A/N: Thanks so much for all your wonderful thoughts.

It's a tough week. Hope everyone is doing well or is, at the very least, safe.

These were originally two chapters, but I've combined them to get us closer to 'Complete.' :)

Chapter 20 – Office Christmas Party

In the morning, I stared at the ceiling again, now with two possibly related yet distinct men circling my mind.

In the middle of the night, Edward had flown into an object-throwing-and-shattering rage, which he claimed was prompted by frustration over the internet's limitations. Now, in the daylight hours, losing one's shit over the internet, as thoroughly as Edward did, still seemed a bit overreactive to me. I couldn't help wondering if there was more to it.

Then again, how often did many of us feel the urge to throw things, even more specifically, to slam our laptops against a wall? If we added to this wholly recognizable impulse the fact that Edward was still an internet novice, his reaction became more understandable. Maybe there was nothing more to it than that.

Sighing, I refocused my gaze on the white ceiling above. Like a projector, it replayed Edward's despondent expression and the misery clouding his gaze when I rushed into the kitchen a few hours earlier. I hoped he wasn't still upset—not because his anger frightened me, but because the expression etched on Edward's handsome features caused my heart to twist into knots.

Yet…

Despite my undeniable concern for him and my attempts to tame the butterflies tickling low in my belly, they fluttered wildly every time I remembered Edward's altered expression as his eyes roamed over me in that kitchen. Even at the height of his fury, there was something exhilaratingly…primeval, something possessive, in his darkened gaze.

It shouldn't have affected me how it had, how it still affected me this morning – with a thrill of shiver-inducing tremors. The empowered female in me, aware of how far we'd come since caveman days yet how far we still had to go, should've been above such an archaically cliché reaction. I should've been outraged when Edward's hungry eyes raked me over from the top of my disheveled hair to my red-polished toes.

But I wasn't outraged. Perhaps because I'd sensed more than lust lurking behind his scrutiny. Even as he'd lashed out in apparent disapproval at my choice of sleep clothes – or lack thereof – for a moment, his expression betrayed the opposite: an irrefutable appreciation.

No.

No, that wasn't right either. Edward's gaze pierced me with something more potent than indisputable desire but with a despondent longing. He took me in the way a vampire standing under a porch might gaze at his human love as she strolled under the sunrise – in other words, almost irresistibly tempted, yet hyper-aware of the train wreck that would ensue if he surrendered to his craving.

Hopelessness.

That was it; Edward's expression betrayed a deep-seated hopelessness. Maybe he, too, struggled with the fact that we had no future together.

In a roundabout way, this led my thoughts to the other man on my mind that morning.

If Tony was Edward's descendant, as I highly suspected he was, he sure hadn't inherited his ancestor's sacrificial chivalry. The guy had nerve; I'd give him that. Anyone familiar with hookup culture nowadays knew that reaching out in the early hours with a version of a 'what ya doin'?' text was tantamount to a booty call. What gave him the idea I'd be receptive to such an offer?

Sitting up in bed, I folded my legs and rubbed my temples, trying to stave off the headache all my thinking was threatening to bring on. I cocked my head to the side as I scanned the window's soothing view again. It was another snowy morning. Glittering flakes cascaded lazily over a winter wonderland already blanketed in ivory gauze. The serene landscape, only five days before Christmas, was calming, yes, and almost magical.

Magical.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe I'd become so accustomed, if not inured, to magic, to the supernatural, that my imagination saw things that weren't there, saw looks that weren't there. Maybe my whimsical feelings led me to misinterpret other feelings.

Perhaps, if we were to remove the enchanting elements surrounding me – the glamor of a snowy landscape a few days before Christmas, the mystique of a haunted house, and the intangibility of being in love with a man I couldn't have, I'd be left with…a ghost. A ghost who was captivating on many levels, yes, but one who wasn't seeing me through those brooding expressions that occasionally marked his features, but rather his long-dead girlfriend, Charlotte Gray.

Before all these thoughts could give me a migraine, I reached for my cell phone. I'd received a few texts already that morning. Among them was a short, to-the-point one from Rosalie Hale.

Good morning. Updates? Yes? No? Call me.

I snorted to myself. No one could ever say Rosalie Hale wasn't direct.

