Chapter 32

Charlotte felt Edward’s presence before she heard him.

She turned her head ever so slightly toward the patio doors at the sensation, waiting for his Italian leather-clad feet to appear. After all this time, he still dressed up to see her. He always arrived wearing some kind of slacks and dress shirt, designer shoes polished until she could see her reflection in them. She sensed that he liked the formality of it - a uniform, perhaps even a suit of armor, to protect him while he was on duty.

So the sight of worn sneakers and faded navy sweatpants approaching couldn’t have taken her more off guard.

She started, whipping her head quickly toward the doorway, for a split second fearing that an intruder had just waltzed into her home. But her eyes followed the familiar lean line of Edward Cullen’s long, t-shirted torso up to his unshaven face and ubiquitous sunglasses, made redundant under the brim of baseball cap pulled low. She was struck harder by their age difference than she’d ever been before, and she felt foolish for every untoward idea that had ever crossed her mind.

“Hi Charlotte,” came his usually silken voice, now rusty from the lack of take-out coffee to oil it. He sat down empty-handed in the chair nearest her chaise, leaning purposefully forward as he took off his sunglasses. “I’m glad you could see me early this week.”

“It’s no bother, I assure you,” she replied, the anxious look in his eyes making her feel uneasy herself. “You’re always welcome here, you know that.”

“Thanks.” She must have looked a bit gob-smacked still, because he quickly took off his ball cap and ran self-conscious fingers through his unwashed hair. “I’m sorry to show up looking like this. But I have something to ask you, and I knew if I waited, I wouldn’t go through with it.”

“It’s actually rather refreshing to see you dressing your age,” she said, hoping she sounded convincing. “Now by all means, speak your mind. Would you like some coffee or tea first?”

“No, no thanks,” he said, still agitated. He began to worry the brim of his cap between long, nimble fingers, staring it down as if he could somehow convince it to do the talking. But once his lips started moving, the words poured out.

“I hate asking you for anything, especially since I’m not even sure how you can help. Because even if I had the mortgages paid off, I’d still have to pay for Em’s nursing home care. I could file for Medicaid to cover it, but then they’d put a lien on the house, and that’s exactly the thing I’ve been trying to avoid. The whole point of me going into the fucking escort business was so that I wouldn’t have to sell off all my family heirlooms. I like being able to provide for all of us - Em and Alice and myself. But I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I want out. I have to figure a way out.”

He paused for a breath, while Charlotte slowly let out the one she’d been holding. His pleading gaze dropped and he became absorbed once more in the brim of his baseball cap.

“Edward, you know I’m more than happy to help you however I can. My offer to get those mortgages off your back still stands. I don’t care about repayment.”

“But I will pay you back. Even if it takes me the rest of my life, I will.”

Charlotte chuckled. “Well, I won’t be around long enough to see that day. We’ll worry about a payment schedule later. It’s worth every penny to me to lighten that burden on your shoulders. And maybe it’ll be enough for you to go into a different line of work, even if it pays less.”

“Maybe. That’s what I’m hoping.” The reflection of that hope glimmered faintly in Edward’s eyes, and the sight of it was worth more than all the gold in Fort Knox to Charlotte.

“Do I even have to ask what - or should I say, who - brought on this epiphany?” She already knew the answer, but she wanted to hear it from him.

The bashful smile on Edward’s face was reply enough, but it soon became wan. “She deserves better. I want to give her what she deserves.”

Charlotte nodded slowly. “Bella? If I remember correctly.”

It was Edward’s turn to nod in answer.

“I’m sure she does,” Charlotte agreed. “But let’s not forget that you deserve better too, my dear.”

His shrug was less emphatic than his nod, which made her sigh in exasperation.

“Well, whether you think so or not, you deserve good things in life. You deserve to follow a path that makes you happy. I believe you’ve already chosen your companion; now all you have to do is find the right path. And I think you already know what that is.”

Edward looked up into her shrewd gaze. “I know. I’ve been thinking about that. I’m so out of practice, though, I don’t even know where to begin. I don’t know who’d hire me. Maybe a piano bar, or one of those department stores that likes to have some suit-guy sitting there playing classical music for ambience.”

