A/N: Thanks so much for all your wonderful thoughts! Ready for more?

Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to me. All mistakes are mine.


The End in Three Parts.

Part I: This Time Around, We Communicated – Continued.

OOOOO

Chapter 22 – Improved Communication Skills

October 4 – 7, 2024 – Los Angeles, California

BELLA

The next couple of days with Chef Mike, or Chef LimpDick, as I now called him in my head, were grueling, to say the least. This wasn't due merely to Chef's resentful glares and snide comments, which he delivered regularly in what I now undoubtedly knew to be a phony accent, but because I now knew he was a complete fraud. Chef LimpDick was one of those quasi-talented individuals who didn't know how to succeed on their own merits and, therefore, lied, cheated, and stole their way to the top. As a result, every time his fraudulent house of cards was threatened via a questionable dish, a failed partnership, or a few memes questioning his virility, he panicked and threw a temper tantrum. Curiously, those he raged the most against happened to be the very ones who might've been able to help him steady that house. Unfortunately, rather than accept their assistance, he kept building over quicksand.

However, that wasn't the only reason I found it challenging to deal with Michael Newton over the next few days. Other parts of that same conversation I had with Edward that evening kept dancing in my memory. These parts replayed throughout the days in one long, continuous loop, like sparkly garland decorating a less-than-jolly perimeter.

'I loved everything about her…her intelligence…her perfect spirals brushing against my skin…her eyes…her plump lips…I still wake up drenched in sweat…dreaming of everything that mouth did to me…her body…always so receptive to my touch…you were my world, physically…emotionally…what I felt was transcendent…thank God you're the woman who's grown out of her…I won't have to merely fantasize…because if I love-lusted her…'

On my last day on the job with Chef Michel, Ben Cheney shook my hand and thanked me profusely. Despite my dislike of Michael, I'd remained professional and imparted as much as possible on the art of food styling to him beyond mere advice on the dish that got him in trouble. How much of my expertise he was willing to use to improve his expertise was up to him.

As Ben kindly offered to comp my party and me whenever we next found ourselves in L.A., I acknowledged the generosity of the offer, if not my actual intent to act on it. It was then that Chef himself sidled up to me. He took one of my hands, sandwiching it between his two clammy ones. Then he treated me to a final round of his shitty accent and poorly disguised passive aggressiveness.

"My-ee dear Meez Swahn, I am soh sadeened tew see yuh guh. I dew soh hohp yuh keen tehk us up ohn my-ee pahtnih's offuh and visit us suhn with yoouh fahmehleh. Oh! Weht! Yew duhn't haf a fahmehleh, dew yuh? I behleev I huhrd yew were deevorced? Perhaps eet ees why yew hav soh much time tuh deevoht to your leetle food deesign hobby," he finished with a smirk.

I held his gaze blankly for a moment, then pulled my hand out from between his beefy ones, none-too-discreetly wiping it off on my slacks.

"Chef, although you're right about my divorce, I hope you realize that hardly equates to lacking a family. As for my hobby…"

I meant to snap back something about my hobby being how his reputation would be salvaged. Instead, as I took in this sad, envious, quasi-talented man, I realized that he and his insults weren't worth my aggravation, much less my free time. I'd done my job to the best of my abilities and received fair compensation. The rest was up to him. Unfortunately, Chef had spent his entire career glaring outward instead of focusing inward and measuring himself up to other chefs around him. His problem wasn't with me. It was with himself.

Turning back to Chef Michel's partner, now red-faced and squirming, I wished Ben luck and pivoted to the door.

"Useless, overpaid witch."

Ben gasped.

Wearing a grin, I spun back to Michael. "Boy, your accent really ebbs and flows as sharply as your popularity levels. It was nowhere to be found right then," I said, waving a hand in a circular motion in front of his face and chuckling. "Though your weak voice left me unsure about whether you used a 'w' or a 'b' on that last word, I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and happily claim witch." I shot him a thumbs-up.

He looked down his nose at me and scoffed.

"By the way, Chef, I've been meaning to tell you, I think you've met my boyfriend."