My parents had also texted me in our family group chat:

Morning, honey! No pressure, but with it only being 5 days 'til Christmas, Dad and I were wondering what the plans are. Call or text us! Love you!

Bells, you can come to us if your house isn't ready for company. Your mom and I know it needed a whole lot of expensive, time-consuming, account-draining work. And if it's taking longer than you thought it would to get the "good bones," as you called them, in working order, well, I don't want to say I told you so, but I did tell you so. Either way, we'd be happy to come to you for Christmas if you need my help with a never-ending to-do list – something else I warned you about. But you're fortunate that your old man's not a half-bad handyman, if I do say so myself.

Or let me know if you need me to put a contractor or two in their places. Those people tend to take advantage when they see a single woman. Bells, I hope you're remembering to always ask for references and to get more than one quote.

Jesus, Charlie, we're trying to see our daughter for the holidays, not have her block our messages and calls for the new year. Bella, honey, ignore absolutely everything your father just wrote. Again, no pressure, but call us to make Christmas plans.

"No pressure at all," I muttered.

With a sigh, I switched to Tony's texts. The heartrending acknowledgment that any true reciprocal feelings from Edward were in my head didn't change the fact that I meant to tell Tony off before the interruption by Edward's tantrum. Unrequited feelings or not, I wasn't about to get over one guy by getting under another – never mind the surplus ick factor of Tony's likely being an ancestor to the man in my heart.

I re-read the two-word text I'd managed to send out:

Tony, listen.

Unfortunately, it didn't convey much and could've been interpreted to mean anything. Tony sure seemed to think of them as words of encouragement. He'd waited a few minutes after receiving those two words before texting back: 'Bella?' When he received no reply, he texted: 'Did you fall asleep on me, pretty girl? All right. Get your beauty sleep – not that you need it. We'll pick this back up soon.'

"Ugh, no, we won't, dude." Rolling my eyes, I dropped my phone onto the mattress, then threw myself heavily back onto the mattress and covered my face with my hands. When I remembered that I would have to deal with Tony again, and soon, I groaned out loud.

"But not right now," I breathed.

OOOOO

When I opened my bedroom door, a sweet, maple scent wafted up my nostrils. Instantly awash in a wave of undeniable relief, I skipped down the stairs and rushed into the kitchen, my steps coming to a grinding halt as they did a few hours earlier.

But the scene that greeted me was wholly different.

If anyone had wandered into the kitchen unaware that this space bore the brunt of a ghost's fury a few hours ago, they would've been none the wiser. This morning, the kitchen glowed, warmed by a flood of natural daylight and the heat and scents of a stove in use. The winter sun's rays framed the tall, lean silhouette by the stove, illuminating him like an angel rather than the fiery wraith of the earliest hours.

Neither would anyone graced with the privilege of laying eyes on Edward ever suspect that he was a ghost – ethereal, intangible – unless he wanted them to know. All that unapprised eyes would see was the striking figure of an unbearably handsome man dressed in a spotless and immaculate three-piece suit while making breakfast as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

He must've heard my approach as I wasn't light-footed. Yet he continued at the stove with his back to me, his posture oozing casualness – shirt sleeves pushed up to his forearms and right hand dug deep in his pocket, with that same side hip jutted as his right leg supported most of his weight. His left hand held a spatula, flipping a pancake into the air with the ease of a pro, then plating it onto a serving dish with half a dozen or so pancakes already waiting. The stack released a swirl of steam into the air, and between its wafting scent and the surreal image of domestic serenity, my lungs constricted.

"Good morning, Miss Swan. Please go ahead and take your seat. These are almost ready."

Bewildered by the total and complete about-face of both man and kitchen, my steps to the table were much slower than my sprint down the stairs. I took my usual seat, before which were already laid out a plate, a juice glass, utensils, and a napkin. At the center of the table were a jar of maple syrup and a pitcher of what looked like freshly squeezed orange juice, the former woodsy and smooth, the latter pulpy and rich.

"There we go." He turned off the stove while the plate of pancakes simultaneously floated toward me, then settled mid-table without so much as a rattle. Finally, he pivoted, folding his arms across his chest as he leaned against the kitchen counter and offered me his signature half-smile. "Enjoy, Miss Swan."

