Sorrrrrrry, I wanted to update days ago but FFn had other stupid plans for me, and then a busy weekend and work yesterday were the other culprits once the website was running again! Is another Friday (7/19) update too soon? Ahh. Thanks for sharing your thoughts, friends!

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eleven
the story of us
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Edward and I walk a few blocks in silence, but oddly enough, I don't feel the need to fill it. Besides, the last time I was around him, I fucking embarrassed myself. So I wait for him to start the conversation.

"Do you want me to carry that?" he asks, eyeing the to-go tray in my hands.

"With your one good arm?" I ask, teasing, and he breathes out a laugh. "I've got it. Thanks."

Another beat of comfortable silence.

"How long have you worked as an interior designer?" he casually asks as we stop on the street corner, waiting for the signal to cross.

"A while. Around nine years."

"At the same place?"

I look at him, wondering why he cares. "Yeah."

He whistles. "That's commitment."

"Being a surgeon is commitment. Don't you have to go to school for like, a million years?"

"No, that's what everyone wants you to think. But it's actually a pretty easy process. Hardly any training or degrees involved."

"Right," I laugh. "I always knew the healthcare system was a scam."

The signal to walk appears, and he says, "You might not be aware of this, but that means it's safe to cross the road."

"Ha ha," I say dryly, suppressing a laugh as he cracks a smile.

"So, do you like what you do?" he asks, keeping the questions coming.

"Yeah. I enjoy it."

"What's your favorite part?"

I briefly glance at him again as we walk, then say, "I don't know. All of it?"

"I'm sure you can narrow it down," he insists, a hint of a smile curving his lips.

I pull my gaze away because he's making me feel too at ease.

"Okay, well." I think about it, staring ahead as pedestrians pass by us. "I enjoy when clients come in with a strict budget."

He chuckles. "Wait, really? You don't enjoy spending other people's money?"

"I mean, maybe when I first started that was fun. But it quickly gets old. It's not fun when people come in with an unlimited budget and give me free rein."

"Why not?"

"Because I want a challenge. I'd much rather have someone come in who wants to revamp, and not completely renovate. I love coming into lived-in spaces and working around what already exists. Picking the best of what's already there. I love showing clients the potential of their homes without starting from scratch because starting over and starting fresh isn't real life. We have to work with what we're given. We're all works in progress, and—" I pause, realizing I'm getting a little too deep for a Monday morning. When I look at him, I catch the way he's staring at me, as if he likes listening to me talk. So I change the subject. "But anyway. How long have you lived over here?"

"A couple of months. I was in Bellevue before, but that commute can be twenty minutes or a fucking hour and a half. So I moved over here to be closer to the hospital."

"Ahh, yeah. Traffic can be brutal."

"Yeah," he agrees. "And not to defend myself, but that's why my place is kinda bare. I haven't been there long, and a friend helped me decorate it a little, but yeah. It's nowhere near what I want it to be."

I take note of his use of the word friend, likely knowing they're a female.

"It's cool. What vision or ideas do you have in mind for your space?" I ask.

"No fucking clue," he laughs. "I'm going to be one of those clients you hate that give you an unlimited budget and free rein."

I kind of smile. "I don't hate them. And sometimes it's nice when a client isn't so attached or working too closely to a project. Less pressure for me, maybe."

"Oh, don't get me wrong. Even if I give you free rein, I'm going to be very closely attached to this project. I'll be along for every step of the way and want to be as involved as I can," he insists, the teasing lull of his voice almost flirtatious.

I'm not sure what to make of that, but I'm not about to fall all over myself with flattery.

"Right. Of course. Well, it's a good space from what I can remember. I'm sure it won't take much to spruce it up," I say honestly. "But I'm also not trying to step on anyone's toes. I mean, if you had a friend help you, I'd hate for her to feel slighted that I took over. I know how territorial women can be. When it comes to designing, I mean."

And men who look like you, I think.

"It's fine," is all he says, not giving me any real indication about the person he mentioned.

Up ahead, I see Quartz and Bone, so I slow my pace, trying to get in a little more conversation since he seems open to talking right now.

"So, are you from here?" I ask, hoping to sound innocent enough.