"Meez Swahn, I seenseerely dowuut I ehm akoo-ented with anee boofriend ahf yoouhs."

"Oh, you're not wrong there," I snorted. "I never said 'acquainted.' Acquainted is way too familiar a word for how negligible your familiarity with my boyfriend once was. From what Edward's told me," I said, languidly stepping closer, "your phony claims that he was your buddy opened up some impressive doors for you. Too bad your big mouth kept getting those doors shut right back in your face."

Chef frowned darkly, crossing his arms against his beefy chest. Haughty indignation swelled in his blusterous posture. But though his nose remained high in the air, I noted the apprehension flickering in his beady gaze.

"Edward? Edward…who?"

I leaned in close and enunciated clearly. "Cullen. Edward Cullen."

Chef's breath hitched audibly, and he pulled back quickly, his beady eyes bulging. "Edward Cullen? You don't know Edward Cullen!" he challenged in horror, so out of sorts that he again forgot his accent.

"Oh, I know him all right," I grinned. "I know him very well. Intimately. Why would I name-drop him if I didn't know him? That would be hugely presumptuous and massively asshole-ish of me."

Chef Mike swallowed thickly, his face as crimson and swollen as one of those beefsteak tomatoes he could never plate just right. His flaccid arms had gone slack and fallen heavily to his sides.

"I…"

"Here's some advice, Mike- Wait, can I call you Mike? I'm sure I can. It is your name, after all. Anyway, Mike, here's some free advice, and I won't even charge you. Ready?"

"I…"

"Keep or quit the phony accent; it doesn't make much difference. Everyone knows it's fake, anyway. What I suggest you do quit is being a huge dickhead. Then maybe people won't get such a kick out of comparing you and your food to flaccid penises and saying you're compensating. Maybe then, you'll finally be taken seriously in your field. Okay, that's it. Take care, Mike. Say hi to Boise for me next time you're back home."

OOOOO

Edward laughed hard that night when I told him about my final interaction with Chef Michel.

"Man, I wish I could've seen that," he said for about the fourth time during the call, humor lingering in his voice. "Though had I been there when he called you a useless…" he trailed off, growling deep in his throat, and all amusement evaporated, "I probably would've put him through the nearest wall. So, maybe it's a good thing I wasn't there."

"My hero," I said in a sing-song voice.

"Shut up," he chuckled.

We had a great call. Not that all our calls weren't great, but this one ended unlike any Facetime call I'd ever been on.

It was bound to happen. By then, we had a routine where our nightly last call, as opposed to the bar's last call, occurred once Edward arrived home in the early morning hours, which was about four a.m. his time. This was usually about one in the morning in my time zone. With the day behind us, these calls were typically our best ones. Despite the late hour and our mutual exhaustion, our last nightly call was never quick. In fact, they ended only when one of us began mumbling incoherently, half asleep.

This particular night, neither of us was sleepy.

"Iz, do you think…" Edward began in a whisper. He was in bed; his back was pressed against the bedframe, and his laptop was flanked by long legs spread and bent at the knees. The soles of his size twelve feet dug into the plush comforter. He'd showered before making the call, washing off the long night along with what I imagined was the scent of liquor and popcorn. Amusingly enough, recalling that scent made me nostalgic.

Now, Edward sat in his boxers, strands of copper-penny hair curtaining his forehead in damp, wavy tendrils that gleamed in the bedside lamp's soft lighting. Once again, he looked younger than his age, his posture and the laptop's position granting me a great view of his torso—cut abs and solid pecs, muscular limbs, and the dark ink on his right bicep. Every time he shifted around, the tendons of his thighs' quadriceps flexed.

I was in my hotel bed. In a a black tank top and comfy yoga shorts that served as pajamas, I lay on my side and rested my head on the pillow, my legs folded at the knees. The laptop sat on the empty side of the bed—where Edward would've been if life had been fair.

No, that wasn't wholly accurate. We'd found one another again after nineteen years. I couldn't shit-talk Life too severely. Blinking out of my distraction, I followed Edward's train of thought.

