Contest entry for the P.S. I Love You Contest

Title: Old School

Pairing: Edward/Bella

Rating: M

Word count: 11,919

Summary: He's old school, and I think I like it.

DISCLAIMER: Twilight and its inclusive material is copyright to Stephenie Meyer. Original creation, including but not limited to plot and characters, is copyright to the respective authors of each story. No copyright infringement is intended.

OLD SCHOOL

1

Of course it starts pouring because I actually flat-ironed my hair this morning. I hunch my shoulders as if playing turtle might stop the raindrops from landing on my head and my skintight clothes. If only I had a real waterproof shell to escape into.

Come on, 51! If the bus arrives before my T-shirt gets soaked through, this day might not be a total disaster.

A body shuffles behind me; the rain stops—or at least, it stops falling on me. A soft pitter-pat above my head muffles the noise pollution of the city street. Any other day, I would shrug away from a stranger's umbrella. Today, I can't afford to be prickly.

Craning my neck, I take a cautious peek at the pavement behind me. A man's brown loafers, almost twice the size of my own open-toed sandals, stand firm against the water droplets ricocheting off the sidewalk. My gaze ventures up his tan corduroy pants, just reaching his thigh when a deep voice startles me.

"Sorry, didn't meant to scare you. I hope you don't mind."

My focus jumps to the man's face—a handsome, grown-up face framed by a close-trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. A hint of a smile brushes his cheeks, mirrored in his silvery-blue eyes.

"Not at all. Thanks, actually."

His grin widens. "It goes against my grain to let a lady get wet."

Coming from any other guy, that line would definitely ring the creeper bell. Something about this man—maybe the crinkles etched at the corners of his eyes and lips—lends a sense of depth that instantly sets me at ease. Or maybe his swoon-worthy smile has lulled me into a false sense of security.

"I appreciate that."

"My pleasure." He steps close to my side, creating a safe, dry island for two.

A rustle of cellophane draws my attention to a bouquet of sunflowers in his opposite hand. Be still my romantic heart.

"Those oughtta brighten somebody's rainy day," I say, allowing myself the brief, wistful fantasy of those flowers—and the smile behind them—being for me.

"Hope so." He glances at the flowers as if they disappoint him somehow. "So, what brings you out in this monsoon?"

"I have a job interview."

He scans my outfit as if he must have seen it wrong the first time. The eyebrows rise, but he resets his neutral expression just as quickly. "I see."

I should make something up, something that would impress a man who buys flowers and keeps ladies dry in the rain. But fuck that, because if I can't even say it out loud to a stranger on the street, how am I ever gonna get this damn job?

"I'm applying at Hooters." It's almost a dare.

"I see," he says again. His gaze falls to my chest, just for a split-second, but long enough for my stupid nipples to form two sharp points against my damp shirt. "I like your chances," he says, "if you don't mind my saying so."

Gee, why would I mind a complete stranger telling me my tits will get me a job?

Get over yourself, Bella. "I guess it kind of goes with the territory."

He chuckles. "The terrain, so to speak."

Okay, so done talking about my chest. "And where might you be headed?"

"I'm going to visit my mother at Shady Acres."

Duh, the flowers! "Oh, is that a cemetery?" Excellent. I'm standing here discussing my tits with a man going to visit his dead mom.

A short, crisp laugh leaves him. "No. It's a nursing home."

"Oh, God, I'm so sorry."

"It's fine," he says. "I like to have lunch with Mom on Mondays. They make a surprisingly decent meatloaf."

Grateful for his humor, I play along. "You just go for the food, then?"

"Oh no," he answers so seriously I think maybe I've offended him after all. "Mom's loaded, and she's gonna kick the bucket pretty soon. I have to make sure I stay on her good side so she doesn't write me out of her will and leave everything to the young stud who does her sponge baths."

My jaw drops. "Wow, that's terrible"—though I couldn't say whose behavior was more deplorable, the aide's or the son's.

"Um... I'm messing with you."

"Oh my god! You're a jerk!" I haul off and punch his umbrella-holding arm right in the bicep. Solid rock meets my knuckles. "Ow! Jeez!"

"You do realize you're the one who hit me, right?" The man's smile reminds me of my cousin Sam when we'd wrestle as kids, and he'd let me think I had a chance at pinning him.

"Sorry about that. I guess I'm nervous."

"No worries. I can take it." He stands there looking big and strong for a second before leaning in close. "But I wouldn't tell your prospective employer about your temper. They might not look kindly on a waitress who beats her customers with hot wings if they joke around with her. Very bad for business. Oh look, here comes the bus."

Sure enough, the bus chugs closer, swooshing through the water trough at the edge of the road before coming to a stop at our corner. The door opens with a loud hiss. My knight with a shiny umbrella walks me to the bus and waits until I am safely inside.

Well, that was interesting.

My plan to ignore him flies right out the window when my mystery man's head appears in the stairwell. He's even more handsome in full-on frontal view than the snippets of profile I'd stolen outside. My heart flutters and flips.

He scans the rows of seats as if reading a page line by line—across, back, across, back, duck, duck, goose! His eyes light up when they land on me, and I feel about as grounded as dandelion seeds in a hurricane. As he approaches my row, his smile curls into his cheeks, forming an enormous dimple on one side. "Almost forgot to wish you good luck."

I tap the molded plastic beside me. "This seat's open."

"You sure?" He waits for me to nod before sliding into the seat, careful to keep his wet trench coat and umbrella from touching my side. The bouquet rests in his lap. I try not to stare at where those sunflower heads are aimed, but it isn't easy.

The bus starts up with a lurch, and I grab the seat in front of me. Nerves and a bumpy ride add up to a sour stomach I don't have time for right now.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"Could you... keep talking, maybe?"

He grins that Sam-grin again, humoring me but not seeming to mind. "Anything in particular I should talk about?"

"Oh, I don't know. Do you have a job, or do you just go around impressing women?"

"You're impressed?"

"Maybe."

"Hmm, maybe I should just keep you guessing, then."

"Why? Will I not be impressed if I find out the truth?"

Laughter rolls out of his throat like a song. At the end of it, he shakes his head and sighs. "Now, how am I supposed to know what would impress you?"

"The usual, I guess. Like if you were some kind of a superhero."

"Superhero!" He waggles his bushy eyebrows. "Umbrella Man saves the day?" He's not so far off, actually.

"I bet you're looking for a phone booth right now, aren't you? Got a cape and tights on under that outfit?"

"I'm not sure I know you well enough to discuss my underwear." Never mind that we've already discussed my boobs.

"Damn, my stop is next, just when it was getting good."

He stands up to let me out, though I would have happily climbed over his lap—or stayed in it a while.

"Here," he says, handing me the umbrella. "Take this with you."

"What about you?"

He runs his fingers through his hair, and it all settles perfectly back into place. "Mom won't care if my hair is a little wild. But what she would mind is if I let a pretty girl go back out in the rain without an umbrella."

"You're gonna tell her about me?"

He smiles. "I just might."

There's no time to argue, and I really do need that umbrella. Nice meeting you feels off, as we haven't actually introduced ourselves. "Thank you. For everything."

"My pleasure… and good luck. Almost forgot again!"

I start down the aisle toward the door, then turn around one last time. "Tell your mom I said thanks for raising you right."