My breaths stuttered in my chest as I picked up the napkin and set it across my lap, but I feigned the poise of someone accustomed to having a noncorporeal entity make her breakfast. Picking up my fork, I stabbed it into the pair of pancakes at the top of the stack and set them on my plate, speaking with the same bogus tone of insouciance.

"Thank you, but I hope this isn't another bribe because after what we discussed yesterday, I will find that insulting," I warned with an almost inflectionless air. "And though I do appreciate this…very, very much," I stressed now, my heart pounding as I poured syrup over the pancakes, "I'm beginning to wonder if you and I have differing definitions of the word acquaintances."

He made no reply, remaining in the periphery of my vision, if not of my focus, as I set down the syrup and kept my eyes on the bounty before me. I sensed more than saw his unnatural stillness. The only stirring around us was my heart, knocking furiously against my ribcage, its loud staccato ringing in my ears.

Retrieving my knife, I cut into my pancakes, cringing when the fork's tines scraped against the plate. I'd been slicing with too much gusto. Returning to my cool, calm, and collected act, I steadily set a forkful of pancakes into my mouth.

"See," I continued around the forkful, "in this day and age, while acquaintances who live together do occasionally do things for one another and keep in touch if they're going to be out late…"

I hesitated, chewing slowly and deliberately. My mind screamed at me to stop, to leave it alone because speaking the thought in my head carried the risk of ending even this much interaction with Edward. But the disconcerting confusion of his actions consistently contradicting his words threatened my sanity. Swallowing, I swept my gaze to the windows, cocking my head as I finished my thought aloud.

"Acquaintances don't gift one another priceless heirlooms. They don't greet one another with not one, but multiple home-made meals. Acquaintances are, in fact, so far removed from being actual friends that they don't care if acquaintances are all they'll ever be and therefore don't perform middle-of-the-night research that leaves them infuriated."

My breath caught silently when, in the next moment, Edward materialized at his usual seat across the table.

"Ahh," he nodded while methodically unrolling his sleeves and adjusting his cuffs. "I see. Miss Swan, perhaps you and I have been operating under different definitions of acquaintances."

I lifted another forkful of pancakes to my mouth, quirking a challenging eyebrow. His crooked grin faded into a much more sober, apologetic smile, and he leaned across the table. The heat that emanated off him as if he were flesh and blood confounded me almost as much as it seared through me.

"Bella," he whispered hoarsely, leaning across the table just enough to convey the sincerity of his next words. "I only said it'd be better if we remained acquaintances, not that I wanted it that way."

My hand and fork froze midair as my heart leaped into my throat, threatening to close it off so that my ensuing question was little more than a breath.

"So, what do you want, Edward?"

He opened his mouth, then shut it. His brow furrowed. When he finally replied, he tripped over his initial words in atypical ineloquence before recovering his fluency and finishing with a bobbing throat.

"I- I want to be f-f-friends, Bella. Of course, I want to be friends. You're an amazing person."

My heart, which had lodged in my throat, now shrank enough to dislodge. Instead, it plummeted into my stomach. I stuffed the forkful hovering in midair into my mouth and chewed…and chewed. But my mouth had gone dry, and trying to swallow my food and my bitter disappointment felt like pushing a watermelon through a needle's eye. I finally managed to gulp it all down, but it was another handful of seconds before I could speak, seconds that felt like an eternity.

"Okay. Cool."

Edward grimaced, then scrubbed a hand roughly up and down his face. He dropped it heavily onto the table, palm down, and shook his head.

"Damn it, I'm saying this all wrong. Bella, I am so, so sorry if I made you uncomfortable last night, not only with the entire outburst but then with my comments about your…your choice of sleep clothes. Even worse…"

When he ducked his head and squeezed his eyes shut, it almost looked like he were trying to wring an image from his mind. Reopening them, he glued his gaze to the stack of pancakes between us.

"Even worse was how I looked at you," he spat self-reproachfully. "What sort of friend does that, right? But it was a knee-jerk reaction." His eyes shot back up. "Not that it's a valid excuse, nor is the undeniable fact that you're an…" – he drew in a deep breath – "a beautiful woman. Because you're so much more than that. You're not just your body; you're your mind, and your heart, and-"

"All right, Edward, I get it. I get it." I rolled my eyes and threw a hand up, palm out, to stop the self-castigating diatribe of an enlightened man who was doing absolutely nothing to make me feel better. "You've become the epitome of a forward-thinking ally. I get it."