"Do you think…that if Facetime, video calls, and all these modern forms of communication existed back then, we would've broken up?"

A wistful smile flipped up the corners of my mouth. "I don't know, Edward," I whispered back. After a handful of seconds, I added, "Honestly, I think that even if we could've seen one another every night on a screen, the way we do now, Facetimed and Instagrammed and Snapchatted all day, every day, the root of our issues would've remained."

"Communication."

"Yeah," I agreed with a sigh. "We would've had multiple forms of communication, yet we would've still lacked communication skills."

"We've been communicating really well lately."

"We have," I acknowledged. Then I sat up. "So…let's test our improved communication skills."

Edward's brow shot up. "With?"

"Remind me why…"

"Why?" he prompted.

"Remind me why we thought it was a good idea not to sleep together while I was in New York?"

Edward's head jerked back and hit the headrest with a thump.

Clapping my hands, I laughed and laughed. Meanwhile, he released a long breath, his darkened gaze drinking me in. Then he spread his palms over his thighs and raked them back and forth as if he were suddenly consumed by nervous energy.

Frankly, I knew the answer to my question. The few days we spent in New York after my fortieth birthday were dedicated to reconnecting emotionally, learning to talk to one another again, or rather, learning to talk with one another in the first place, to communicate in a way we'd struggled with as young adults. We held lengthy conversations, some infused with adrenaline and excitement that left us hyper for the future. While some of our discussions left us spent, though relieved too, like overdue bills marked 'paid,' we could then crumple up and hoop-shoot into a garbage bin.

So, yes, our short time in New York was very well spent, even if we were both semi-heartbroken at its end. This was a different sort of heartbreak. This was due to being separated from the one you loved and who you just discovered still loved you too, all while confident that, this time, you'd be reunited and on the right track.

But no, we hadn't slept together. That wasn't to say we hadn't fooled around. We had lunches and dinners out, walked the city streets, spent the evenings at The Last Call, and then laid in bed alternating between talking, kissing, touching, and sleeping – actual sleeping, into the early hours of the morning. Yet, that's as far as it went.

Edward finally replied in a low and somewhat shaky voice. "We'd agreed not to rush things and…I didn't want to overwhelm you by trying to fit how much I've missed you, in every way, over the past two decades into a box the size of a few days. I didn't want to ruin our second chance."

I nodded slowly. "This second chance is special."

"It is," he agreed. Peripherally, I noted he'd stopped raking his palms against his thighs. Now, his fingers dug into his barely yielding skin.

"But…" I qualified, "maybe this second chance isn't as fragile as we both feared it those first few days in New York. After all, not everything special is delicate."

"Also true," he replied in his raspy voice.

I tilted my head. "So what should we do about that, considering we're on opposite coasts, and that fact won't change for another few days?"

Throwing back his head, he banged it repeatedly against the bedframe and groaned.

"Edward, stop!" I laughed again. "Maybe I shouldn't have brought up this particular topic just now. Let's change the subject."

He ceased risking a head injury in favor of meeting my eyes through our screens.

"Oh, no, no, no, Miss Swan. You can't shut that topic down now. We're both creative individuals." His voice was low and husky, and he stroked his knuckles against his jawline speculatively while an undeniably wolfish grin spread across his handsome face. Allowing his gaze to drink me in openly, Edward made no attempt to disguise what, just a couple of days earlier, he'd termed love-lust. "Maybe we can improvise since we're communicating so damn well."

My heart jolted. "Improvise how?"

His raspy voice sank deeper as he gazed at me through piercing eyes. "Well, we've been doing a good job of telling one another how much we miss the other. But I've heard rumors that, between two grown, consenting adults, Facetime can also be good for showing how much we miss each other."

When he licked his lips, my lower stomach muscles contracted. I nudged the laptop further away from me. Edward, however, misconstrued the action. His eyes widened.

"Iz, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable-"

"Shh." I shook my head. "I'm not uncomfortable." He quieted, though he still appeared wary – that is until I reached down and curled my hands around the hem of my tank top. Lifting off the tank top, I discarded it with an exaggerated flourish.