"I was born in Chicago and did my undergrad there, then moved to the East Coast for medical school," he offers, and I note that he leaves out Forks entirely.

Maybe he doesn't think the time he lived there is worth mentioning.

Or maybe he doesn't want to bring attention to his involvement with Rosalie's case.

"Where'd you go for medical school?" I ask, as if I don't already know.

"Harvard."

"Wow. Impressive."

He brushes off my awe. "Impressive it's taken me this long to mention it?"

I genuinely laugh because I know exactly what he's talking about when it comes to Ivy League alumni. It's rare for me to go on dates, but I have been out with men who attended Cornell and Brown, and the topic of where they went to school came up only a minute after meeting them for the first time.

"Hey, to be fair, you weren't going to mention it until I asked you to clarify," I tell Edward. "I guess that earns you some points."

"Yeah, I don't really toss that shit around because most people don't actually care," he says simply. "Anyway, what about you? What's your story?"

I take a page from his book, withholding details but intermingling truths.

"Nothing too interesting about me. I'm from around here and went to school here, too."

"U-Dub?"

"Yep." I shift the conversation away from myself. "How'd you like the East Coast? You didn't want to stick around after medical school?"

"I would've, but my parents are here. Just makes things easier being closer," he says, and though I want to pry, I hold back.

"That's nice. I'm sure they enjoy having you close," I offer.

I wonder if he's about to ask about my parents in return, and I'm unsure what to say. 'I was an orphan adopted by dad's sister' is simple enough, but might earn me a pitying glance or two.

I could lie, I guess, but this will be easier if I continue telling the truth. Keeping up with falsities might be too much.

But Edward doesn't ask, and thankfully we dodge that landmine of a topic.

We stop in front of Quartz and Bone.

"This is me," I say, nodding toward the white-brick storefront.

Edward glances at it for a moment before locking eyes on me.

"So, should I make an appointment to see you again?" he asks, his tone indecipherable.

"Sure. I'll give you my email if you're serious about working together." I don't have a card on me but even if I did, I wouldn't offer him one because it shows my last name, Hale. So I give him my email since it's a safe mixture of Bella and the company name. "But don't feel obligated to reach out," I insist.

"I promise I don't feel obligated," he remarks, typing my email in his phone.

"Okay."

I shift from foot to foot, eager to keep talking but anxious to get inside, too.

Edward hesitates.

I'm about to tell him bye and walk inside but he speaks again.

"I was kind of hoping to get your number, too," he admits.

I think I know where this is going but I'm not about to make myself look like a fucking idiot again. "For what?"

His voice is somehow both soft and hard around the edges. "I wanted to ask you out."

"Ask me out to talk about working on your condo? I usually meet clients here, or at their place."

"No. I meant to go out on a date," he clarifies confidently.

I take my time and make him sweat.

"I thought you didn't want my number," I remind him, and I didn't realize how salty that little fact made me. It's been two weeks since our last interaction but fine, I may have been harboring a little resentment which is puzzling.

He looks confused. "When did I say I didn't want your number?"

"Well, you didn't. But weeks ago when I embarrassed myself on the sidewalk and thought you were asking me for it, you didn't jump at the chance to ask me then," I point out.

"You'd just been in an accident and were concussed. I wasn't trying to be an assertive asshole, or make you feel uncomfortable or like you owed me for any reason."

"I guess that's a respectable excuse," I tease, but hearing this does ease the slight sting of confusing rejection.

After a brief pause and his eyes roaming over my face he says, "I should've asked then, maybe. As a guise to check on you. But I didn't, so I'm asking now."

His charm is full-force and my stomach clenches from how forward he's being and how stupidly handsome he looks right now with his sincere, interested expression.

I wonder how I'd react if this were real.

But it is not.

"What would we do?" I ask, playing hard to get.

"We'd get to know each other over dinner and drinks."

"Hmm. Let me guess. A Michelin-star restaurant that's sure to impress. Somewhere you take all of your dates."

He scoffs at my assumption but looks amused. "If you'd feel more comfortable going out, we can. But I'd love to make you dinner at my place."

"Normally I wouldn't say yes to going to someone's place on a first date. It's risky, you know? Especially if things don't go well. Much better to meet in public. But since I've already been to your place, I guess I can make an exception," I tell him. "You like to cook?"