He frowned, his eyes still darkened by remorse and wariness.

"You're sorry you admired my body," I clarified succinctly.

He swallowed hard. "I am. I am because you deserve better from…from a friend." He edged just slightly closer, leveling me with his gaze. "And the breakfast is an apology, not a bribe. I know you don't need to be bribed into forgiveness, but you deserve to be thoroughly apologized to when you're wronged," he nodded.

"Well, you already apologized, ad nauseam. We don't need to harp on it. I don't feel wronged. These things happen. We're human, after all."

There was a note of bite in my tone, and when Edward jerked back in his seat, I feared I might've revealed the bitter disillusionment I meant to conceal. Until he spoke, and I realized what I'd thoughtlessly said.

"No. You are human."

"Regardless," I said briskly, stifling the urge to grimace at my verbal misstep. "The point is the same. We don't need to make something out of it if it meant nothing. Right?"

He held my gaze, his expression abruptly stoic and inscrutable. "Right."

"Okay, then. We're good."

The few short words felt heavy and thick and stuck to the lining of my throat like the syrup before me. I stabbed at another pancake piece, likely harder than necessary based on the fluffy concoction's morph into mush. All the while, I attempted to get a grip on my emotions, but it was a daunting endeavor when a massive part of me ached to throw a tantrum of my own. I'd show him how it was done; maybe I'd fling a gloppy piece of pancake at the walls – or his handsome, overly apologetic face.

This last mental image made me fight a smile despite my misery. I could imagine the twist of his features if I did such a thing – emerald eyes widened in shock while syrup dripped from his angular jaw and onto his immaculate three-piece suit.

Now, I did chuckle.

Observing me closely, Edward expelled a long and deep sigh, offering me a hesitant, sheepish smile. And the truth was…I couldn't be mad at him, not for trying to be a gentleman. And not when I only had myself to blame if I'd again misinterpreted his feelings.

"On the bright side," I smirked, forking another piece of pancake and pointing the fork his way before stuffing it in my mouth, "the past couple of days of fury and tantrums have helped you sharpen your culinary skills. Gordon Ramsey should watch out. Oh, Gordon Ramsey is-"

"He's a celebrity chef who often loses his temper, yes," Edward said, smirking in return. Despite his dry tone, I heard the relief framing his voice. "I came across him on the internet."

After a moment, we shared a rumble of laughter. As it faded, Edward skimmed a hand across the table. "Bella…" His fingers tapped forward gracefully and hypnotically, like his piano playing. Both sets of eyes remained transfixed by their approach.

When his hand pulled back, I met his eyes with a grin. I wouldn't get my hopes up anymore.

"Bella, you mean much more to me than a simple acquaintance."

"Which is why we've upped the relationship ante to friendship."

I sipped my orange juice, holding his stoic gaze over the glass's rim.

"I think with time and familiarity, it'll get easier to figure out how to navigate that chemical pull between us." He nodded with the vehemence of someone trying to convince a room full of flat-earthers that the planet was round.

"So, we should hope for a sort of 'familiarity breeds contempt' situation?"

"Now you're being mocking."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I said, chuckling, but the resulting ring sounded hollow even to my ears. "I was teasing. I'm glad, too, that we've moved on from acquaintances. Now, with time and familiarity, we'll settle into a breezy, tempered, and careful sort of friendship" – rather than acute, fiery, and profound love – "while remaining mindful of that chemical pull that can get us into trouble. That's what you mean, right?"

His shoulders rose and fell, and he released an audible breath that sounded peculiarly like dissatisfaction, even as he confirmed my understanding with a slight yet blunt correction.

"That chemical pull can get you into trouble, Miss Swan, but not me. I'm not human. I'm already dead. Other than that," he sighed and nodded once, "yes, that's what I meant."

I shot him a thumbs up, then changed the subject. I needed a distraction before I either burst into mortifying tears or did end up throwing pancakes at him, or more accurately, orange juice since my pancakes were done. Fortunately, I wouldn't be required to make up a flimsy diversion from heartache – I had a legitimate one.

