Still with me?

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fifteen
question…?
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After we eat, I'm tempted to end the night early.

Despite the cavalier front I've had for the past twenty minutes, I'm feeling unsettled and a little too soft because I brought a level of reality to this night and it's weighing on me. Now I just want to leave. Want to go back to my empty home and dissect everything I've learned tonight.

But I can't deny the offer when Edward suggests one more glass of wine. I've made it this far, and he seems open to talking. It'd be silly to leave now.

He grabs our glasses and the bottle of wine and sits on the couch.

"Should we take care of all of that first?" I ask, gesturing toward the table with our dirty dishes.

He fills our glasses and hands me mine as I sit. "Nah. I can do them later."

"A man who cooks and cleans? How has some woman not snatched you up yet?" I joke.

"It's probably because I don't want kids," he says simply as if he didn't just drop a personal fucking bombshell on me.

My silence is more because I'm surprised at how open he is, not because I'm judging him for not wanting to be a dad someday.

"Oh," I finally say.

His lips press into a solemn smile. "This is the part where you run away."

"Did you just… quote Shrek?"

He's confused. "I can't say I did. I've never seen Shrek."

I shake my head. "Right. Not a big movie guy." I clear my throat. "Or… kid guy."

"Like I said earlier, I'm not opposed to getting all of the important stuff out in the open. Sometimes it ends things before they begin, but… it also keeps people from wasting their time."

"I don't know," I murmur. "I can't see women merely running away because you say you don't want kids. We're pretty tenacious, you know? I'm sure tons of women think they can change your mind."

A breathy, disbelieving laugh falls from his lips. "Why would they want to do that when they can find another man who wants what they want?"

"Um, look at you," I blurt, pointing at him with my wine glass.

He doesn't even fight his smirk. "What about me, Bella?"

I roll my eyes. "Like you don't already know how handsome you are."

He licks his lips, but it seems involuntary, not purposeful. I stare at his mouth anyway before meeting his eyes.

"Looks aren't everything," he says breezily.

I laugh into my glass before sipping. "That's exactly what someone who has looked handsome their entire life would say."

"My entire life? No, I only grew into my looks in the last few years."

He says it so convincingly that if I didn't know better, I'd believe him.

But I know he's being humble because I remember what he looked like in high school and how girls acted toward him at football games.

He's always been someone to be noticed.

"I don't believe you," I say. "Did you play football? You look like a quarterback. And a homecoming king, too."

He's sheepish but adds, "I was senior prom king."

This little fact throws me.

"But—" Thank fuck I stop myself from blurting, but didn't you transfer from Forks High in the middle of your junior year? Leave it to Edward Cullen to start a new school and become popular practically overnight.

"But what?" he playfully taunts.

I shake my head. "I'm just not fully sold that some woman hasn't tried to lock you down and change your mind about kids." He just shrugs but doesn't deny it. "I'm right, aren't I? Let me guess—your college girlfriend hoped for a ring and babies right after graduation? Or was it your high school sweetheart?"

I'm luring him into talking about his exes, wondering if he'll bring up Rosalie.

"You know what I think?" he asks, leaning in.

"I'm all ears."

"I think it's in poor taste to sit here and talk about other women when I have a beautiful stranger right here who I'm interested in getting to know."

He's smooth.

I don't push.

But then he adds, "Besides, I find nothing good comes from looking to the past."

"I'm not sure I believe that. I think you can learn a lot from history and past mistakes."

"Agree to disagree," he says. "Sometimes it's better to keep moving forward."

His words are too calculated for me to ignore.

"Did something happen?" I ask before I can stop myself. "You seem cagey about your past."

"I guess I could say the same for you. Why do you want to make sure history doesn't repeat itself?"

I narrow my eyes. "What is it about you? How do we keep getting on these heavy topics?" I ask rhetorically. "I swear, I've never gotten this deep or personal with anyone else on a first date."

"Same," he agrees. "I can tone it down if you want. Keep it surface-level. What's your favorite color?"

I chuckle, shifting on the couch. "Most shades of green. Moss, pine, sage, olive."

Or the lush forest surrounding Forks.

And unfortunately, Edward's eyes.

"You know a lot about green," he remarks.

"In my field, I look at a lot of paint colors."

"Well, green happens to be my favorite color, too. No specifics, though. Now can I ask your stance on kids? Or is that something I'm waiting until date five to learn?"

Maybe I should lie and say I'm dying to be a mom. Draw a line in the sand right here, right now. Make it clear that darn, this probably isn't going to work out. We want different things.

But I don't.

"I don't think I'm interested in having kids either," I admit, staying honest. "No biological clock ticking away for me."

He watches me. "Really?"

"Really."

"Why not?"

"Tell me your reasons and I'll tell you mine," I taunt.

Leaning forward, he looks around the coffee table. "Where did you leave that pretend key?"

I chuckle when he acts out finding the key and locking his lips.

