So sorry for the week delay. All I can say is that it took a lot for me not to pull this story from FFn the other day so instead of updating I kinda just had to disappear. I know that's not fair, and I promise I don't enjoy withholding chapters just because my brain is being a dummy. It's not the story that's the problem either, I'm (thankfully) writing just fine behind the scenes.

Anyway. Hope you enjoy the start of their date. xx

planetblue has a new story out called "The Water Bowl List." Go check it out!

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thirteen

the alchemy
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Before we walk into Edward's condo, he pauses, his hand on the doorknob.

"I need you to promise me one thing," he says.

He sounds so serious, his gaze intense.

"Promise you what?" I ask, a little timid because I'm unsure what he's going to request.

"That you won't judge my condo tonight."

"Oh, my God." I laugh, mostly out of relief, and his face splits into a grin.

"I'm serious. This is a date. I don't want you to think about work."

"Okay, okay. I won't. But I already told you that the space doesn't need much. The floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Sound do most of the work for you. We just need to utilize—"

"Bella." His brows raise. "No work."

I mime locking my lips and throwing away the key behind me to prove I'll stop. He breathes out a laugh and reaches past my shoulder to grab the pretend key, then mimes unlocking my lips and slipping the key into the pocket of his slacks.

It's oddly quirky. I'm so thrown off by his endearing move that my brain malfunctions for a second and I forget why we're here and what we're doing. Or maybe it's the wine. Yeah. It's probably the large glass of white wine that has me a little dazed.

It's not until he opens the door to his condo and says "after you" that I snap to it.

I walk in first.

The lighting is dim and inviting.

Soft, soulful music is playing.

Delicious aromas fill the air.

The table is set and candles are lit.

Fuck.

He's a player.

He has to be.

I doubt he has much time for dating with his busy schedule, but I'm sure the man has needs. I'd bet he's well-versed in seducing women to fulfill said needs.

That's obviously not happening with us tonight.

Or ever.

"Wow, charmer," I say, like I'm impressed. Because I guess I am.

"Too much?"

"No, no. Just right."

He points toward a sleek wine fridge and asks, "Red or white?"

"Neither. Do you have any whiskey?" He shakes his head and smiles at the floor. "What—you don't like whiskey?"

"Oh, I do. It's my poison of choice."

"Then what's with the smile? We need a stronger truth serum than wine," I explain, my words more honest than he knows.

"You just keep surprising me, that's all."

He moves toward the bar, and I set my clutch down on his white couch before leisurely making my way over to the window to admire the view. The sun set half an hour ago, so the sky's all burnt oranges and bruised purples, a blend of fading day and impending twilight.

As nice as the view is, I'm actually staring at Edward in the reflection. I watch how he inspects the liquor bottles, keeping a close eye to ensure he doesn't slip something into my glass.

My paranoia has less to do with him, and more that he's simply a man and I'm a woman and have to be careful about these things. If he wanted to pull something shady, I'm giving him the perfect opportunity with my back turned. He hums in approval when he finds whatever bottle he's looking for and fills two glasses, proving to be a decent person when he doesn't tamper with mine.

I turn around and he strides my way, handing me a glass.

When I reach for it, he doesn't let go right away.

I give him a playful, impatient look.

He smirks, giving in, but I get the feeling he likes my little flirtatious game.

"To truth serums," he toasts, raising his glass.

"To the truth," I amend, clinking mine against his before downing it like a shot.

Again, he's amused. "Thirsty?"

I shiver, but the warmth it leaves behind feels good.

He knocks his back, too, then gestures to indicate if I want another. I nod and he refills our glasses before we make our way to his couch.

My dress rides up my thigh a bit after I sit, and his eyes are on my legs for a beat before he politely looks away.

Slipping off my heels, I let them fall to the floor before tucking my legs beside me on his couch to get comfortable. Out of habit, I reach for my necklace, and like a moth to the flame, Edward's eyes follow the movement, watching as I toy with the chain.