"So, anyway, if you don't mind, I'll take a rain check on our bookwork this afternoon."

Edward frowned. "Why?"

"There's some research I need to do," – I flipped a hand carelessly – "and I'm not sure how long it'll take. I may also need to run into town. Either way, I probably won't have time to work on the book today."

Edward's frame tensed, his eyes flashing darkly as his features abruptly hardened. He squared his angular jaw, nostrils flaring above it. As his jaw clenched tightly, his nostrils seemed to flare above it. One brow shot up sharply.

"Research, huh?" he asked through barely moving lips.

"Uhm, yeah? For the book." I shrugged and lifted my hands in a 'Why is that so hard to believe?' sort of way. I wasn't lying, not precisely. My novel was based on Edward's real-life experiences, even if the plot deviated a while ago.

Nevertheless, I received an unenlightening scoff in reply. "For the book," he echoed, his gaze laser-sharp as if he were attempting to pierce through my eyes and into my mind. As I tried to make sense of the sudden shift in his demeanor and this latest tension hanging low in the air, my brow furrowed his way questioningly.

He huffed, but the frustrated way he swept his eyes away made me think his impatience was more with himself than with me. His gaze was now acutely focused on an indiscernible spot over my shoulder. I felt that wherever his thoughts were a few moments ago, they were miles away now.

"So, should I assume you'll spend your evenings on this…research for the foreseeable future?"

"No," I snorted. "Not for the foreseeable future. Just for an evening or two. Maybe three. Goodness, I hope it doesn't take longer than that to find what I need."

I watched his gaze narrow even further into slits.

"Listen, if you need the laptop," I hedged, addressing the only reason I could think of for his inexplicable resentment of my time spent on research, "I can work off my-"

"No."

When his eyes shot back to mine, my breath caught. Scarlet flames flickered at the rims of Edward's emerald irises, turning them a peculiar shade I couldn't describe. But it wasn't the crimson of anger. If I didn't know better, I'd say Edward's gaze smoldered with jealousy.

Bewildered, I blinked successively. When my vision cleared, all traces of anything resembling jealousy, anger, or any emotion at all melted from Edward's features like the remnants of a snowstorm beneath the sun. His expression was simply the handsome, impassive, and inscrutable one of Edward Masen, Bootlegger, and quasi-gangster.

"No," he repeated much more evenly. "But thank you. It might be a good idea for me to take a break from your laptop. There seems to be more than I bargained for on the other end."

"There usually is. All right, are you sure?"

He swiped a hand through his scalp, fisting the hair at his crown. After a couple of seconds of deliberation, he offered me a bland smile and a nod.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure."

OOOOO

The next few days were spent in frenzied research – or perhaps a better description was a frenzied attempt at research – and resuming my friendship with Edward.

The more critical part of those days was that Edward and I had moved on from an ineffective attempt at acquaintances. We took a step back and ended up where we'd been before we discovered that if we came into close physical proximity, I somehow took on the characteristics of a ghost.

We defined this as friends. And yes, this definition technically suited us better. After all, a few minutes after that awkward breakfast, we laughed again. Bantering with one another. Teasing each other.

Had I had any reservations that what I felt for the ghost of Edward Masen was the most fundamental and tangible sensation I'd ever felt, regardless of his intangibility, an epiphanous evening just two days after that awkward breakfast proved it so. Edward and I stepped out on our porch to gauge the latest snowfall. We talked from opposite ends of the porch, gazing up at the milky stars. We glanced across the porch simultaneously at one point, and our eyes met and held. After sharing sheepish chuckles, we tipped our heads back to the ink and paper sky.

I didn't know what went through Edward's mind then, but I considered this friendship against the most significant relationship I'd had 'til then – my romance with Jacob Black. He and I were together for almost a year. In that time, we touched one another hundreds if not thousands of times. Yet not one of those touches stood out in my memory. We went to restaurants, bars, and movies and strolled random streets together. Yet not one of those venues distinguished itself from the other. We slept together in the literal and physical definition. The sex had been good…but it was sex.