###

2

The uniform takes some getting used to. I practice walking and bending in front of the mirror at home, making sure that mandatory "smile" under the bright orange shorts stays visible at all times. The tank top fits like sausage casing, but I know my tits look good—too good, I might have worried, if not for the strictly enforced, no-touch policy and the numerous bouncers stationed around the "breastaurant."

At three o'clock on Friday, I punch in for the first time and step behind the bar with the general manager who hired me. Despite his good looks and position of authority, Emmett has a way of easing my nerves and making me quickly feel part of the Hooters family. He starts me at the end of the bar, farthest from the service area where the waitresses pick up their drinks.

"These six stools and anyone who walks up behind them are yours. You keep them happy, and that'll keep me happy. I'm happy, you're happy. Capiche?"

"Got it."

"Anyone gives you a hard time, you yell for me or one of the bouncers... or better yet, let Rosie handle 'em." He puts his arm around the gorgeous blonde bombshell standing next to him and draws her to his side. "Bella Swan, meet Rosalie Hale, bartender extraordinaire and love of my life, not necessarily in that order."

Rose rolls her eyes. "Welcome to Hooters, Bella. You need anything, I'm right here."

Rose knows her mixology, but more impressive, she manages the food orders with ease and slaps drinks on the servers' trays as if she has six hands. On top of all that, she checks on me at regular intervals to make sure I'm not drowning—which, I am proud to say, I am not.

Aside from the openly brazen tit staring, Hooters customers are pretty much like any other thirsty, hungry bar patrons I've served before. Just like riding a bicycle, except I have some new specialty cocktails to learn: Packin' a Punch, the Hootercane, the Long-Legged Long Island.

The bar fills quickly, and I don't have time to be nervous. Before I know it, two hours have passed, and the dinner crowd starts rolling in. My six stools fill, with a second row forming behind.

I am in the zone. I am perpetual motion—maybe not poetry, but I am damn proud of how I'm handling myself. No spills, no hideous mistakes, no qualms with the kitchen. Basically, I am rocking it.

And then he walks in.

I feel his presence before seeing him approach. Goosebumps rush up and down my arms. I'm sure I am blushing like a fool. It's been five days since I've seen him, but it strikes me at once that he's been a subconscious tickle at the edge of my memory this whole time.

A beeper at the end of the bar flashes bright red blips, snapping me back to reality. The customer settles his tab and slips through the crowd. The two couples standing behind the barstool wave off the single spot. My heart leaps right into my throat as my bus stop hottiesettles onto the stool.

With trembling fingers, I pull a cocktail napkin off the stack and set it neatly in front of him. "Welcome to Hooters, Umbrella Man." My voice sounds steadier than I feel.

"I told you you'd get the job."

So he had. "You come here often?"

He chuckles. "No. I had to come see for myself..." What he's come to see becomes apparent as his eyeballs hit the "HOOTERS" stretched across my chest. "Bella. Suits you."

"Well, that doesn't seem fair. Now you know my job and my name."

"I'm Edward." He offers his hand, and I take it before remembering mine is damp and chilly from handling cold beverages and wet cloths.

"Sorry, my hand is—"

His grip tightens as I try to pull away. "It's perfect," he says, holding my gaze as firmly as my hand.

A shiver rushes up my arm. "Edward? Not Eddie or Ed? Or Ted?"

"Never Ted. Eesh!" No, I suppose, not Ted for the man who brings his mother flowers.

"Edward, then. That suits you, too. Very old-school."

"Ouch." He releases me and claps his hand to his chest.

"I like it. It's different."

"Old and different. Maybe I should quit while I'm behind."

"Can I buy you a drink, Edward?"

"To make up for all the insults?" He gives me a fake-wounded pout I don't buy for a second.

"Let's call it a trade for the umbrella."

"Fair enough. What's your specialty?"

"For you, I like something classic, clean, and simple."

That easy smile spreads slowly across his face. Message received. "I like the sound of that."

"Vodka, bourbon, or tequila?"

"Let's start with tequila."

I very much like the sound of that—his settling in for more than one. "Sit tight. I'm gonna blow your socks off."

"There you go again, talking about my underwear."

Gah, this guy can flirt! It isn't just that he keeps leading my thoughts wherever he wants them—in his pants, mostly—but he seems to love catching me off-guard. He's made no bones about coming to see me. This man radiates confidence like no other man I've been interested in before.

Let's face it, the others are boys in comparison.

"Excuse me, can we get another round?" Seat three circles his finger over the two empty mugs, pulling me out of our little bubble.

"Sorry," I say to Edward, "the natives are getting restless."

"Go! Take your time. I'm not going anywhere."

I pat the bar in front of him, a little parting-is-such-sweet-sorrow gesture. "Thanks."

A backlog of needy customers has piled up while I was schmoozing up Edward. I hustle my orange-clad ass, opening, pouring, and mixing my heart out, while Edward's eyes follow my every move. His presence expands to fill every molecule of space. Avoiding his gaze requires significant effort.

What a relief when I can finally mix Edward's drink and give him my complete attention. I pull down a highball glass and drop in two fresh mint leaves. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch his smirk as I plunge the muddler inside the glass and grind the mint with vigorous pumps. I fill the glass with ice, a shot of Herradura, lime juice—lovingly hand-squeezed—and a splash of soda, then garnish with a fresh mint leaf and a bright pink umbrella, which brings a chuckle from Edward.

"Nice touch," he says, giving the umbrella a festive twirl.

"Well, I did hijack yours."

"I'm pretty sure I gave it to you."

"Whatever. Try your drink."

Edward lifts the straw to his mouth and pulls in a long sip. "Mmm. Consider my socks knocked off."

"There you go again, talking about your underwear." Edward's gentle laughter sweeps me right back into our little bubble, but the spell is quickly broken.

A hand snakes around my waist. Rose appears at my side. "How's it going down here?" Rose scans the bar with the practiced eye of a pro, landing on Edward at the end. "Oh. Hello."

Edward nods politely, suddenly very enthralled with his drink.

Something is going on between these two, something I don't think I like. I study Rose for a clue, but my coworker has her game face on. I'm not going to get anything out of her right here; that much is clear.

"Need any help, Bella?"

"Nope, I'm all set."

Rose gives me a cheery, "Okay," then skitters away, leaving me with questions I can't wait five hours to get answered. Hell, I can't wait five minutes.

"Excuse me," I mutter, then scoot to the other end of the bar and place my mouth near Rose's ear. "You know Edward?"

Rose crouches to grab a pair of Bud bottles from the cooler. "Who?"

"My customer. Seat one?"

"Oh! No, I don't know him."

"You seemed to recognize him." Rose is doing the work of two while I am standing here interrogating her, but my need to understand outweighs everything else.

"Hey, if you're worried about me horning in on your sugar daddy action, Emmett is more than enough man for me."

"There's no action to horn in on! We just met the other day, right before my interview."

Rose stops suddenly, breaking into a wide grin. "Aha!"

"'Aha' what?"

She snags the edge of my shirt and drags me to the back wall of the bar. "He's been in here the last three nights. I'd never seen him before that. He never sits down, never orders anything, never looks at any of the girls with more than a passing glance. I couldn't figure out what he was doing, but it makes total sense now."

"It does?"

"Duh, Bella!" Rose laughs, tossing her long blonde waves around her shoulders. "He's been looking for you."