Charlotte glanced heavenward at his self deprecation. “I won’t sit and listen to you sell yourself short. You’ve been doing enough of that for the past two years, wouldn’t you say?”

Edward grimaced in acknowledgement.

“What if I gave you a good reason to get back in practice? Would you take it?”

His eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about? I’m not taking any more handouts. Borrowing money from you is hard enough.”

“I’m not talking about a handout. I’m talking about an opportunity.” She paused and picked up the letter propped against the arm of her lounge chair. She tapped it thoughtfully against the tip of her index finger, again reading the return address with satisfaction. “I assume you’ve heard of the Seattle International Piano Competition?”

Edward let out a small laugh. “Of course.”

“You won a couple of junior titles there, if I’m not mistaken.”

His brows knitted. “How did you . . . ?”

“The internet is a wondrous creation,” she replied smoothly. “I found out all kinds of delightful things about you after a little digging. You entered that competition every year it was held, from the ages of eight to twenty, under the name Edward Masen. You even placed in several of them against the best in the world in your category.”

Edward had straightened up in his chair as she casually reeled off his secrets like the innocuous bits of public information they were.

“That was a long time ago,” he said softly.

“Four years. Not so long, when you get to be my age,” she replied with a wry smile. “My point is, you missed the last competition because of your grandmother’s failing health. What if I told you that you didn’t have to miss the next one?”

He let out a sardonic laugh. “I’d tell you you’re crazy. The competition is in October. Applications to enter were due months ago.”

“Indeed, they were,” she agreed, now tapping the corner of the envelope briefly against her bottom lip. “But my late husband, Peter, had several good friends in the Seattle arts community, one of whom happens to be on the admissions committee of the piano competition. I sent him an inquiry, and wouldn’t you know? It turns out there’s a slot open due to an unfortunate cancellation.”

She paused for Edward’s reaction, but he only stared at her, bewildered.

“You’ll have to perform in the Amateur category, of course, since you’re no longer a student, and not currently employed as a musician,” she continued. “There’s no cash prize to be won, but the exposure and prestige that could be gained would be quite advantageous to someone looking to get a foot in the music business, wouldn’t you agree?”

Edward gaped at her in disbelief. “I don’t understand. It’s too late for me to send in an audition CD.”

Charlotte’s cheeks colored slightly. “Well, I’m afraid I might have done something slightly . . . duplicitous, to that end.”

His eyes narrowed as the puzzle pieces began to fall into place. When he spoke, his tone was eerily calm but utterly pointed.

“What did you do, Charlotte?”

She took a deep breath. “I may have recorded you playing the piano here once or twice without your knowledge.”

The veranda was dead silent, save for the chirp of a few nearby birds and the soft hum of a riding mower from a distant neighbor’s yard. Charlotte tried to read the look in Edward’s eyes, but couldn’t discern whether he was angry, incredulous, grateful, or some combination of the three.

“What are you telling me?” The calm in his voice was belied by a slight tremor.

“I’m telling you you’re in.” She reached out and offered him the envelope.

His hand trembled a little as he took it from her. He stared at it in shock before finally opening it and withdrawing the contents. He looked the acceptance letter over, shaking his head.

“I can’t believe you did this,” he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Please don’t be too cross with me,” she entreated. “You got in on your own merits. They heard you play - that was the deciding factor.”

“What did you submit?”

“The final version of the piece you practiced last week. You repeated it until it was flawless, and that’s what I sent. I also filled out the application under your real name, which I’m sure many on the admissions board still remember. I daresay they were happy to have you back in the competition.”

He shook his head again, clearly overwhelmed. Charlotte just hoped it was in a good way. But when he finally looked up at her, his expression was bleak.

“This is only seven weeks away. That’s not enough time for me to get in competitive shape.”

“Nonsense,” she argued. “You played that piece to perfection once, and it got you in the contest. You have seven weeks to make sure you can play it to perfection one more time.”

“I’d have to practice every day, or close to it.”

“Lucky for you that I have a piano and a conservatory at your disposable whenever you need it.”

He balked at the offer. “I can’t impose on you like that.”

“It’s no imposition, and even if it were, it’s one I would gladly endure.”