I thought long and hard about wearing Rosalie's daffodil necklace. I weighed the pros and cons of seeing the familiarity in Edward's eyes, on the off chance he even remembered her necklace at all. But it felt too risky, so I switched it out for a different dainty chain.

"Can I make a suggestion?" he asks.

"That depends on what it is."

His fingers brush the back of my hand, the one that's holding the glass.

"This one is for sipping. Taking your time with," he murmurs. "Okay?"

He pulls his hand away, ending our brief contact, and I swirl the amber liquid around.

"Did I offend you by downing the first one?" I ask.

"Not at all. But the experience is better if you savor it."

His words hold a double entendre that I refuse to acknowledge.

"What whiskey is this, anyway?" I wonder. "I don't think I've ever had it."

"It's scotch. Specifically, the one my parents drank at their wedding."

Inwardly, I bristle at how sentimental that is before realizing it's probably one of his failproof classic moves that women fall for. It probably makes them feel special. Like they're different.

Outwardly, I smile—coy and flattered.

"Wow. Date one and we're already talking about weddings, huh?" I tease.

He chuckles but doesn't take the bait right away. Although I guess I'm not really sure where I wanted that conversation to go.

"I'm not opposed to getting all of the important stuff out in the open," he says after he takes a drink, surprising me. "How do you feel about it?"

"How do I feel about…"

"Marriage."

"Um…"

I've never felt vulnerable enough with anyone to get there. Would I enjoy the companionship? Sure. Would I love to have someone be a ride or die for me? Absolutely. But marriage is a concept that feels so far away, like something that happens to other deserving people. Not me.

And don't get me started on what happens once you do find someone special. The idea that they could be taken from you at any instant—whether it be death, disease, divorce, or disappearance—is too much.

I'd rather be alone than deal with more loss.

Instead of saying all of that and scaring him away, I reach for the pocket of his slacks, looking for that pretend key he took from me, and locking my lips.

His expression is a kaleidoscope of emotions that range from confusion that I'm touching his pants, to curiosity, then full-on amusement when he realizes what I'm doing.

He laughs deeply.

It warms me.

I mean, the sentimental scotch warms me.

"Okay, fine, you don't have to answer that," he amends. "We can save the marriage talk for date five."

I unlock my lips and lay the pretend key on his coffee table.

"You think there's going to be a date five?" I ask, genuinely curious. I mean, I know I'm going to do everything in my power to keep him interested as long as I can. But obviously, it makes my life easier if he's already thinking long-term. Less work for me.

"Yeah. Why wouldn't there be a fifth date?"

"Well, typically there has to be a second, third, and fourth date before there's a fifth," I point out.

"Oh, is that how it works?" he asks, poking fun, his eyes bright.

I laugh. "Shut up. Yes."

"Numerical order aside, I'm failing to see why you think we wouldn't make it to a fifth date." He's watching me too closely, then adds, "Wait, have you never been on five dates with the same person? Ever?"

What an annoyingly perceptive man.

I sigh. "Listen—"

He laughs, eyes squinting. "Oh, I'm listening. Go on."

"Dating sucks."

Another deep laugh before he says, "I don't disagree."

"First dates are a ruse. A lie! It's just people wearing masks and offering perfect answers to impress. Second dates you're still on your best behavior but you can let your guard down a little. This is where most dates tend to overdrink."

"Says the woman who downed the scotch I gave her like a shot on a first date," he quips, smirking.

"Fair. But none of this applies to us. You and I are different."

He looks intrigued. "Different how?"

"Our circumstances are different," I say vaguely. "The way we met. All of the standard dating rules and etiquette are off the table."

"Like…"

"Not waiting three days to call or text after exchanging numbers. And typically, a first date should always happen in public. One should never be caught dead at a stranger's place. Yet here I am."

He smirks at my reasoning. Everything about him is lazy, casual, cool. He sinks lower on the couch, relaxed.

"So, dates three and four. Tell me the lore about those," he suggests, indulging me.

"Okay, well date three is where you're a bit more comfortable. Maybe you finally go to their place."

"So for reference, since you're at my place for date one, you and I are technically on date three?" he asks so earnestly it makes my chest squeeze. "Sorry, just trying to make sure I'm following."