I know damn well he's watching me. I shouldn't turn and look at him, but I can't help it. Gone is the confident ease that turns my insides to jelly; in its place, worried eyes and a sheepish frown. Yeah, his behavior is a tad stalkerish.

I saunter back, hand on one hip, eyebrows raised, and wait for an explanation.

"I'm busted, aren't I?"

"A little bit."

Edward shrugs. "I figured I had three options if I wanted to have any hope of seeing you again. One, come back here every day for two weeks to see if you got hired—which, thankfully, you did. Two, stand at our bus stop... forever. Three, pray you'd show up for Meatloaf Monday at Shady Acres. And now that I've said that out loud, I realize how insane it is."

"A little bit," I answer, but I can't contain my smirk. "You forgot number four."

He looks up. "Oh yeah?"

I lean across the bar and put my Hooters right in his view. "You could have asked me for my number."

He chuckles. "Now, why didn't I think of that?" As he slowly pulls his phone out of his pants pocket, a grin settles on his face. "Okay, we can do it this way, but you don't know what you're missing. The meatloaf is truly outstanding."

###

3

Did you make it home okay?
This is Edward, by the way.

Waking up to his text takes the sting out of my nine o'clock alarm and sends a giddy buzz through my system. Checking up on my safety—so deliciously old-school.

It kind of killed Edward last night when I told him I'd be taking the bus home after my shift, but what was he going to do, stick around till 2 a.m.? I can't help but smile, remembering the reluctant look on his face when he left just before midnight.

Best not keep the man in limbo.

Yes thx. All is well.

I save his number to my contacts. First name: Edward. Last name: O'School. Two seconds later, a smile emoji pops up on my phone, and I know it matches my own expression. I set my phone down on the kitchen counter in case Edward texts again while my coffee brews.

My accounting textbook mocks me from the coffee table. I can barely lift the damn thing, let alone absorb its contents. Cost Accounting is kicking my ass. How did I get two weeks behind already? It's only October first.

I push away the voices in my head that threaten to bring me down: Should've stayed in school the first time and graduated like your brothers. You're not smart enough. You still have seventy-four credits to go. Stick with bartending—your tits'll make you more than droning away at some accounting firm.

Coffee.
Crack open the book.
Push through it...

My phone buzzes again. How is it possible only ten minutes have passed?

What are you doing later? I get off at 11. I'll get you off by 11:30. ;)

Ugh, James McBooty Call. Guy's not half bad in the sack, and the flesh-on-flesh is nice once in a while. Then again, Roger Rabbit satisfies every time, and I don't have to kick his pale ass out of my bed afterwards.

My job makes for an easy excuse. Sorry – working.

Next time :)

Knowing James, he's already moved on to the next girl on his list. In a way, it's comforting to know what to expect from him—nothing. Back to the grind.

Fixed costs, variable costs, mixed costs...
"He's been looking for you..."

Contribution margin ratio...
"You don't know what you're missing..."

Break-even point...
"Maybe I should just keep you guessing..."

Dammit, Edward is distracting! The attraction is undeniable, but so is the age difference. Sugar daddy. The stereotype doesn't flatter either of us.

"Yuck. Okay, back to the books!"

Compute the marginal cost of 2,000 widgets...

.

.

.

My unplanned nap is interrupted by the blare of my phone. Oh, she's a brick... house...

I peel my cheek off the page that put me to sleep. Hopefully, some accounting concepts seeped in by osmosis while I was sleeping.

She's mighty, mighty... just lettin' it all hang out!

"Hold on!" I stretch for my phone. Edward O'School. "Shit!"

My heart is pounding into my ears. I bolt upright on the couch and clear my throat before attempting to answer. "Hello?"

"Hi, Bella. I hope I'm not disturbing you." If I close my eyes, I can see him as plain as day.

"Oh... no, I was just studying."

"Oh yeah? What are you studying?"

"Cost accounting. Joy of joys."

He chuckles into the phone. I can practically feel his breath on my ear. "You don't sound like a fan."

"Is anyone?"

"I really couldn't say," he answers, his gentle tones wrapping themselves around me. "I shouldn't keep you from your books."

"No, it's fine." I nestle the phone against my cheek. "So, what's up?"

"Oh, uh... nothing, really."

Silence.

He saves me by cutting into the deathly abyss. "I was just calling to chat."

"Oh."

"Is this weird?"

It is now. "Maybe a little unusual."

"Ah," he says. "I'm being old-school again, aren't I?"

Crap. "I guess I'm just not used to chit-chatting on the phone."

He chuckles but there's none of his usual delight in it. "Oh boy. This is going well."

"It's fine," I offer, but honestly, it's awkward as hell. "Well, look, I guess I really should hit the books. Thanks for calling."

"Sure, Bella. You have a good evening." He sounds both relieved and miserable, which is exactly how I'm feeling.

"Yep, you too. Bye." I end the call before the goodbye gets long and torturous as well.

.

.

.

TGIF was a walk in the park compared to Saturday night. We're jammed starting at Happy Hour. The ten-cent buffalo wings fly out of the kitchen, the five-dollar Jager bombs hot on their heels. By 10:30, the bar patrons are elbow-to-elbow, with more customers jammed behind. I'm working my ass off, so I don't think about his absence—until he suddenly appears.

My heart skitters when we make eye contact. He doesn't push his way up front like the others to order a drink, but I pour him one anyway. A classic margarita: tequila, fresh lime juice, agave syrup, and salt. His eyebrows pop when I spear the lime garnish with a bright green umbrella, and his lips form the beautiful smile my memory could not quite reproduce.

"Better start a tab," he says, passing his Amex between two customers before snapping up his drink.

He carves out a space among the crowd standing behind the seats. Every time I sneak a peek, he's watching me. I go about my business, lubricating and entertaining the customers. Do I lean in a little closer, laugh a little louder, swish my orange-clad ass a little harder than I did before? Yes, I most certainly do.

A stool opens up, and Edward nabs it, smooth as silk but with authority, surprising the young buck who had been hovering with one eye on the bar seats and the other on his girlfriend's tits. I bite my lip so I don't smile too hard while tossing a fresh napkin in front of Edward.

"You made it."

"So it seems," he says, scooting his stool up to the bar.

"Can I hit you with another margarita?"

An impish grin crosses his face so briefly I might have imagined it. "Actually, could you just set it down in front of me?"

"Let's see how the night goes."

I'm rewarded with a glint of amusement in his steely blue eyes. "Fair enough."

"Want to see a menu?"

"No, thanks. I'm not hungry."

My attention is partly on the margarita I'm mixing and mostly on Edward. I set down his drink and lean in so the whole place can't hear us. "So, I guess you've figured out I'm a better listener than talker?"

"I can work with that," he answers with a gentle smile. "In fact, I came in here to—"

"Oh, I can definitely work with those!" The loudmouth on the barstool beside Edward points a meaty finger toward my chest.

After downing a 20-piece platter of Three Mile Island wings and a pitcher of Bud, the man has lost his volume control along with any filter he might have brought in with him. I have done my best to avoid this fool's advances all night, but that now seems impossible.

"Hey, babe, I lost my phone number. Can I have yours?" His finger is poised over his phone, waiting for me to recite my digits. As if.

"Really wish I could, but management frowns upon us giving out personal information."