She could see the struggle on his face, but she wasn’t about to let him talk himself out of this. His head continued to shake slowly from side to side, eyes looking over the letter as if it were written in some foreign language he was having difficulty translating.

“Play to win,” she thought she heard him murmur at last.

“Come again?”

Edward raised his eyes to meet hers, and this time she saw only grateful determination there.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” he said softly, green eyes glossy with unshed tears.

“Yes, you do.” She rose from her chair and lifted one arm, gesturing in the direction of the music room.

Edward stood, but instead of turning toward the house, he grabbed her up in a bear hug, nearly knocking the wind out of her.

“You’re amazing,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. It vibrated down her spine in a way she hadn’t felt since the last time Peter had whispered in her ear. He clasped her shoulders as he pulled away to look down at her. “I’m going to do my best to make you proud, I swear.”

“You already have,” she told him.

But he had already released her and headed inside. Moments later, she heard the familiar sounds of his warm-up scales, and those simple ascending notes were the sweetest sounds she’d ever heard.

# # # # # # # # # #

　

Bella had fifty minutes to kill between her Ancient Greek Lit and her Art History classes. She knew what she should do: go back to the dorm, take a quick shower and put on fresh clothes that actually fit her.

But as she ambled through the quad, pulling up Edward’s sagging sweatpants and feeling the late summer sun warm the cotton of his t-shirt, she couldn’t bear the thought of taking them off. She pulled the neck of the shirt over her nose for a moment, taking a deep whiff of the musky scent that lingered there. No, these clothes were staying put.

How bad do I look? she wondered absently. She felt amazing. She hadn’t come down from the euphoric cloud she’d been floating on for the past twenty-four hours, and she wasn’t ready to strip the heavenly evidence from her body quite yet.

She sat down on what was becoming her favorite between-classes bench, then dug through her backpack for her cosmetics bag with a mirror attached. A quick glance showed the disheveled but undeniably glowing face of a girl who had been recently, thoroughly ravished by her . . . boyfriend?

Maybe. Possibly. Someday.

She wondered how long she could stick it out until “someday” arrived. When she was with Edward, the cocoon of intimacy that spun them together seemed impenetrable. But the minute she was alone, nagging fears began picking at her, leaving holes of doubt in that cloak of certainty. She hoped he was sincere about looking for an alternative to escorting, but until then, she knew she would have to be unbelievably strong.

If she couldn’t, she’d have to walk away.

She turned sideways and brought her legs up on the bench, knees to her chin, wrapping her arms around the baggy fleece of Edward’s sweatpants. She took a whiff of those, too, inhaling deeply before exhaling in a sigh.

“Hey, Swan, is that you?” a male voice called, shattering her reverie.

Bella looked over her shoulder to see Mike Newton approaching, and she cringed involuntarily before painting on a smile. She hadn’t seen him since the night she told him they could be friends and nothing more. He didn’t seem too put off by it, though, if his gigantic grin was any indication.

“Hey, Mike,” she said in greeting as he approached. “How’s it going?”

“Great. Mind if I sit down?” he asked, indicating the empty half of the bench next to her sneaker-clad feet.

“’Course not.”

He plopped down opposite Bella, dropping his backpack to the sidewalk below. He stretched one arm across the back of the bench, leaned back and gave her a quick once-over.

“Wow. Rough night?” he said with a laugh.

Her lips pursed indignantly while her hand reached up to smooth the haphazard bun at the back of her neck.

“What do you mean by that?” she snapped, trying to will her cheeks to stop blushing.

Mike’s face fell in dismay as he tried to correct his blunder. “Nothing! I mean, you look great - you always look great. Maybe a little like you just rolled out of bed, but I’m guessing your alarm didn’t go off or something this morning. Happens to all of us. I almost left the dorm without my pants last week - got all the way down the hall in my boxer shorts before Riley stopped me,” he finished with a weak laugh. “You remember Riley, right?”

“Yeah, of course. Keeper of the good stash.”

Mike grinned at that. “Indeed. You should come over some time and partake with us. We’ll make sure you don’t overdo it this time, though. We don’t want a repeat performance of last time, do we?”

“No,” Bella agreed, wincing. “Definitely not.”