"Sure, I guess that math works out," I agree. "On date three, you might think you're seeing the real them, but they probably cleaned the fuck out of their place to impress you, so it's still just smoke and mirrors."

"Cute theory, but I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing. You can't tell me if you walked in here and I was a slob that you'd be eager to go out again."

I fight a smile, surprised he's still entertaining me with this. His playful chattiness makes me think he's feeling toasty like I am from the booze.

"I think I'd appreciate knowing up front what I'm getting myself into. But you don't strike me as a slob anyway. I mean, you're a surgeon. Isn't there some level of organization and cleanliness that comes along with that?"

"Yeah. I'm pretty clean, but maybe that's just a side effect of not being home that often. Oh, and I have a housekeeper."

"Of course, you do," I chuckle. "A driver, a housekeeper. You're just a regular ole Bruce Wayne, huh?"

He takes a healthy gulp from his glass. "Unfortunately in some ways, I guess I am similar to Batman."

I might be reading into it, but he doesn't look thrilled when he says it.

It's intriguing.

"Well, I don't know much about Batman other than he's wealthy and saves people. It seems you do well for yourself and you saved me from getting hit by that car," I say softly, an opening to learn more about him.

"Just because I saved you, doesn't mean I'm the good guy."

His coded words hang in the air.

Something darkens in his gaze, but for some reason, I'm not scared. Maybe because his eyes hold a certain sadness. It's not necessarily threatening.

"That's interesting. What makes you think you're not a good guy?" I murmur, but he doesn't take the bait to share more about himself. "Okay, well I guess it's up to me to decide if that's true or not."

"Good luck with that."

"I don't need luck. I'm great at reading people," I say confidently, earning myself a small smile from him. "Anyway. What were we talking about again?"

"Dates and why making it to number five isn't likely," he answers, looking relieved to shift topics. "You'd just finished talking about date three."

"Ahh, yes. So, date four is when you really know if you like the other person or not because you've spent a decent amount of time with them. You're either excited or dreading it. And in my experience, I always dread it."

"And how do they feel about you?"

"Oh, they're enamored," I joke. "When they learn date five isn't happening there are tears, begging, and pleading for another."

He breathes out a laugh, loosening up again. "So, you're a heartbreaker, huh? I'm screwed."

"Ugh, no. I'm kidding. The feeling—or lack thereof—is typically mutual. Neither party is looking to continue dating. Such is life."

He drinks from his glass, keeping heavy eye contact, then asks, "And where does kissing fall in this theory?"

"What do you mean?"

"I assume a first kiss happens somewhere in all of that. I'm just unsure if it's during date one or two."

"That's more subjective," I tell him, my heart racing a bit when his gaze bounces to my lips. "Chemistry and connection are different for everyone. So I can't say."

"Ah. Yeah. Makes sense," he agrees. "So with us—"

"Definitely zero chemistry or connection. In fact, I think I'll call it a night." I set my glass on his coffee table and start to stand, but he laughs and tugs on my hand so I sit back down.

When he touches me, a zing shoots from my fingertips to my lower stomach.

"That's not what I was going to ask," he says. "If this is technically a third date according to your calculations, we probably would've shared a kiss by now."

I swallow. "Maybe."

The image of a youthful Edward and vibrant Rosalie fills my mind. Her sliding into the front seat of his BMW, windows down before he leaned over for a kiss.

I'm stunned back to reality.

Grabbing my glass, I down the rest of my scotch, going against his suggestion to savor it.

It burns going down but not as badly as that memory.

"You also said the rules don't apply to us," Edward reminds me. "So kissing could fall anywhere on the spectrum. Like date one. Hour one. Or… date five."

"Well, I'm single and talk a lot of shit, too," I insist. "So don't listen to anything I have to say about relationships."

He laughs softly, his voice low when he speaks. "I don't know, I enjoyed listening to your little dating rant." A timer goes off and his attention is diverted from me. "Dinner's ready. Are you hungry?"

Thankful for the distraction, I lean in and say, "Starving."