His easy-going, booze-infested demeanor changes on a dime. The hairs on the back of my neck snap to attention. Time to call in the troops. I take a calm step backwards, and that's when Edward stands and places his hand on the man's shoulder. Damn, and I really liked his nicely-arranged face.

Beer-for-brains turns with a start and glares at Edward. "What do you want?"

He deflects the insult without flinching. "I want to help you save your dignity before it's too late, and you are perilously close to 'too late.'"

"What's your damage? Ohhh, I get it. You've got the hots for this chick!"

"What I have for this… young lady… is called respect."

"Pshhh!" He sprays the bar with saliva. "Did you miss the 'Hooters' painted across her chest?"

Edward's focus stays locked on the creepy dude, who turns to leer at me. I fold my arms across my chest and stand my ground.

"Sir," Edward says, "I'd be happy to debate this point with you when you're sober. Perhaps you'd like my number…?"

"No, thanks, pops. I'm not really into older guys."

Emmett appears at my side, all puffed up and ready to bust someone's head. "Everything okay over here, gentlemen?"

"Yes," Edward answers. "I was just about to tell this gentleman I'll happily take care of his bill if he'll allow me to walk him to the door."

Drunk guy grins like he's just found a buyer for the Brooklyn Bridge. "Really? I had about a millllion wings. And I was planning a verrrry big tip." His attempt to wink at me turns my stomach. "Might cut into your Viagra budget."

"Don't you worry about me, Prince Charming. I'll take care of the lady." Edward's promise sends aftershocks through my body.

"Deal." Drunk guy tumbles off the chair, miraculously landing on his feet. "'Night, sweetheart."

Emmett nods at Edward. "I'll meet you at the door. Thanks." Watching Edward disappear into the crowd, I have to admit I am definitely crushing.

He returns a few minutes later, sinking onto his stool with a heavy sigh. "On behalf of my gender, I'd like to apologize for that hideous behavior."

"That was sweet of you to stand up for my virtue. Thanks."

He gives me a sheepish grin. "Don't tell me, I was being old-school again?"

"Yep."

He takes in my appreciative smile. "Emmett seems like a good guy."

"Yeah, he's a great boss."

"Good. Because despite evidence to the contrary, I'm not planning to show up here every day you're working."

"No?"

"I only meant to stop in briefly tonight, to ask you on a date, in person, because I'd botched it so horribly on the phone." God, he's really, really adorable.

"Oh, that's what you were trying to do?"

He shakes his head and chuckles. "Way to kick a man when he's down."

"So, are you gonna ask me out or what?"

###

4

Life is basically one big blur until my day off on Wednesday. Managing two ridiculously difficult courses on top of working thirty hours a week tends to speed up time, but that's okay—it puts me closer to my associate's degree, that moment I can truly celebrate my accomplishment and know I got here on my own. I force my eyeballs into my Intro to Finance book. I can't decide if this is better or worse than Cost Accounting, but at least some of these terms are familiar. I feel like I'm going through the motions with my homework. My mind keeps wandering to its new happy place—Edward.

True to his word, Edward has stayed away from Hooters and hasn't attempted another phone conversation. I'd expected no less from the man, once he'd given his word. What surprises me about Edward over the next four days is his serious texting game. He's sweet and flirty, but there's more to it than that. He cares about my thoughts and opinions and my safety, and he shares just enough about himself to keep me hungry for more.

He's dropped a few hints about his profession: not a typical nine-to-five; he's his own boss; it's something he's passionate about. "Let's see how the night goes…" he texted me earlier this afternoon when I prodded him for details. The man knows how to tease, all right, but tonight is the Edward at the end of my tunnel. Oh wow, that sounded dirty.

He won't say where we are going, but assures me jeans will be appropriate. I pair my dressiest jeans with a long tunic top, dangle earrings, and my fringy, brown suede boots. It's an interesting reversal to dress more conservatively for our date than I do for work. I barely touch my face with makeup and leave my hair to its own devices—it falls long and wavy halfway down my back. Flirty but not overtly sexy, youthful but not too young, I hope.

I head downstairs with plenty of time to spare. Edward would never keep a lady waiting, and I intend to show him the same courtesy. My housemate looks up from her dinner.

"Well, don't you look pretty!"

"Thanks, Mrs. Cope. You can just leave the dishes. I'll take care of them when I get home."

She waves my offer away. "Don't be silly. What time is your gentleman caller arriving?"

"He should be here in about fifteen minutes. He's looking forward to meeting you."

In fact, Edward had insisted on it after I told him about Mrs. Cope. Two years ago, I'd bombed out of USF for good, and my parents had stuck to their guns—no more allowance. I was tending bar five nights a week, but my savings dried up over the next six months, and my roommates were too stretched to cover my share of the rent on top of their own. I was literally twenty-four hours away from moving back home with my parents when I happened to see a new posting on Craigslist that looked way too good to be true:

HOUSEMATE WANTED FOR ELDERLY WOMAN. FREE ROOM & BOARD IN EXCHANGE FOR
GROCERY SHOPPING, FOOD PREP, LIGHT HOUSEKEEPING AND MAINTENANCE.
NON-SMOKER, NO LOUD MUSIC, NO PARTIES, NO DRUGS.

I answered the ad though my cooking repertoire at the time consisted of ramen and grilled cheese. I was more than ready to leave the parties behind, so that part was the least of my challenges. The biggest turned out to be Mrs. Cope, herself.

Not that she wasn't perfectly warm and lovable—because she was, right off the bat—but she couldn't accept the idea that a "young woman with my looks would want to hole herself up with some old lady in the 'burbs." She'd lost her husband after a long, terrible illness. Her remaining family—two sons on the east coast—visited dutifully a few times a year, but Mrs. Cope didn't want to live alone. She also didn't want to be driven out of her home.

I managed to convince her to give me a chance, and we celebrated the night I moved in with a couple of filets I threw on the grill (after replaying the YouTube video until I had the instructions committed to memory), a baked potato we split down the middle, and the best Caesar salad I ever made. Mrs. Cope was thrilled. I was determined. She laid out her expectations, and I met every one. Basically, Mrs. Cope and I saved each other.

The doorbell rings—eight minutes early—and my heart leaps into my throat. Mrs. Cope smiles as she gets up to answer the door. "Want me to give him the third degree?" she asks. "I can, you know."

"Yes, I remember, and no, thank you."

She squeezes my arm as she passes me. "Honey, I'm kidding. I won't scare your man away."

I watch from a safe distance as she opens the door. There stands Edward, looking handsome as ever in a crisp, white, short-sleeved button-down hanging just so over a pair of dark dress jeans. In his hand, a bouquet of bright daisies spills over a pink polka-dot ribbon. My heart.

"Well, hello. You must be Edward."

"Yes, ma'am." His soft chuckle warms my insides. It's only been five days since I last saw him, but I somehow managed to forget how gooey he makes me feel. "These are for you."

Edward's gaze darts in my direction, and he shoots me a wink—so I don't feel left out, I suppose.

"Oh! How lovely!" Mrs. Cope presses her hand to her heart as she takes the flowers. "Aren't they lovely, Bella?"

"They are." I smile at Edward. He smiles back.

I move toward the doorway, unsure how to greet him, exactly. We're not on hugging terms, but shaking hands would just be weird. I opt for the ever-awkward, "Hi."

