AN: Wow, guys, I am TOTALLY FLOORED at the amazing response to this. 22 reviews and quite a few alerts/favorites for a fandom that doesn't really exist for a Twilight writer? I am honored and giddily pleased right now. So yeah, this is definitely going to be a whole story. Maybe 10-15 chapters? Something around there. Not sure on exact number yet. This is kind of short and not all I wanted to say because I wanted to get you an update before I leave tomorrow for Comic Con. If you're going to be going, come say hi! I'll be in line for the New Moon panel with the rest of the Twilight fanfiction crazy girls and also I'm participating in the Twilight fanfiction panel Saturday at 10 AM. I'll be back Sunday and hopefully you'll get another update soon!

The song lyrics are "Can't Take My Eyes Off You," a fairly famous song. I listened to the version by Muse. . .I'll put the link up on my profile. ENJOY!

"You're just too good to be true, can't keep my eyes off you.

You feel like heaven to touch, I want to hold you so much

At long last love has arrived . . ."

The truth, Andrew thought as they rode the elevator to the ground floor, was that he'd always liked blonds. Gertrude was a blond. Almost every girl he'd ever been interested in was blond. Deep down, he'd been secretly terrified that he was some sort of subconsciously selective Nazi who only liked Aryan women, but then he'd walked into his interview at Colden Books and seen the undeniably brunette, undeniably gorgeous Margaret Tate. After that day, his taste in women had begun to shift, though he had never exactly wanted to acknowledge to himself why this was.

Now he knew. He'd walked in; seen Margaret Tate and had known that she was one of the most subtly beautiful women he'd ever seen and that if he'd ever permit himself to be, he could be wildly attracted to her. Then of course, he'd gotten the job, and he was rarely left with any time or energy to contemplate how stunning she was. Thinking of her only as Satan's Mistress also helped. All of which had been a good thing because up until a few days ago, he'd known that being attracted to Margaret was ultimately hopeless.

The elevator doors opened with a discreet ping and they stepped out onto the bustling New York street. And it was only then that Andrew allowed himself a single deep breath of relief. The whole trip down, he'd kept expecting Margaret to dash back inside and hole up in her office, refusing to leave. Because, he thought, let's face it, getting her to leave at all was a minor miracle.

Getting her to agree to a week without work was a major miracle, and if anyone should know, it was him. But he knew she needed a vacation. He knew her moods, her facial expressions, every pertinent fact about her (and plenty of other non-pertinent ones), and he could tell that she was rundown, exhausted and stressed possibly past the breaking point. She needed a break—and he was going to give her one. A mini vacation where she could breathe and relax and laugh and enjoy a nice glass of wine after dinner.

Margaret, always in charge, was one step ahead of him. She raised her arm to hail a taxi, though he was sure that this was merely habit. She didn't know where they were going. Hell, he didn't even know where they were going. He hadn't managed to think that far; getting her out of the office had been difficult enough. Now he supposed they'd have to do something to entertain themselves. Margaret loathed being bored.

As they waited for a taxi to stop, Andrew noticed that she was looking at him again. Not casually either. The whole morning she'd been looking at him like she'd like to catalogue every single pore in his skin,. That speculative glance from underneath her eyelashes, when she thought he didn't notice, was more of a turn on to him than any blond bimbo's openly seductive stare.

A taxi braked to a halt in front of them with a screech and Margaret looked up at him expectantly. He opened the door for her, as always, and as they slid inside across the dingy leather seats, Margaret looked over at him, obviously expecting him to name a destination.

On auto pilot and panicking, though he certainly didn't want her to know he was sweating this, he named the address to her apartment and the cab sped off.

Andrew leaned back in the seat, and glanced up to see her looking at him intently. "What?" he asked. "You did say that we stayed at your place."

She digested this, mulling it over. He was going to have to change this everlastingly long thinking thing of hers. She thought everything to god damned death. In the next week, he vowed to himself, he'd teach Margaret to be a little more spontaneous. Free up some of that incredibly sexy woman. Andrew shifted uncomfortably in the already-uncomfortable seat, just thinking of their kiss in the office and then all the ways he'd love to unbutton her.

"Yes, I did," Margaret agreed, speaking more to herself than to him. "I did say that."

"And so," Andrew continued with a lopsided charming smile in her direction, "that's why we're going to your place first so you can pick up your stuff, then we're going to my place."

Margaret froze like a deer in the headlights, and if Andrew wasn't mistaken, the emotion in her eyes resembled something like terror.

She was afraid? Of him? Of their relationship? Or simply the unknown?

God, he wished he understood women better.