When the relationship ended, my biggest regret wasn't the loss of him but rather the wasted time—though no moment stood out with any significant detail. Moreover, once we were over, I had no problem staying away from Jacob, relegating memories of him into the ether and holding enough of a grudge that I had no interest in maintaining a friendship.

Five minutes after getting up from that awkward breakfast table with Edward, I was ready to embrace friendship if that's all I'd ever get. Despite his intangibleness, despite our limitations, every moment, every rare touch, every stroll within the boundaries of the Victorian's property…every dream of what making love with him would've been like, was indelibly etched on my soul with the tangibleness of the stars currently shining above us: unquestionably real yet glowing with a light that flared ages ago: yet a light that promised to shine into perpetuity.

Still, though Edward and I no longer claimed to be mere acquaintances, we maintained physical distance, which seemed to do the trick. My hand no longer shot through doorknobs, and I no longer felt that lightheaded, otherworldly sense of transcendence. All's well that ends well.

Because although I was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him, the salient facts remained:

Edward wasn't in love with me.

Edward was a ghost – which maybe should've made everything else null and void.

But it didn't.

OOOOO

Three days before Christmas, I had little to show for my research beyond the certainty that Tony Edwards – or Anthony Edwards – maintained an almost invisible online footprint. His social media accounts were set to private. Beyond those, I'd found close to nothing.

Which, in and of itself, wasn't so unusual. In today's world, where our lives were perhaps too public for comfort, many individuals opted out of the internet and set their footprints to 'Private,' keeping as tight a rein as possible on how much of their lives others could view.

I'd said this to Edward during his kitchen outburst: the internet was deceivingly inaccurate. Just because we had almost every form of information at our fingertips didn't mean we had our fingertips on all the information. The 'surname: Edwards; first name: Anthony' search would require library time. I, therefore, moved on from Tony – just for the time being – and to a delve into the town's municipal website, where I hoped to discover information on the Victorian's first owner after Edward's death.

I soon discovered that Edward Masen wasn't the only one in the area with one foot in the previous century. The small town of Forks had not yet digitized all its records. Specifically, the earliest records before Forks became an official town were still only available in original document form in the town's municipal offices.

Therefore, I took myself into town.

When I pulled into the Forks Library parking lot and carefully made my way up the short, snowy path to the building, I found a sign taped to the front door.

Happy Holidays! The library will be closed until January 2nd. See you then!

"Wonderful," I expelled.

Pivoting with no little frustration, I marched back to my truck, my boots leaving deep muddy imprints in the snow and cloudy breaths billowing into the air - although I wouldn't begrudge the librarians their holiday time off. Still, I sighed in disappointment as I slid back into the driver's seat, gripping the cold steering wheel and acknowledging that, confirmation of his ancestry or not, there was no way I'd be able to keep Tony's existence from Edward beyond tonight. As it was, I'd struggled the past couple of days, hoping for documentation before I brought it up to Edward, even if on resemblance alone, I was pretty much already sure. Starting up the truck, I muttered to myself.

"Tony, you're sure turning out to be a hell of a headache."

If there was one thing regarding Tony that I could be grateful for, he hadn't tried contacting me since those early morning booty call texts. Who knew? Maybe he'd been drunk. Not that it was a valid excuse, but perhaps he was appropriately embarrassed.

Either way, for the moment, Tony took a back seat in my mental priorities list as I started the truck and took the two-block drive down Forks' festively trimmed Main Street to the Municipal Complex. I needed to get my hands on the Victorian's earliest deed and uncover who'd been the first to own Edward's house after his death.

Pulling into my second parking lot in the past five minutes, I trudged through the snow and breathed out in relief when I saw no sign other than the business hours posted on the door. Once inside, I smiled pleasantly at the building clerk, dressed as if Christmas had just regurgitated all over her: a red velvet empire-waist dress with white fur trim on the sleeves and hem and, of course, a Santa hat.

"Happy holidays!" she greeted me.

"Happy holidays! Please direct me to where I might obtain old township deed records?"

"Why, that's no problem!"

"Oh, thank goodness!"

"On normal business days," she continued. "But three days 'til Christmas, there's no one here to help you with that, hon." She chuckled. "Everyone is already on holiday vacation!"

"Then…why is the building even open?"

"Why, because the municipal building has the prettiest and the only two-story conference room in all of Forks – with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on the mountains in the back!"