Somehow, when he says it back, those gunmetal gray eyes locking onto mine as if we're all alone in the room, the two little letters hold all the promise of a magical night. "Hi."

Mrs. Cope gives me a gentle shove out the door. "You two have a lovely evening, now."

Edward shakes her hand. "You too. Very nice to meet you, Mrs. Cope."

I turn to tell her goodbye, but she's already shutting the door behind me. I can't help it, I laugh.

He turns an amused grin on me. "What?"

"Mrs. Cope is toast. You know that, right?"

"She's very sweet."

Edward's hand comes to rest on my back as he guides me toward the car and opens the passenger door for me. I can't say I remember any of my previous dates ever doing that. I can't take my eyes off his expression while he makes sure I'm tucked safely inside before closing the door. This old-school treatment is definitely growing on me, and judging by the little smirk on his face when he climbs behind the steering wheel, I think Edward knows it, too.

"Hey, if you have a car, why were you riding the bus the other day?"

"First of all, I love walking in the rain. I find that soft drumroll of rain on my umbrella very peaceful. In fact, if Shady Acres weren't so far away, I would have walked the whole way there. And secondly, getting in my car and traveling from point A to point B is efficient, but I don't get to interact with new people. I would never have met you, for example."

"You would have met me when you came into Hooters."

"I think we've already established why I went to Hooters." Yes, we have, but it's so much fun to hear you admit it again.

Edward starts the engine and reaches for the gear shift between us. "You know what I just realized?" he asks me, a wide, wondrous grin on his face. "This is the first time we've actually been alone together. No bus people, no Hooters customers, no chaperone. Just you and me."

"You do realize there are going to be other people at the restaurant? Maybe we should just sit here in the driveway all night."

His eyes narrow just the slightest bit, enough to send a shockwave through my system. "Good point. Next time, I'm cooking for you."

He leaves me to ponder that delicious scenario as the car starts down the driveway. Edward and I, alone, in his house, shoes kicked off, wine glasses filled, candles lit, romantic music piping in, a hot man slaving over hot coals for me...

"What'd you make for Mrs. Cope tonight? It smelled good."

"Just a stir-fry, nothing fancy."

"Do you usually eat together?"

"Sometimes but not always. She's never pressed me to sit down to dinner together, but if the timing works out with my job and classes, we enjoy each other's company. And I like the dishes she's taught me to make."

"It seems like a perfect arrangement."

"I know it's a little weird, considering the age difference, but we respect each other's space, and we've honestly become good friends."

He chuffs. Whoops.

"Edward, you do know she's old enough to be your mother, right?"

"It's okay, Bella. I don't think it's any great secret I'm older than you."

"Well, it was." I smile when he looks over at me. "Should we talk about this?"

"I'm happy to talk about anything you want."

Do I want to open this can of worms right now? On the first moments of our first date? What the hell. I suppose it's better to know what I'm getting myself into sooner rather than later.

"Okay, I guess I do have a question for you."

His concentration never leaves the windshield but I can see the smile edging up his cheek. "Go for it."

"Are all of the women you date much younger than you?"

"Wow. You went right there." He glances over at me, and I can see his expression is still amusement, which is a tremendous relief. "I've dated women my age, younger women, and even women older than me. I am an equal opportunity dater."

"Sounds like you've dated a lot of women."

He shakes his head with a dark chuckle. "I cannot win here, can I?"

"I'm just teasing you. Thanks for answering."

"Welcome. And you, Bella? Do you have a thing for older guys?"

"No," I answer a bit too quickly, drawing a raised eyebrow from Edward. "I mean, I don't have some kind of fetish."

He bursts out laughing. "Fair enough. Would you like to ask how old I am?"

I've got him pegged for early forties, at least a good, safe decade younger than Dad.

"Actually, I'd rather know if you're seeing anyone right now."

"Yes," he says, turning my direction long enough to say, "you."

"Is that it?"

"Unless you want to count my mother."

"Ewww, no." We both chuckle. The air stills again.

"And you?" he asks.

"Nope."

A contented silence stays with us until we reach the restaurant.

###

5

Old School's idea of casual is white linen cloths and a wine list thicker than the bible. Obviously, he deserves to be teased.

"I can't believe this place calls itself a restaurant, and there is not a single chicken wing on the menu."

He lowers his menu binder to the table. "I think the Statler chicken has a drumette if you're really feeling homesick."

"Actually that sounds pretty good, but so do the veal chop and the swordfish and the pumpkin tortellini."

Edward folds his hands on top of the menu and gives me one of his trying-to-figure-you-out stares. "Are you one of those girls who says she's starved and then eats two bites and says she's stuffed?"

"I wish! No, I'm the girl who finishes pretty much everything in front of her and then orders dessert."

His grin widens. "My kinda gal."

He proceeds to order the tortellini for us to share as an appetizer and a California cab we sure as shit don't sell at Hooters. By the time I get three-quarters into my swordfish, I'm stuffed to the gills.

"I hope you won't be too disappointed in me if I can't handle dessert."

"Suit yourself, but I'm ordering the donut holes."

"Like Munchkins?"

"Munchkins? That's like comparing an Annie Leibovitz to a bathroom selfie!" It seems I have pushed a button. He is adorably passionate all of a sudden.

"So that would be a 'no'?"

"These donut holes come out piping hot from the kitchen, crispy on the outside, tender and caky on the inside, rolled in cinnamon sugar, and served with a side of hot fudge dipping sauce. Does that sound like something you'd get at a rest stop on the highway?"

"What it sounds like is a person getting all hot and bothered over there."

"Just sayin'." Fuck. That dimple.

"Why didn't you tell me this earlier so I could have saved room?"

"My bad."

"Yeah, you don't look sorry at all."

Edward flags down the waiter and places the order. When the donuts arrive, steam and deep-fried goodness rising from their wire basket, Edward lights up. I have a feeling I'm about to see his "O" face.

"Would you like to be alone with your donut holes?"

"Nope." He plucks one out of the basket, dips it into the hot fudge sauce, and holds it over the dish while the excess chocolate drips off.

I'm literally on the edge of my seat, anticipating his first taste, but I should have known better. That's not Old School's style.

"Ladies first." He reaches across the table with the donut between two fingers and a look of wild yearning on his face. "No pressure," he says.

I'm powerless in the face of this man and his decadent pastry. "I hate you right now," I inform him before leaning in for a taste.

Okay, the donut is fucking ridiculous—warm chocolate giving way to the slight crackle of sweet crust against my teeth—but the best part is the expression of pure joy on his face as he watches me. This is a man who truly delights in giving pleasure. I let that sink in as I savor the tastes lingering on my tongue.

I kind of love that he doesn't ruin the moment by demanding any declaration from me afterward. There's no I-told-you-so, no hasty offer of another bite that would only cheapen the first. Instead, in what might be his sexiest move yet, Edward dips what's left of the donut hole back into the hot fudge, closes his eyes, and places the whole thing onto his tongue. He chews deliberately, as if committing every sensation to memory. I'm completely mesmerized by his appreciation of that single bite of food.

It seems a major effort when his eyelids finally open, and his mouth eases into a lazy smile. He looks so happily spent. Fuck me.

He pulls his napkin from his lap and wipes off the powdery, chocolatey mess from his fingers. Damn, one of us could've licked those clean. What a waste.