“You were so sick,” he lamented. “And I don’t need that rage-0-holic suit-guy of yours bashing my face in, either.”

Bella let out a loud guffaw. “He would never do that. He isn’t the least bit rage-y.”

“Apparently you didn’t get a good look at his face when he found you with us. I thought he was gonna rip off my nut sack and make me wear it as a party hat.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she scoffed. “And gross.”

Mike snickered. “You were drunk. You don’t remember.”

“I remember just fine. Edward took care of me all night long, even after I barfed on his shoes. Even after he had to watch me barf twenty more times before I was finished.”

Mike shuddered slightly. “Poor Bella,” he commiserated, taking the opportunity to reach over and give one of her shins a squeeze. “I guess suit-guy is a regular prince to put up with that, huh?” His sarcasm was hard to miss.

“He is, actually. Not many guys would clean up after a girl spewing Technicolor vomit into a dorm sink all night long.”

Mike’s expression grew sober. “I would. If you’d let me.”

Bella couldn’t handle the sincerity in those sky-blue eyes of his, and her gaze faltered and fell to the sidewalk. She heard his fingers drum the back of the bench; heard him draw in a long breath before speaking again.

“But that won’t happen, because I’m not letting you get that wasted again.” He nudged her left foot with his knee, prompting her to look up at him. “Seriously, Swan, I haven’t seen you since our movie night. I hope you’re not becoming a hermit. You can still party and have fun without overdoing it, you know. I’ll police you myself,” he offered with the quirk of any eyebrow and a half-joking grin.

“Now there’s an offer I can’t refuse,” she answered, smiling in spite of herself.

“Officer Mike Newton, Booze Patrol, at your service - here to take any shot that comes at you.” He pantomimed bringing a shot glass to his lips, throwing his head back and swallowing.

“Wow. How selfless of you,” Bella replied with a roll of her eyes.

“It’s true. I’m a giver like that,” he said, splaying his hand over his heart for emphasis.

“That you are.” It actually was true, she thought.



“So, what do you say? When are we gonna get together? There’s a pledge party at my fraternity this Saturday night - you and Jess should come by. You know where the Delt house is, right?”

Bella did a double take. “I didn’t know you were in a fraternity. When did that happen? You weren’t even here during rush week, were you?”

“No, I couldn’t make it because of my forestry internship. But I’m a Delta Tau Delta legacy, so they pretty much had to take me, the poor bastards,” he said with a laugh.

“Legacy. What’s that mean?”

“My dad and grandfather were both Delts, so basically that puts me at the top of the pledge list, even though I’m a sophomore. It’s been a blast so far. They’re easy on the hazing, hard on the studying and philanthropy. It’ll probably be a good thing that they’ll be on my ass to keep my grades up.”

“Wow. That’s cool. Congratulations,” Bella told him. She didn’t quite get the appeal of fraternities and sororities, but for a social animal like Mike, they were probably his own version of nirvana.

“Thanks. So, Saturday? Is it a date?”

She tried not to cringe at the term. Had he gotten nothing out of their last talk?

“Actually, I told my dad I’d go home to visit him for the weekend. I’m guessing he has a birthday present he wants to give me or something.”

Mike’s eyes grew round. “Your birthday! Oh, man, I forgot that was coming up. Next Tuesday, right? The big two-oh.” His knee nudged her sneaker again. “Now that is an occasion to celebrate. Got any big plans?”

“Yeah, I do, sort of,” she admitted. Bella realized she had no idea what Edward had planned for the day. She didn’t care, as long as she was spending it with him.

Mike’s face fell when he deduced her meaning. “I suppose suit-guy is taking you out to some fancy restaurant, huh?”

“I don’t know, actually. He probably wants to surprise me.”

He nodded, pursing his lips together in what looked like distaste. Then, in a flash, his smile returned. “That’s fine. You can still ring in your birthday, college-style, the night before. Why don’t we round up Jess and Riley and whoever else you want to invite - maybe go out for burgers, knock back a few beers, and sing Happy Birthday at midnight. Whaddya say?”

His expression was too hopeful to crush with a “no, thanks.” Bella decided to suck it up and play along. Besides, it might be kind of fun to go out with a group. That way it wouldn’t seem like a date, and maybe she could even steer Mike in Jessica’s direction, if Jess was still interested.