"Ta-da," I chuckled.

Edward ceased blinking. In truth, I wasn't sure he was still breathing. His emerald gaze remained locked on mine for a few moments, but as his chest expanded and he released a long breath through narrowed lips, his gaze pitched downward along with his voice.

"God. God, Izzy," he said hoarsely. "They're even more perfect than I remembered them."

"You don't have to say that," I joked.

Edward's eyes climbed back up to mine. "Why shouldn't I say it if it's the truth?" His gaze ducked back down. "God, I wish I could reach through the screen and…"

"And?" I prompted breathlessly, but it wasn't intentional, not meant to be seductive. It was because I could barely breathe through the thrill. Leaning back, I supported my weight on a palm spread atop the mattress. "Tell me your truth, Edward."

Edward's large hands ran a continuous gamut as if he could barely control them, opening wide as if they'd been electrocuted, then squeezing into tight fists. He swallowed, his reply erupting in a rough whisper.

"I wish I could reach through the screen and feel their bouncy weight in my palms. Mold them," he breathed. "You used to like that."

"I did," I whispered.

"I'd wrap my mouth around one, then run my tongue across to the other, licking you the way that used to make you-"

"Jey-sus, Edward."

"Too much?" he asked sheepishly.

I felt flushed, hot prickles of sensation spreading over my chest and beyond. I shook my head.

Edward chuckled. "You asked for my truth. That's the truth. That's what I'd do."

I drew courage from his words, from his reaction to me, and I pressed a palm against my stomach, skimming downward, where I toyed with the elastic hem of my shorts.

Edward sucked in a sharp breath, hissing through his teeth. "Don't tease me, Izzy. I've been ready to explode for days now."

"Would I tease you?"

He quirked a brow.

"I'm not teasing," I chuckled.

"All right, then." With much less preamble than me, Edward balanced a palm on the mattress. Quickly lifting his hips, he yanked off his boxers and discarded them carelessly. He then resumed resting his back against the bed's frame, his legs spread wide with the laptop between them.

My heart slammed against my ribcage at the undeniably arousing sight. Considering everything Edward and I did together in our youth – and we did quite a bit – we never did this, not through a video screen, not something that kept our eyes there. Continuously. Video sex wasn't really a thing when we were together back then; at least, it wasn't widespread. I exhaled a series of shaky breaths.

"Anxious, are we?" I guess I was sort of teasing him.

"Take your panties off," he said in a gruff tone that sent a scorching flash of heat through me. Lifting my hips, I peeled off the last piece of fabric on me, any trace of self-consciousness I might've felt melted off by the flames dancing in Edward's gaze. Setting the flimsy piece of clothing aside, I leaned back again and resumed my position.

"Izzy. God," Edward said. In any other setting, his staggered expression may have been mistaken for pain or fury, his fiery glare under a creased brow and above flaring nostrils misread.

I knew it was neither fury nor pain hardening his features. He shook his head lazily as if he couldn't believe his eyes. And…when he stroked himself, back and forth and back, every last muscle in my body clenched and tightened, readying for release.

A jittery chuckle escaped me.

Edward smirked and stopped. "Not the reaction I was hoping for."

"I'm sorry," I apologized, laughing. "I swear I'm impressed. I just can't believe we're doing this. It feels so…raw."

"Raw good or raw bad? Iz, if you don't want to-"

"Raw delicious, and if you don't pick up right where you just left off, I swear I'm gonna reach through this screen and put you in a chokehold."

He shot me a lascivious grin. "If you choke the right head, I'll have no complaints."

We laughed together this time – exhilarated, overexcited, and highly aroused. Edward resumed his actions, his voice almost a growl when he spoke.

"Iz, show me how much you've missed me. Tell me your truths."

As Edward's East Coast sky went from black to mauve, and the West Coast city at my back twinkled with celestial and flesh-and-blood stars, Edward and I communicated the overpowering strength of our desire and our enduring love-lust for one another.


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