"So," he asks, "what do you think?"

I think he's sexy as fuck, but I haven't downed enough wine to tell him so.

"You double dipped."

His whole face smiles. "Seeing as I'm planning to kiss you as soon as we get outside, I'm not too worried about sharing germs."

Gah! I'm sure there's a proper response, but all that comes out of my mouth is, "Oh."

He chuckles. "Would you care for another bite?"

"Um, have you seen my uniform? Where am I gonna hide a donut hole?"

I can't blame him for lowering his gaze to my chest. "I assume that was rhetorical."

"Yes. And speaking of uniforms..."

"Yes?"

"Why do I get the feeling you don't want to tell me what you do for a living?"

"Ahhh." He places his credit card inside the leather folio. I wouldn't insult a man like Edward by offering to go Dutch. "I'm happy to tell you what I do. It's just that some women I've dated in the past have found my work a little intimidating."

"Why, are you a plastic surgeon or something?" That would fit. All this time I thought he was checking out my boobs, he was calculating how to make them better. Or maybe he's noticed how the right side of my mouth doesn't lift quite as much as the left when I smile.

"I'm the farthest thing from a plastic surgeon. And please, don't take this as an indictment of the field. I know a lot of doctors doing great work."

The waiter breezes by and slides the credit card off the table.

"Okay. So how are you the opposite of that?"

"I'm a photographer. I capture what is."

"Weddings and Bar Mitzvahs?"

"No, portraiture."

"Like Sears?"

His lips hint at a smile. "A bit more intimate."

Wow, I've had Old School figured all wrong. "You do porn shoots? No wonder your dates are intimidated!"

The waiter returns—after my outburst, thankfully—and Edward leaves me stewing in my thoughts while he signs the slip. He regards me with an amused smirk, as usual.

"No, I do not do porn shoots. Everything is very tasteful, I assure you."

"Like Glamour Shots?"

"I like to call what I do 'empowerment photography.' My clients come to my studio with various body image issues that prevent them from embracing themselves as they are. By really seeing them through the lens of my camera, I can help them see the beauty in themselves."

This man is definitely too good to be true. "You turn your camera into a very kind mirror."

Edward nods, and his unique light beams out of those gorgeous eyes. "On a good day, that's exactly how I feel."

"So, you don't do any retouching at all?"

"Let's just say I don't correct for biology. There's no airbrushing away moles or double chins. No nip and tuck of body parts."

"And your clients are okay with that? I mean, even Instagram has an edit option."

"I'm not out to change a client's physical characteristics. What I do is reflect the beauty in that person's soul on film. When we review the photos together, that woman sees something different than what we've all been taught to see on the surface, and she remembers how she felt about herself during our shoot."

"You keep saying 'she.' Are all your clients women?"

"Mostly. It's not that I won't shoot men; I just find I connect better with women."

Of course he does. "This is what you meant when you said your work is sometimes intimidating to other women?"

"Yes. What I do is intense and intimate. If I don't bring my full self to the experience, I'm not adding any artistic value."

Is it weird to feel proud of him? "I get it."

"Bella, would you mind very much if we continued this conversation later?" He balls up his napkin on the table. "I have to confess. Since I mentioned my plan to kiss you, I haven't really been able to concentrate on anything else."

I jump out of my seat a bit eagerly, foiling Old School's attempt to pull out my chair for me. This manners thing will take some getting used to. His gentle, guiding hand at my back scoots comfortably around my waist, and I float more than walk out the door.

Edward's pace picks up as he steers me toward his car. All I can think about is how his lips will feel on mine. I'm giddy by the time he spins me around in his arms, my back pressed to his car and my mouth inches from his. The air between us is so charged, I'm surprised I don't see sparks when his fingertips touch my cheek.

As quickly as we got here, everything slows. He steps close enough that I can see the rise and fall of his chest. His smile yields to something much more serious, almost as if he fears this desire might destroy him. His trembling fingers leave a wake of chills as they skim through my hair, cup the back of my head, and draw me toward his mouth.

"May I kiss you, Bella?"

I open my mouth to answer, but I can't produce more than an embarrassing moan. I'm lucky I can still stand up.

"I really hope that's a yes," he whispers.

We breathe in sync—in, out, in, out—and then, we don't breathe at all. He presses his lips to mine, and we share the most effortless kiss I have ever experienced. Gentle and elegant and warm and sweet and chocolate-cinnamon delicious.

I lace my hands behind his neck and hang on for dear life. He rocks us ever so slowly; we breathe as a single being, open our lips for a deeper connection, settle into a better fit.

Time and place lose all meaning. All that matters is this intimate conversation without words, our tongues passing secrets back and forth.

He pulls back from our kiss, that same glazed-over, post-donut-hole hangover settled into his eyes. Seems about right.

He looks as if he might say something, then gives his head a little shake. "Wow, can I just..." He dips in for another sweet kiss, and our lips try to hold onto it even when he backs away. "Oh, man."

I clear my throat instead of trying to say something that's just gonna come out like a big ol' squeak.

"I think I better take you home now," he says.

Neither of us knows quite what to say when we get back inside the car. Riding next to him is torture when all I want is more kisses and more Edward. I can't stop staring at his face. I don't know when I'll see him again, and I don't want to forget a single whisker.

The hell with pride. I pull out my phone. "Do you mind if I take your picture?"

He turns to see if I'm serious. "Now?"

"Yeah."

"Knock yourself out."

It's dark in the car, and the road is bumpy. The pictures are horrible.

"Might want to put the flash on."

"Is that your professional advice?"

"It's in my best interest for you to take the most flattering picture of me. Otherwise, you might not say yes when I ask you out again."

He's smiling so hard, that dimple is a sitting duck. Click! The car lights up with the flash.

"You're right; that's much better. But then, I'm pretty sure I could have taken an upside-down picture of your left elbow, and I'd still say yes."

"In that case, let's lock this up right now. When is your next night off?"

"Sunday."

"Shit, really? That's four days from now." There's that adorable pout again, but this time I think he means it.

"I know."

"May I cook dinner for you on Sunday, Bella?"

"That depends. Are you a good cook?"

"Not really," he says with a sheepish glance, "but we'll be alone."

"Sounds perfect."

"Aren't you going to put that in your phone?"

"Why?" I giggle. "Do you think I'm going to forget?"

"Don't worry. I'll remind you. A few times."

A happy buzz follows us home. Edward leaves the car running as he skips around to open my door. I take his hand, and he draws me out of the car and straight into a goodnight kiss.

He weaves his fingers between mine and walks me to the front stoop. I so want to drag Edward inside with me, but that's not how Old School rolls.

He wraps his arms around me in a close hug. Every part of me wants every part of him, but this works, too.

"Thank you, Edward. I had a really nice time tonight."

"Me, too."

###

6

A dozen white roses greet me when I get home from my finance class the next day. "I think you've got a keeper there, Bella," Mrs. Cope says, smiling hard as she presses the card into my hand.

To sweet kisses and new beginnings. -Edward

Being on the receiving end of Edward's thoughtful gesture feels every bit as wonderful as I'd imagined. I glide up the stairs, vase in hand, and rush to my phone.

Thank you for the beautiful flowers and a wonderful evening.

His answer comes back immediately.The pleasure is mine. Just when I catch my breath, he adds a kiss emoji.