"Uhm…okay," I said in one of those tones.

Her brow wrinkled. "Well, naturally, we want the prettiest views!"

We stared at each other.

"Bella!"

My bewildered gaze jumped away from the festively dressed building clerk and to the familiar voice ahead.

"You made it!"

"Rosalie?"

My head pivoted to the left and right, unsure she was addressing me.

"I made it?" I pointed at myself.

However, since no one else was in the lobby and she'd called me by name, it was probably a dumb question. Rosalie's impatience confirmed this. She teetered toward me on white stiletto strappy heels while wearing a gorgeous, long-sleeved white silk dress.

"I wasn't sure you'd come. After all, you've answered none of my texts over the past few days!"

"Or mine!"

Another woman suddenly appeared from the same direction in which Rosalie had. She wore skin-tight green leather pants, a matching green tube top, and patent-leather black Red-bottoms.

"Alice the Realtor?" I said, my confusion only growing.

She, too, shot me an eye roll as she approached. "You're late!"

"I'm…late?"

Standing side by side, they shared a look and yet another eye roll.

"Is she already drunk?"

"Might explain why she's wearing that," Rose stage-whispered, hiding her mouth behind one hand and pointing at me with the other.

I looked down at myself and my puffy black jacket and jeans stuffed into snow boots.

"Uhm, what exactly am I late for?"

Alice stomped a red-bottomed heel. "Do you not check your texts?"

I pulled my phone out of my coat pocket. Scanning through my texts, I now spotted texts from both Alice and Rosalie among the handful or so of texts that had gone more or less ignored – more more than less – over the past couple of days. Sure enough, both women had texted me multiple times to inform me about the Forks Town Holiday Party being held today at the Municipal Complex.

I hissed through my teeth. "Ouch."

"Uh-huh."

"Ouch, indeed."

Abruptly, they both reached out and grabbed one of my hands, proceeding to half-pull and half-drag me across the lobby.

"Rosalie! Alice! I don't know that I'm up for a party!"

"Tough!"

"Yeah! You're here!"

We entered the decked-out room, which, as the non-clerk woman at the front suggested, was huge. It wasn't as big as a ballroom, but it was close and packed with what seemed to be everyone who lived within a ten-mile square radius.

I thought of Edward.

But then Mariah Carey hit her high note from a sound system somewhere, making me jump, and the girls pulled me along. We passed a massive, glittering Christmas tree and a generous and delicious-looking buffet spread out over more than one table, each decorated in tinsel and glitter and a bunch of other shiny stuff. Along another corner, a crowd gathered around a bar.

Of course, this was our heading. Rosalie and Alice, with me sandwiched between them, cut through the partying crowd.

"Champagne, love!" Rosalie shouted toward the bartender. "The best you've got back there!"

"Ooh, champagne goes right to my head," I said.

"Make that a three doubles," Alice said.

Both women chortled.

Rosalie thanked the bartender with a wink for his quick service. She pulled a twenty-dollar bill from the top of her dress and shoved it into a tip jar. She then passed the flutes over—one for me, one for Alice, and the last for herself.

"All right then!" Alice held her flute high. Rosalie followed suit. When they turned to me expectantly, I sighed and raised mine, too.

"Oh, well. When in Rome."

"A toast to our new neighbor, Bella! And to these sweet, new Red-bottoms I was able to buy, along with a few other pairs," she stage-whispered, "thanks to that great ass commission I earned from selling her the Masen Victorian!"

"To Bella and to Alice's Red Bottoms!" Rosalie seconded.

I quirked a brow, smirking, but then, chuckling along with them, we downed our flutes.

"Another one! Another one!" Rosalie demanded, collecting our flutes and passing them back to the bartender for refilling. When he returned them, she winked again and pulled out yet another twenty for his jar from her bosom.

"A toast to our new neighbor, Bella, and the ski trip I'm planning on taking with my man, Emmett, with the commission I know I'll be earning when she finally gets around to letting me restore her furniture 'cause she knows no one around here can do it better!"

With the bubbles from the first flute of champagne already doing their thing in my brain, I burst into laughter.

"That's a fucking long one!"

Alice and Rose laughed, too.

"To Bella and to Rosalie and Emmett's ski trip!" Alice seconded.

