day off or something?" I ask, curious why he's not in a suit, and why I'm seeing him at a later time.

"Not exactly," is all he says, not expanding. He hesitates, and I suddenly get the feeling he's nervous. "I have to admit, I, uh… I followed you here."

I'm caught off guard. "What?"

"I promise I'm not a creep, but—"

"That's exactly what a creep would say."

His lips press together in a small smile. "I saw you on the street, and I was curious about you. You said you worked around here, but I haven't seen you since that day weeks ago, so…"

Ah.

Maybe we're more alike than I originally thought. Not in the murdering sense, but maybe we share a morbid curiosity mentality.

"Well, I appreciate your honesty," I tell him, not the least bit deterred by his admission, considering how long I've watched him. "I do work around here."

"Where?" he asks.

I don't have time to weigh the pros and cons of telling him my place of employment. I could keep playing coy and withhold it from him, but I also don't want to be too standoffish. I do need him to be interested.

So I tell him the truth.

"I work at Quartz and Bone."

His eyes narrow and his brows pull together a bit like he's trying to place it. "I haven't heard of it."

"Well, I didn't think you had. The inside of your condo gave that away," I say without thinking, and immediately regret it.

He frowns, confused. "And what does that mean?"

"I'm an interior designer," I admit, guiltily.

"Ahh. So there was I, tending to you after I saved your life, and you were judging me in my own home," he accuses, but he doesn't look offended. He looks downright amused.

I chuckle, offering a modest smile that doesn't feel the least bit fake.

"Sorry. I promise I only judged a little," I say honestly. My phone buzzes with a text from Heidi, saying my nine o'clock canceled, but I still use it as an excuse to leave. "Speaking of work, I need to get going."

"Mind if I walk you there?" he asks, standing after I do. "Can't be too safe out here. Cars come out of nowhere. And don't even get me started on the birds."

"If I say no, are you going to follow me anyway?" I ask, instead of pointing out the irony that he thinks I'm safer with him.

He shakes his head, fighting a smile. "No. But I can't say I won't Google your place of employment after we part ways."

I mentally scour the website, but I know it doesn't have my last name anywhere or anything about me. The only contact information on there is a generic inquiry form that we use to connect with people who are serious about hiring us.

"And why would you do that?" I wonder.

"Because you're right, my place is a little stale and could use some help. Are you taking new clients?"

The idea that I'd have access to his home under the guise of working with him is tempting. He's making this too easy, and it almost feels like he's the one orchestrating this now. But if that's what it's gonna take, then I'll happily let him believe he's in charge here.

"I'm not taking new clients, but considering you saved my life, I guess I can make an exception," I say, grabbing the to-go tray and walking out with my very own stalker following behind me.