Not to mention, it would be a nice distraction to keep her mind off of what Edward might be doing on the eve of her big day.

“Sure, sounds fun,” she told him, trying to sound enthusiastic. “But please don’t feel compelled to sing or anything on my account.”

“Are you trying to tell me something about my singing ability? I think I’m offended. I think I’m wounded, actually.”

“That’s kind of how you sound when you sing,” she said, putting on her best deadpan face. “Wounded.”

“Oh!” he exclaimed, slamming his fist over his heart, then pulling an imaginary arrow from it in slow motion. “Straight for the jugular!”

“The truth hurts,” she teased.

“Yeah, well, I’m gonna sing extra-loud right in your ear for that one, ’de-e-ear Bel-laahhh,’” he crooned, leaning in to bellow the last two words in her face.

“Stop!” She put one palm up to his chest and gave him a good-natured shove. “Save it for the actual day, for the love of God.”

He only laughed. “Fine. Lucky for you, I gotta get to class anyway. I’ll text everyone and get a little party group together, then I’ll give you a call with the deets. Sound good?”

She nodded affirmatively.

“Cool. See you soon, Bella.” She wasn’t sure she liked the way he said her name - a little too soft, a touch too intimate.

He gave her shin another squeeze before he got up and left. She absently rubbed the spot where his hand had been as she watched him walk away. She realized she didn’t want anyone touching her that way but Edward.

And she didn’t want Edward touching anyone else that way, either.

She shivered despite the warm sun on her skin. She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around her legs, burying her face in his scent until it was time to leave for her next class.

# # # # # # # # # #

10: 38 p.m.

The crowd at the Christophe Gallery is beginning to thin.

Hors d’oeuvres starting out as miniature architectural marvels have been leveled to a rubble of crumbs on silver platters. A streaming champagne tower has been reduced to a few bubbling puddles in the bottom of lip-stick stained flutes. And an everything-old-is-new-again throwback to the heyday of impressionism has successfully shown his latest works to an appreciative crowd of wealthy Seattleites looking to expand their art collections.

The artist and his agent are in seventh heaven. Leslie Grimm, the PR rep for the gallery, is right behind them. Indeed, her cloud of blonde curls and pale satin gown give her a faintly angelic quality, tarnished only by her vibrantly painted face and fingernails.

She drains the last of dregs of her fourth - or is it fifth? - champagne glass and surveys the stragglers, searching for her date. He is not hard to find. The wayward hair springing from the head of his six-foot-plus frame is instantly recognizable to her. He is still chatting with the artist, looking positively absorbed in the conversation. Damn, he is good. He always knows how to make a good impression on the people she needs him to, and for that alone, he is worth every penny.

But she knows what else Edward Cullen is good at, and in that arena, he is priceless.

Hot damn, that boy is gorgeous, she thinks as she glides across the room toward him, swaying slightly in an alcoholic torpor. Not one single painting in the room can rival the artistic planes of his face. She cannot help but admire how the cut of his suit complements his figure, lengthening his legs, broadening his shoulders, narrowing his waist. The work of art it creates is breath-taking. But she knows from experience that the canvas beneath is the real star.

She takes his forearm when she approaches, seamlessly inserting herself into the conversation. Small talk is made, congratulations are shared, and eventual good-byes are said. She is ready for the real fun to begin.

She keeps a socially acceptable distance as Edward escorts her to the parking garage. But the minute they reach a dimly lit corner, she is all over that suit, pulling at it, pressing against it, lifting herself up and pulling his sculpted face down to hers.

Something is missing in his kiss, she thinks; but perhaps she’s just had too much to drink. She’ll sober up a bit in the car on the way to the hotel, and he’ll loosen up once they’re in private.

“Where are you taking me?” she purrs as he guides her down the row of imports toward his convertible. “You know I love that suite at Hotel 1o00.”

Did his lip just curl? Impossible. He loves that suite, too. It’s his favorite, she knows.

“I’m taking you home,” he says. He lets go of her hand and fishes for his keys. She stops dead in her tracks, too stunned for movement.