.

.

.

TGIF saps my energy. I step outside for my break, grinning when I see Edward's text: Miss me?

Yep.

Good. ;)

Bastard!

Haha! XX

.

.

.

Morning, sunshine. Be good and get all your homework done today. Tomorrow night, you are all mine!

It's not exactly still morning when I wake to Edward's message. His last line keeps me puzzling for hours. Clearly, date one stops at kissing. What are Old School's rules for date two? It would serve him right if I had Mrs. Cope ask his intentions, but I try the subtle approach.

What time should I walk over? What can I bring?

I'll pick you up! 5:30 okay? Bring salad? Any food allergies/aversions?

Ugh, no clues. I'll throw a toothbrush and a thong into my purse.

.

.

.

Showing up fifteen minutes early is not playing fair. I'm stuck washing and chopping lettuce in the kitchen while Mrs. Cope greets Edward and chats him up in the living room.

Hearing Edward's voice now makes me rethink my ban on phone calls. His laughter carries into the kitchen, seriously disturbing my concentration. I struggle to work the sharp knife down the cucumber without slicing off a finger in the process.

"Screw it!" I toss the half-pared cucumber into the salad bowl on top of the lettuce, followed by the unpeeled red onion, a big, ripe tomato, and a whole red pepper—sticker and all. I'll finish at Edward's.

"Ready!"

My heart skips a beat when Edward turns toward my approaching steps. Fuck me. Is he serious with those distressed jeans and dusty gray t-shirt? So, my memory hasn't been playing tricks on me. He is that hot.

His smile cranks up about a thousand degrees, igniting my body as he takes in my skin tight jeans and white tank. "Hi."

I'm supposed to be cool and not tackle him because salad and Mrs. Cope, so I force one foot deliberately in front of the other. He squeezes my free hand and pulls me in for a chaste kiss on the cheek.

You're not fooling me, Edward Cullen. I can feel the heat coming off you. And damn, the way this man smells, even without the chocolate and cinnamon!

He glances into the deep wooden bowl as he takes it from me. "Um... interesting salad."

"Shush, you," I tell him, earning me a chuckle from Edward and Mrs. Cope.

"Ready?" Yeah, Edward's as eager as I am to bust out of here.

"Yes."

Mrs. Cope gives me a wink as she shoos us out again. "Have fun, you two."

"Good evening, Mrs. Cope," Edward says, taking my hand.

He walks me down the driveway and opens the car door for me. As he places the salad bowl on my lap, he says, "Oh, there's something I forgot to tell you."

"What's that?"

His grin moves closer. "This." I draw in a quick breath just before he kisses me. His tongue presses gently against mine, leaving an ache between my legs. He pulls away with an even bigger smile on his face. "Much better."

We have a million things to talk about—my day, his day, what's going to happen tonight—but we ride the mile and a half to Edward's house inside a silence bursting with everything unspoken. He parks in his driveway and walks me to the front door. His house is similar in style to Mrs. Cope's, but this paint job is fresh, and there's a neat garden by the entrance. Edward opens the door, and a rich, meaty aroma wraps around us like a blanket.

"What is that amazing smell?"

"That would be the coq au vin." I follow him into the kitchen and set my salad bowl onto the counter.

"I thought you said you can't cook!"

"I learned." He takes in my surprised smile. "What, you don't believe an old dog can learn new tricks?"

"Let's just say I'm impressed."

"Mission accomplished." Okay, that was sexy as fuck. "What would you like to drink?"

"You're gonna make me a cocktail?" I settle onto one of the wooden stools at the island. "What's your specialty?"

"I don't like to brag, but I make a mean dirty martini."

"Will you have one, too?"

"I'd never make a lady drink alone. Vodka or gin?"

Oh lord, we are going to get wasted. "Dealer's choice."

Edward's smile never fades as he produces two martini glasses from the freezer and lays out all his supplies, including a handsome martini shaker trimmed with brown leather—an accessory that screams bachelor.

He shakes our drinks over his right shoulder, making me weak with his muscular display. No wonder my knuckles smarted from punching his arm! He strains the drink like a pro, back and forth over both glasses until the shaker is empty, then spears three olives to garnish each one. He slides one glass toward me.

He lifts his glass. "Here's to being alone together."

A shiver curls down my spine. "Cheers!"

He watches my first taste expectantly. "Well? How'd I do?"

"Beast level," I say, "though it'd be better with an umbrella."

"I'll have to get some for next time." Next time. "Why don't I finish chopping the salad while you enjoy your drink?"

"That'd be great." I don't know if he's showing off for me or if this is normal behavior, but Edward creates an intricate starburst design with the brightly colored vegetables. "Are you planning to eat that or photograph it?"

He chuffs as he carries the bowl to the table. "I don't like to waste an opportunity to experience beauty. Come. Sit." Of course, he pulls out my chair for me.

The square table is set with two woven placemats next to each other, a simple white plate on each. Two pretty daisies weep over the mouth of a porcelain bud vase. Classic, elegant, clean.

Edward scoops a piece of chicken out of the Dutch oven onto my plate. The smell is heavenly.

"I cannot wait to taste your coq ohhhhhhhhhh shit!"

We both freeze as my gaffe sinks in. Edward drops the spoon back into the dish and bursts out laughing.

"Tell me how you really feel, Bella."

I'm too mortified to speak.

He cups my chin in his hand, forcing my gaze into his soft gray eyes. "Bella, don't you think I've made a few Hooters comments inside my head since I met you?"

"You have?"

"Um, I'm a man."

"I have definitely noticed that."

"And I've noticed you. You're a beautiful, sexy woman. Just because I respect you doesn't mean I don't want to tear your clothes off."

Gulp. "Thanks for clearing that up."

"Anytime."

It turns out conversation still isn't my best thing, and it doesn't help to know Edward wants exactly what I want, and yet here we sit, finishing our plates of coq au vin all civilized-like.

He clears away the dinner dishes, refusing my offer to help. "Dessert now or later?"

"That depends. Are you planning to show me your studio?"

His head snaps up, and he gives me a look I can't quite read. "If you'd like."

"I would really like."

He rounds the island and takes my hand. "Come." He doesn't say a word as he leads me downstairs, flicking switches that bathe the basement with light.

Right before my eyes, Edward morphs into the professional empowerment coach. It's as if the world upstairs is just a place he visits from time to time, but this is where he belongs.

He brings me into the "anteroom" first and offers me a seat at a round table with a single album resting on it.

"This is where I meet with my client before the shoot. We look through the album together, talk about what's going to happen, her goals... anything else she wants to share with me."

"May I?" I point to the album, and he slides it toward me.

"Of course."

He stands next to me and flips the book open to the first page. "This woman came to see me five years after giving birth to twins." The photo is gritty and real, not what you'd find in a magazine. She is standing in front of a white backdrop, fully clothed, shrouded in half-light, eyes focused off to the side. "Here's our 'before' picture. She clearly does not want to be seen," he explains.

He turns the page, and I can hardly believe my eyes. "Same woman, three hours later." The difference is literally night and day. The woman is completely undressed and positively radiant, her gaze directed straight into the camera as if it's a best friend she's just told her most intimate secret. She is posed on a wooden stool to hide her private parts, but every ripple, stretch mark, and roll is on display for the camera.

"How did you do that?"