"My turn!" I said once we had our third round in hand. The three of us lifted our flutes, the sparkly liquid sloshing around.

"To Edward Masen!"

"T' Edward-! Wait a mint," Rosalie said, swaying slightly and spilling a few drops of her champagne over her flute's rim. "Edward Masen, the dead gangster?"

"The one who built your Vic-" – Alice hiccupped – "your Victorian?"

"And it's furnishure?"

"Mhm!" I grinned at them, nodding vehemently. "He's a ghost, and he's ah-may-zin'! He's Edward Mazin!" I joked, chuckling. But the amusement faded. "I'm madly in love with him, by the way. You should see the gorgeous vanity he gifted me the other day." I sighed, my shoulders rising and falling heavily. "Even though he's not in love with me. But I miss'm. I wish I were home with him right now."

"But you're here with us!"

"I know!"

"Aren't ya" – hiccup – "aren…aren ya havin' fun w'us?"

"Yeah! But I still miss'm."

"Ahh."

The three of us burst out laughing.

"To the ghost of Edward Masen!" Alice shouted, rolling her eyes so hard she almost fell back on her Red bottoms, making us laugh harder.

"And to the Amazin' Masen Victorian!" Rosalie added.

"To Edward and our beautiful house!"

We downed our third round.

"Another one!" I shouted.

Rosalie laughed. "Maybe we should quit while we're behind."

"You dope!" Alice snickered. "It's while we're a head!"

"A head of what?"

I threw back my head and laughed and laughed. "A head of what!"

When an arm wrapped around me, I assumed it was Alice or Rosalie. Instead, I straightened and met a wholly different face.

"Edward?"

"Bella," he grinned crookedly.

"Get off of her!"

Rosalie shoved Edward off me, then led me away, both of us stumbling through the crowd. I looked over my shoulder, confused by the sight of Alice angling her head sharply and shouting at Edward.

"Wait, why's she shoutn' at'm?"

Rosalie wrapped her arm tightly around me. "Bella, if you like Tony, that's fine, but I'm not bout to let'im push'm self on ya while yer drunk."

My breath hitched wildly, and I stopped us both so abruptly we stumbled.

"That was Tony?"

She nodded. "Oh boy. I think we'd better getcha home." She led me into the lobby.

"But I can't drive! I'm too drunk!"

"Obviously. We got Ubers waitin' for just these sorts a' occashins!"

"Rosie, will ya take the ride wi' me?"

"'Course I will!"

"Me too! Me too!" Alice called out, sprinting after us. Wrapped in a green fur-like coat, she threw a white version of the same coat at Rosalie.

"Yay! Girl trip! But how the hell d'ya run in Red-Bottoms while yer smashed?" I asked her as she flanked my other side. "I can't even run in flats!"

"It's a gift of mine!"

We burst out laughing.

"Don't worry, Bella," she growled as we stepped out into the snowy evening and headed toward the row of waiting Ubers. "I told that fucker off. The nerf o' him to toush ya w'out yer perm…perm…permshon."

"The guy's a prick – thaz why I fired im."

Again, I gasped, louder this time. The three of us slipped and slid over the snow when I stopped abruptly, laughing and shrieking.

"Why'd ya fire him?" I asked in between fits of laughter.

"Cuz he was a lazy fuck," Rose chuckled. "I had to practically beg 'm to do his job! Emmett was gettin' ready to put 'm through-"

"Maybe he resented havin' to sweep up when he had an art degree. Not that it's an excuse."

Rosalie jerked her head back, laughing. "Art degree? Tony Whitlock? He din't have no art degree!"

"Tony Whit…Whit…" I shook my head, trying to clear it and focus. But it was no use. The snowy world swam before me. Alice helped me stumble into the back seat of the Uber before climbing in, too. Rose sat beside her and shut the door.

"But he told me he had an art degree. And he told me-"

"Bella, I don't know how men are where you're from, but here they lie when they wanna get in yer pants." She chuckled.

"Address, ladies, please," the driver said.

I provided the address. Then…

I guess I passed out.

A/N: Thoughts?

Facebook: Stories by PattyRose

Twitter: PattyRosa817

Instagram: pattyrosa913

"See" you soon!