No. Revise that. He wished he understood Margaret better.

"We are?" she asked, and he would have to be deaf to miss the hesitancy in her voice. He couldn't help but remember the way she'd described his apartment, and while it certainly wasn't Central Park West, it wasn't too shabby. It was comfortable and familiar, and he wasn't ashamed of it. Besides, he'd decided that it would be good to get Margaret out of her comfort zone. A man with ulterior motives, Andrew knew when she was out of her depth, more of the new Margaret that he was just beginning to know and love was revealed to him.

After an alarmingly short cab drive later, they pulled up at Margaret's ritzy, very expensive building. It was built of a discreet grey brick that didn't exactly scream high-end real estate, but the uniformed doorman and the cream and gold marble floor in the lobby gave it away.

Margaret's heels clicked on the marble as they walked to the elevator. The instant they'd left the cab and the doorman had opened the door for her, her back had almost imperceptibly straightened and though he didn't touch her, Andrew could feel every muscle in her body tensing and tightening. That alone reassured Andrew that he'd made the right choice in deciding they were going to his place. He would never get her to relax for a single second if they stayed here.

He'd only been in the foyer of her stridently minimalistic apartment, so instead of waiting, like he was sure she would expect him, he followed a few steps behind her she unlocked the door and walked inside.

Margaret seemed lost in her own world as she went from room to room, finally ending up in her bedroom. He hadn't said a word, but he'd been sure that she was aware of his presence. When she turned and jumped, a shocked expression on her face, suddenly he wasn't so sure.

"Andrew," she exclaimed, "I didn't even notice that you were here."

He tried not to take it personally. He failed.

She continued, as she walked around her bedroom, finding things to fiddle with so she didn't have to look at him directly. "I guess . . .I'm used to being alone here."

"You were, but you're not alone anymore." She still wouldn't look at him, so finally he gave up and walked towards her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her to him. "Not ever again," he vowed into her hair.

She tensed, of course, because this was Margaret, but after that a single brief moment, she relaxed again, melting into his arms. "I know," she murmured. "It's just a lot to take in. . .to remember, even. I've been alone for so long . . ."

Her hair smelled like coconuts and flowers and Andrew closed his eyes for a brief second, lost in this woman who was both so prickly and so vulnerable. She was, he'd decided, an irresistible combination to him.

"Andrew," she asked softly again, "what are we doing?" Her voice had just a hint of reprimand in it and Andrew knew that he couldn't continue to hide his own fear. It was time to come clean that he was just as fucking terrified as she was.

"I don't know," he confessed, and he felt her sink a little further into him, "but whatever it is, I know it's worth exploring."

He felt her move her head a little in affirmation, and then she spoke up again. "So we're going to your apartment? For the whole week?"

Another question he didn't know the answer to. But he couldn't deny that he kind of liked this version of Margaret, who deferred to him like he knew the answers, versus her constantly telling him what to do. So he made an executive decision, thinking that if it was a disaster, they could alter their plans later.

"Yep. The whole week," he told her decisively.

She sighed. "I guess I can manage that. I better start packing then." With a tiny sound of disappointment, she released her hold on him, and he smiled. She sounded just like he felt. There was something so incredibly right and true about how Margaret felt in his arms and he never wanted to let her go.

Then suddenly, as he watched her pull a suitcase down from a shelf in her closet, he remembered what she'd brought for a short weekend to Alaska, and he opened his mouth to insist that the packing be kept light. But she seemed so serious and determined, suddenly committed to making this work—or maybe just making sure that she had at least a wardrobe to rely on while tried to make it work—that he couldn't burst her bubble. So he just sat back, leaning against her dresser, and watched her pack.

Unsurprisingly, Margaret was excruciatingly methodical. She packed slowly, folding everything perfectly before placing it in a Louis Vuitton suitcase that he recognized from all the trips they'd taken together over the last three years. But this time, instead of going to their separate hotel rooms, exhausted from days of working much, much too hard, they would be in bed together. His bed, specifically.

Finally, after what seemed like hours and way more clothes than any one woman needed, Margaret announced she was packed. As they walked back through the apartment, Andrew was struck by how little personal touches she'd used to decorate. Everything was elegant and beautiful, but there was no Margaret in this apartment. It was just a very stylish, soulless box.

When they got onto the street, Andrew hailed another cab, and they climbed in. He gave the driver his address, and he settled back in the seat. Margaret was tense next to him, and he wondered when in the walk from her front door to the cab she'd managed to get nervous again. Or why she'd manage to get nervous again.

He looked down, and she was clenching the handle of her purse like it was a lifeline, her knuckles white as she gripped the bag.