"Is the reason why you don't want kids that personal?" I ask.

"I don't know. Maybe it's a conversation for date five."

"Touché. We've done enough trauma dumping for one evening."

His amusement shifts to seriousness. "When did you trauma dump on me? When you were talking about your family?"

"Yeah. That."

"I hope you're not second-guessing yourself because it didn't feel that way at all," he says quietly.

I wave him off, still embarrassed—and surprised—I said anything at all about my family. "It's fine."

"No, it's not. Did you feel that way about me when I shared stuff with you? That I was… unloading onto you?"

I hold his gentle green gaze. "No," I say honestly. "It didn't feel like that."

Silence settles in.

Now would be the perfect time to leave.

I fidget with the strap of my dress, and the movement steals his attention, his gaze shifting to my bare shoulder.

"I like your dress," he murmurs.

My heart beats too fast. "It's new. But don't let your ego inflate too much because I didn't buy it for tonight. It's just the first time I'm wearing it."

His eyes spark with what looks like desire. "Well, it looks good on you."

That zing is present again in my lower stomach.

Leave, I will myself.

Go.

He's not safe. And not in the way I imagined. He's fucking lethal when it comes to attraction.

"Thank you," I whisper.

"I like your hair, too."

"My hair is also new."

He exhales a sexy laugh because he probably thinks I'm joking and certainly doesn't think I had it lightened weeks ago because of him.

God, I'm the worst.

But it worked, didn't it? He's seemingly attracted to me.

"Should I go on about other things I like about you or am I inflating your ego too much?" he wonders.

"You can stop," I say with a forced laugh. "I'm awful at accepting compliments and it makes me even more awkward than normal."

His eyes roam, and I feel so much heat behind his gaze. "I don't know. You don't seem awkward to me."

His head slightly tilts back, and I watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows.

Instead of suffocating in stupid sexual tension, I set my glass on the coffee table and stand, moving toward a large piece of art on his otherwise bare wall.

It's contemporary. All white textured paint on a white canvas.

Edward joins me, staring at the large painting.

"What do you think about it?" he asks, and I can feel his eyes on me instead of the art.

"I thought I wasn't supposed to work tonight."

"I'm just asking for your opinion as my date. Not my interior designer."

"Oh, okay. In that case, I hate it."

For a moment, I'm sure I've offended him.

But then he laughs.

Low, grumbly, amused.

"Well, thanks for your honesty," he quips. I don't get to apologize before he adds, "Honestly, I kind of hate this painting, too."

"Then why do you have it?"

When I glance at him, he shrugs. "I gave my friend free rein. This is what she picked."

"It's... boring. It's trying too hard, you know?" I say before I can stop myself. "White on white on white." Edward grabs the large painting and takes it down, leaning it against the wall. "Sorry, sorry. Don't let my expert opinion influence you," I joke.

He bites back a grin. "Too late. I appreciate your opinion. And I agree with you—it's awful. Sometimes nothing is better than something."

I back away from the painting, gesturing around the space.

"No family photos?" I ask.

"No."

"Why not?"

He slowly gravitates toward me. "I don't have a family."

"Your mom and stepdad?"

"My mom framed a photo of the two of us after my med school graduation. I spend most of my time at the hospital, so it's on my desk at work."

I sit back down on the couch. "Your office is more reflective of you, then? No female friends helped decorate or anything like that?"

He watches me, curious as he sits closer than before, his body angled toward me. "Yeah."

"So, what you're saying is, if I want to see the real you, I need to visit your office."

"What do you mean, the real me?" he asks. "Do you not think the version of myself you're getting tonight is real?"

"I mean… yes and no." I'm not sure what to fucking think anymore. He's throwing me off. "First impressions during first dates are a thing for a reason. Remember?"

"Yes, but earlier you said the rules don't apply to us. And as far as first impressions go, the first time we met was… pretty awful."

"You mean you don't normally tackle women down to the cement and leave them concussed?" I tease.

He smiles but doesn't laugh. "I didn't leave you concussed. And I was genuinely worried about you that day. That's what I meant by awful—I hated the idea you were hurt. And even though I knew you were safe, I was going over all the worst-case scenarios in my head. I couldn't shake how badly things could've turned out."

The sincerity in his voice pains me.

"You didn't have to be worried about me," I murmur. "I was—I am—fine."

He leans closer.

"You don't have to act indifferent toward me," he whispers. "Or like… like you have to stick to some facade…"

I don't move.

"I'm not," I whisper back.

He's so close, I can smell him. Woodsy, piney. An undertone of something spicy. A mixture of whiskey and wine on his breath.

I'm suddenly nervous.

His eyes dart to my lips.

I worry he's about to kiss me.

I worry he's not.

But I need him to be interested.

I need to see him again.

He leans in further.

Or maybe I do.

An invitation.

An opening.

My lids start to fall shut.

I can nearly feel his breath on my lips when he murmurs, "Can I kiss you?"