"'Closer' by Nine Inch Nails." The memory makes him smile. "Really, really loud."

"You're kidding."

"Nope. I still remember how I felt when she smiled for me." His voice holds a tenderness that turns me to mush. He points to the next photo, a woman practically curled into a ball on the floor, clutching her knees to her chest. "This one... a victim of domestic abuse."

"Oh my god."

He flips the page slowly, and a lump forms in my throat. Same woman, relaxing on her side, naked under a strategically twisted white sheet, chin propped up in her hand. "And… after," he says softly.

"She looks almost flirty there."

"Yes. She was incredibly brave."

I reach for his hand and draw it around my shoulders. He stays quiet while I flip through the rest of the album. Taking in the pictures makes me so grateful to have met this incredible man.

"These photos must go for a fortune."

"They're not for sale. The client pays for the session; everything is theirs to keep. All the photos in this portfolio—along with the few you'll see hanging on the walls—I've been given permission by the models to display here. They help inspire other women who have a hard time getting started."

I stand up and wrap my arms around him. "You are amazing; you know that?"

He shrugs. "This is my super power."

I smile, remembering our first conversation. "Show me the rest?"

"Said Dorothy to the Wizard."

He leads me into the next room, and I have to laugh when I see the open umbrellas lining one wall. "I guess you had a few to spare."

"I gave you my favorite one."

"Sure." I walk in front of the white screen and imagine placing myself in Edward's capable hands. Heady stuff. "This is where you start?"

"Mmhmm."

"How do you get those pictures in the dark?"

"I turn down the lights to almost pitch black and use 6400 film. The goal is for the model to forget I'm here."

"That seems like a shame."

His lips edge up, but he's looking at me the way he did that first time he kissed me. As if he is afraid of something.

"Edward?"

"Hmm?"

"Would you take my picture?"

"It's different with you, Bella."

"That's okay. I don't need the therapy part. You don't even have to turn down the lights" Before Old School can say no again, I tug my shirt over my head and toss it to the floor. "See? No issues."

"Jesus, Bella." His hands fly to his hips.

"Please?"

He takes a minute to stare at the white lace bra and consider his options.

"Don't expect objectivity. I am really attracted to you."

"I'm really attracted to you, too." I lift my hands up through my hair and clasp them together high above my head. "Come on, Superman, let's fly."

Edward sighs heavily, his surrender complete. He reaches over his shoulder, plucks one of the cameras off the shelf, and drops the strap over his head.

I think of that woman who needed the loud music and the dark, but all I need is Edward and his soft click-click-click. He moves in a silent arc around me. It's thrilling—the attention of the lens on my body, knowing how much Edward wants me.

"Look this way," he says, stepping closer, lowering the camera to my breasts. "That's beautiful, Bella. Raise your chin? Nice." Click-click-click. He doesn't ask for it, but I reach back and unhook my bra. The camera whirs away while I slide the straps down my arms and drop my bra to the floor.

His voice turns gravelly. "Lift your arms again for me? That's lovely. Turn a little to your right, look at me, yes, right there." I give him everything he asks for, from every angle. What a rush!

I reach for my zipper. He pauses for a half-second, clears his throat. The lens zooms forward like a greedy hand reaching into the cookie jar.

"Take the zipper down one tooth at a time. Fold down the waistband… show me a peek of your underpants... perfect." Click-click-click. "And wriggle out of your jeans... hold right there... gooood… turn to face the screen. Bend forward from your hips? Good, now look over your shoulder at me... Shit."

The camera drops against his chest, revealing a tight grimace.

"What's wrong, Edward?"

He scrubs his hand through his hair. "I'm afraid I just turned this into a porn shoot. I'm so sorry."

I turn to face him. "I'm not."

"Bella, I don't think you understand. I have real feelings for you. This isn't how I pictured getting your clothes off the first time. I feel like a complete tool, standing here taking pictures of you."

"It's my fault. I got carried away." I pull up my jeans and reach for my tank.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Let's not be hasty." He snaps up my shirt and bra.

"But I thought you didn't want—"

"Oh, I want. Just not like this. Not here." His flirty grin is back, and we both breathe a huge sigh of relief.

"Well, don't just stand there! Show me where!"

He takes my hand and races up the stairs. His camera swings against his chest, and my boobs swing against mine. We're lucky nobody loses an eye.

The master bedroom turns out to be on the opposite end of the house, and we're both out of breath when we finally stumble inside. He grasps me by the waist, and I squeak as his camera hits my belly.

"Shit, sorry!" He pulls the camera over his head and sets it gingerly on the nightstand, then takes me into his arms. Edward's kiss is urgent and sloppy. He knocks me over onto his bed, and I pull him down on top of me in a fit of giggles. He runs his hand up my belly and rolls my nipple between his fingers, leaving me moaning and writhing beneath him. "I finally meet the famous hooters."

"Speaking of your underwear..."

"Oh, were we, now?" I'd kiss that sexy grin right off his face, but I don't want to get derailed.

"Not recently, but the subject has come up in the past."

"I should have known this would happen once you tasted my coq au vin."

"Take off your damn clothes, Edward."

###

7

Good golly, Old School has the moves, and he knows how to use them. The others were boys; Edward is a man. And this bed… I might never leave.

Click-click-click.

My eyes fly open. Edward is standing over me, his feet straddling my hips, his camera pointed at my face. I feast my eyes on his six-foot-three frame, his beautiful, cut cock resting against his thigh after a long workout, impressive even at half-mast. I wrap my hand around his ankle—it's all I can reach.

"What are you doing?"

Click-click-click. "Your hair looked too beautiful fanned out on the pillow. I couldn't resist."

"I suppose this is what I get for sleeping with an artist."

He lowers the camera to his chest. "Have I been downgraded from superhero?" He gives me a devastating smile, then drops to his knees on either side of my waist.

"No, Edward. No downgrading has occurred since I got you naked." If anything, Edward is even more appealing undressed—lean and toned, comfortable in his own skin.

He chuckles. "Hush. You're twisting your mouth all around." He covers my lips with a soft kiss."Better."

Better but also worse. I'm falling so hard.

He raises his camera again, then changes his mind and draws the sheet over me, smoothing the material over the crest of my nipples.

"Why'd you cover me?"

"Your body distracts me from seeing what's inside." Click-click-click.

I can't speak.

"It's okay, Bella." He traces his thumb gently down my cheek.

I close my eyes, pinching back tears.

"You can trust me with this," he whispers, kissing my eyelids. "I promise."

I've trusted him from the beginning, with everything. I nod.

Click-click-click.

"I need to tell you something," he says.

I know that line. Eyes shut, I smile, thrumming for his kiss. "Go for it."

Click-click-click.

"I love you."

I open my teary eyes. Click-click-click. "What?"

He lowers the camera, dips his forehead, and nuzzles his nose against mine. "I'm really sorry about the camera, but I wanted to capture the moment for posterity."

"Edward." I can barely choke out his name. The tears break free down my cheeks. "I'm… not ready..."

He smiles at me as if I haven't just ruined everything.

"Look." He turns the camera to show me the last image he captured, my eyes brimming with a resounding, "I love you, too."

###

Hosts note: Please leave the author some love. Reviews are encouragement. In case you have an idea of the author's identity, please do not disclose it in the reviews or anywhere else.

P.S. We love you.