“Home?” she repeats, her own lip definitely curling in distaste. “My place is a mess. I had something a little more upscale in mind. Or at least more seductive.”

She is using her best sex-siren voice on him. He smiles, but it is not the type of smile she wants to see. His expression is . . . polite. She would call it indifferent if she didn’t know better.

“I can’t spend the night with you tonight, Leslie.”

She knows better now. His eyes reflect the cold, gray concrete and steel of the parking garage when he glances at her. She is still staring at the back of his head after he turns and walks toward his car, aiming the remote keys to unlock it. The electronic beep-beep seems to mock her.

She finally stumbles forward, a stilted, jilted walk of disbelief as he holds the passenger door open for her. She wants to smack the small, perfunctory grin off of his face. He can’t be serious. Her ego won’t let him be serious.

“I never said anything about spending the night,” she counters, falling back on innuendo once more as she approaches. “An hour or two is all I need. As I recall, you can accomplish quite a lot in that time frame.”

His perma-grin is maddening. It’s almost a simper. “Some other time,” he says, sounding somewhat dismissive. “But not tonight. I’m sorry.”

Except that he clearly is not. She cannot disguise her incredulity now. Where is the Edward Cullen she knew? The one who was more than agreeable, even eager, to have a little fun at the end of the evening? She knows there is no guarantee of sex at the culmination of a Renaissance Escorts date, but it’s an implied and understood part of the agreement that if she wants it, she will get it.

And she wants it. She has always wanted it from him. She wanted it the first time she saw him, and every time after that. She wants it now. Why doesn’t he?

“What’s the problem, Edward?” she coos, unable to give up just yet. She runs her hand along the fine gabardine of his jacket, over the lapels, smoothing his thin silk tie. “You didn’t book someone else after me, did you?”

“No, of course not. It has nothing to do with you. I’m afraid I have to cut the evening short for personal reasons.”

“Personal reasons,” she echoes, wondering what on earth they could be. What a pathetic liar he is. Her stare is in danger of becoming a glare as she looks up at him. She is going to wipe that goddamned polite grin from his face if it’s the last thing she does.

Her hand has reached his jaw now, already sandpapery to the touch though he started out the evening clean-shaven. Fuck, is that ever a turn-on. She knows she’s about to become very undignified very soon. She catches the scent of him now, slight hints of soap lingering over musky male warmth; and she is afraid she’s not above begging.

“I have a couple of personal issues of my own right now,” she whispers, lifting her lips closer to his. “Needs, you might call them. I’m pretty sure you can take care of them before you turn into a pumpkin,” she teases. Her other hand is wandering south, hovering around his waist, waiting for the signal to keep going. She has him backed against the open door now, the glow from the car’s interior lighting her way.

“As tempting as that is . . .” He pauses to clasp her face firmly in one hand, impeding its progress toward his, “I have to decline.”

“Decline?” She bursts into peals of champagne-fueled laughter, wrenching her face from his grasp. “I’m not a maxed-out credit card, for fuck’s sake. What’s gotten into you? You’ve never declined anything from me before. Not my kisses . . .” she plants her lips on his jaw, “not my blow jobs. . .” she slides her hand down over his crotch, “and certainly not my open legs.”

She rubs her hand along the fabric-covered outline of his dick, willing it to harden. She’s astonished, even insulted, that its response is half-hearted at best.

“What’s with you?” she asks again, feeling an angry indignation rising in her chest. She continues to stroke his face and his sex, sure that he will cave one place or the other. “Where’s the Edward Cullen who liked to have a little fun? A lot of fun, as I recall. Nasty fun,” she murmurs, giving his chin a little bite. “Come on. You can’t tell me your other clients let you ass-fuck them like I do. And I know you. You love nothing more than to give me a good anal pounding. And you know I love it, too. Go ahead - give it to me. Right here in the back of the car. Or bent over the hood, if that gets you off.”

Though his lips resemble a sneer, his dick isn’t nearly so put off. She delights in the slight thickening she feels, and she drops her other hand down to work at his zipper. She thrills to the sound of its metal teeth releasing. Her hands are at the waistband of his cotton briefs, fingers curling in his happy trail, and she knows she is almost there.