Reaching over, he slowly enveloped her own tense hand with his own, much larger one. She stiffened, and shot him a look from under her eyelashes—the look that she always gave him when she wondered what the hell he was doing—and yet, she didn't pull away. Carefully he unwound her tight fingers from the handle and wrapped them in his hand and gave it a quick squeeze.

He was surprised to see her expression when he looked up at her face. No longer defensive, she was staring at their intertwined fingers like she'd never held hands before. Ever. Andrew decided there was definitely a story there, but just as he was about to ask her why she was so stunned by the simple act of holding hands, the taxi pulled up at his building and the driver barked at them.

Reluctantly, he released her hand and got out of the cab so he could get her bags from the trunk. She exited and as they stood in front of the building, she tried to smile. "It looks nice," she said with a false note of confidence in her voice.

"No need to lie," he laughed. "You're not being sent to the dungeon, I promise."

"Of course I'm not," she said realistically, but he knew by the way she was clenching the handle of her purse, that she was again tense.

Patience, Andrew told himself, she's not going to change overnight. After three years as her assistant you know how she reacts to unfamiliar situations—she freezes up and becomes Ice Queen. You've just got to thaw her out, as many times as it takes.

At his building, there was no doorman, but Andrew held the door for Margaret and they walked into the lobby. It was undeniably shabby, but clean and neat. Andrew forced himself to remember why this was such a good plan as they rode up to the 3rd floor.

He unlocked the door to his apartment and made a grand sweeping gesture with his free hand, welcoming her inside. "Welcome to the dungeon, madame," he told her with a straight face, and she glared at him, but the humor had weakened the pinched, nervous look on her face.

"It's. . .nice," she observed with a not insignificant amount of surprise, taking in the floor to ceiling bookshelves, refinished wood floors and the old leather couch in the living room. "It looks like you."

Andrew set her suitcase down. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Margaret looked back over at him, and for the first time since they'd left the office, he got a genuine smile out of her. "Can I have the grand tour now?"

"The grand tour? There's only four rooms, Margaret." He raised an eyebrow quizzically and she gaped.

"Four rooms? Four?"

"The Taj Mahal, it's not," he confessed wryly, reaching over and grabbing her hand. Before she could protest, he dragged her into the kitchen. "And the kitchen," he said, offhandedly, barely stopping to let her see anything.

"Do you ever cook?" she asked, as they moved from the kitchen to the bathroom, then to the bedroom.

"Rarely," he confessed, with a smile. "I'm a terrible cook."

"Me too," she smiled back. "But I think I'd like to try sometime."

"That is something we can arrange. And here's the bedroom," he said with a flourish, watching her face closely. While Margaret pretended to be hard as nails, she had a surprisingly innocent naiveté about her that made him wonder how she'd react to seeing his bed for the first time.

The bed they'd be sleeping in together.

"The bedroom." She said it matter-of-factly, but he could see the barest hint of a blush on her face and she was looking anywhere but at the bed and at him. Andrew almost would have found it amusing if he wasn't so damn tired all of a sudden.

And just like she'd read his mind, all of a sudden, she drooped a little too. He wondered if she'd slept at all the night before—he certainly hadn't. In fact, he hadn't really slept for two nights. The night before the wedding, he'd been up all night trying to decipher what the new feelings coursing through him were.

"Tired?" he asked.

She shrugged a little, but he could see now that she definitely was, though she wouldn't want to admit it. Tiredness, like all weaknesses, were too human for Margaret Tate. But unlike when he'd worked for her, he now had some pull over her that he could definitely utilize to perhaps finagle a confession out of her.

Plopping down on the bed, he patted the empty space next to him. "Come, lay down."

"It's the middle of the day."

"So? Come on. I bet that you didn't sleep last night."

She said nothing, and he knew he had her.

He leaned back in the bed and waited for her to give in. She clearly wanted to, from her torn expression, but taking naps or even lying down in the middle of the day was something that Margaret didn't typically do.

Sighing in defeat, she slipped out of her shoes and took her jacket off, and hesitatingly made her way over to the bed. She gingerly sat down on it and he immediately wrapped an arm around her and pulled backwards until their heads were resting on the pillows near the headboard.

He couldn't help but feel how tense she was but he tangled her fingers in his again, and when he looked back over at her, unable to look away because Margaret Tate was finally in his bed, he was shocked to see her eyes closed and her chest moving up and down in a steady pattern.

She'd fallen asleep.

Reaching for a blanket, he covered them, and closed his eyes. The last thing he felt as he fell asleep was the gentle touch of Margaret's hand in his.