"I do."

"Would your wrist make that difficult, though?"

"I just wear the brace as a precaution while I'm out so I don't reinjure it. I'll take it off unless you think you're at risk of getting hurt in my kitchen and need saving again," he jokes, eyes twinkling.

I quirk a brow. "Do women tend to get hurt in your kitchen?"

He breathes a laugh. "No. I don't know. You're the first I've cooked for."

I'm surprised. "Ever?"

A sheepish, obvious look passes over his face because no, not the first woman ever. But yes, the first in his new kitchen.

He opens his mouth to say something, maybe to smooth things over, but the awkward moment is interrupted when Chelsea peeks her head outside the glass door.

I briefly panic, but know it's pointless. Chelsea never followed Rosalie's case and she isn't listening to the podcast. Anything she knows, she's heard from me. If she even remembers the name Edward tied to the case, I don't think she'd make the connection right now because what are the fucking chances I'd be interacting with him so amicably?

"Hi! Everything okay?" she asks, looking between Edward and me.

"Yes. All good." I smile at her so she knows I'm grateful for her but not in need of saving from a strange man. "Chelsea, this is Edward, the man who helped me the other week when that car almost took me out."

"Oh, my God!" She opens the door wider but stays in the doorway. "That was so insane. Thank you so much for helping her."

"Of course," Edward says politely. "Glad I was able to intervene."

"We just randomly ran into each other again," I say.

"Not physically this time," Edward offers, his lips twitching when he looks at me.

"No, no. Our run-in was way less dramatic today," I offer, and when I glance back at Chelsea, I see the way her eyes light up. I know what she's thinking—this is fate. And also, that he's insanely attractive. "Edward is looking for an interior designer, so we were just exchanging some information."

"Right, of course!" Chelsea beams. "Our girl is amazing. She's been mentioned in Architectural Digest a few times. You're in really good hands with her."

Edward regards me, looking impressed. "You didn't mention that. Most people slip that into the conversation before now," he jokes, a nod to our chat about arrogant Ivy League alumni.

I genuinely laugh, shaking my head. "Didn't think it was worth noting."

"Okay, well you two finish up. I can take that for you," Chelsea says, reaching for the to-go tray in my hands.

I thank her.

She and Edward exchange nice-to-meet-yous and goodbyes.

When it's just us again, Edward locks his eyes on me. He pulls off his hat and runs a hand through his hair before sliding the hat on backwards this time.

Seeing his full face disarms me.

"I know I made an ass of myself before she came out here," he starts to say.

I wave him off. "I know I'm not the first woman you've gone out with and I certainly don't expect to be the last."

My words don't deter him.

"I'd love to go out with you," he says. "If you're not interested, that's fine. I'd still like to work with you, though."

I find it easy to smile at his candor. "Okay. Sure. We can do dinner at your place."

"Is tonight too soon?"

"You're eager," I tease.

"It gives you less chance to obtain another concussion between now and tonight."

"You underestimate my clumsiness." He underestimates me in all ways. "But I can't tonight. I'm going to a birthday dinner."

Even if he remembered Rosalie's birthday, which I doubt, he wouldn't catch on because we're celebrating with Jasper a day early.

"Okay. Tomorrow night, then," he suggests.

"Sure, that works."

We exchange numbers.

Make a plan.

Dinner at 8 tomorrow.

His place.

He'll send for a car at 7:40.

"Please don't get hurt before then," he softly jokes as he walks backward, keeping his eyes on me.

There's a stupid, sickening flutter in my stomach.

"I don't plan on getting hurt," I say with intent he doesn't catch. "See you tomorrow."

With one last smile, he turns and walks away.

When I'm back inside, Chelsea attacks.

"Please, please, please tell me he asked you out. One of us needs to get laid."

"He asked me out," I tell her. "We're having dinner tomorrow night."

"This is the best meet-cute. Seriously, the stuff of romcoms. Like, you two will be telling your kids this story one day."

She sighs dreamily, all but bouncing in her seat, and I laugh at how ridiculous she's being.

"You're insane."

"I'm not! I have a really good feeling about this, Bella. I don't know why. I just do."

"Maybe," I offer instead of telling her not to get her hopes up because this thing with Edward and me has an expiration date.