And then his hands are on her wrists, gripping tight, pulling her hands away from the prize. Effortlessly he wrenches her arms behind her own back, pinning them in place and pulling her closer. She lets out a tiny shriek of excitement at his roughness, only too happy to press her body against his. Her head lolls back, lips parted, waiting for his kiss.

Instead, she receives only more placating words.

“Leslie,” he begins, in that achingly low, seductive tone of his. “Make no mistake. You are a gorgeous, sexy woman, and I am incredibly flattered that you want me. But it’s not going to happen this time. Not tonight.”

Her pride utterly stripped away, the truth finally hits her.

“Not ever,” she says, her stunned eyes challenging him to refute her.

His silence is all the confirmation she needs.

Silence is their stifling companion during the drive to her high-rise. It retreats at last when Edward asks if he can walk her to her door.

“Don’t bother,” she whispers as she opens the car door and steps out. She turns back and looks him dead in the eyes, making no effort to hide her humiliation and anger.

“Good-bye, Edward,” she says before slamming the door shut.

He watches until she is safely in the building before leaving.

He knows he has just lost his first client.

# # # # # # # # # #

11:22 p.m.

Bella has finally given up and showered.

She has also done her homework, listened to some depressing music, and written another poem that she deems too sappy and mundane to possibly express what she is really feeling. Which, at present, can be distilled down to a single word.

Melancholy.

She figures she might as well go to bed now.

She pulls clean pajamas out of her dresser, throws them on the bed and looks at them. The bottoms are covered in cartoon illustrations of coffee cups, grinders and beans, interspersed with the words “java,” “latte,” “espresso” and the like.

Not exactly sleep-inducing, she thinks wryly.

Edward’s dirty clothes are laid out neatly over her plastic blow-up chair in the corner. She knows she should throw them in her laundry basket and wash them before she returns them to him. She wants to do none of the above.

11:27 p.m.

The java p.j.’s are back in the dresser. Bella is snuggled under the bed covers in Edward’s clothes instead. She wonders if there’s something wrong with her. All she knows is that the melancholy ache subsides a little every time she inhales his scent.

11:44 p.m.

She has fallen into that drowsy state between wakefulness and sleep when the musical cadence of her cell phone brings her back to consciousness. She picks it up from the nightstand and warm tingles surge through her when she sees who is on the other end.

“Edward,” she says, more groggily and less sexily than she was aiming for.

“Did I wake you?” he asks, his voice wrapping around her like velvet ribbons.

“No,” she lies. “Where are you?”

“In my bed,” he replies. “Missing you.”

“You’re home?” she asks in surprise.

“Yeah. Early night.”

She wonders if those words mean what she hopes they do.

“That’s unusual,” she replies, fishing for her answer.

“Not always. Tonight was pretty uneventful.”

And now he has lied, too. But he’s given her the truth she needed to hear.

“Mine was uneventful, too. Homework, mostly. A little writing.”

“More poetry?”

She snorts softly. “If you can call it that.”

“I don’t care what you call it. It’s great. You have a talent for putting words together in a powerful way.”

“Thanks. It’s nothing like your talent for putting musical notes together. But I try.”

“I’m trying again, too.” She thinks she detects something different in his tone - anticipation, almost excitement - as he continues. “Things are changing, Bella. For the better. I can feel it.”

“Yeah? You think so?”

He can hear the wistfulness in her voice, and it cuts him deep, as only she can.

“I know so.”

He sounds adamant. She’s never heard him sound so sure before, and she smiles, feeling her melancholy dissipate like fog under the sun’s rays.

“I believe you,” she says.

She always says that, when most girls in her position wouldn’t trust him as far as they could throw him. The way she gives her trust so freely makes him all the more desperate to earn it.

“I know you have an early class tomorrow,” he says regretfully. “I’ll let you get some sleep. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“I can’t believe you remember my class schedule,” she says with a surprised laugh.

“I told you. When it comes to you, I pay attention.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve got my full attention, too. I’m glad you called. I always want to hear your voice.”

“Then I’ll call you again tomorrow.”

“You promise?”

“I promise,” he says.

You have no idea how much I promise you, he thinks as he hangs up the phone.