Quarterback Sneak

Story: Quarterback Sneak
Storylink:

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8483034/1/

Category: Twilight
Genre: Romance/Humor
Author: jayhawkbb
Authorlink:

https://www.fanfiction.net/u/2129919/

Last updated: 07/13/2015
Words: 131262
Rating: M
Status: In Progress
Content: Chapter 1 to 16 of 16 chapters
Source: FanFiction.net

Summary: As a Seattle sports talk radio host, it's my job to give my opinion on the Seahawks new
quarterback, Edward Cullen. But maybe I shouldn't have said what I did...you know, about his butt. E/B
Rated M for language and adult content.

*Chapter 1*: It's How You Play the Game

A/N: I've been waiting a long time to post this one. Several of my sweet friends read it last
year, but I needed to finish some other stuff first. This story was born purely from my love of
sports, especially football.

I'm not sure how I got so lucky as to convince my lovely friend to beta this story, too. Thank
you, Windgirl810. You are a rock star. :)

I also talked three great friends into prereading/editing: Littlecat358, Tennesseelamb, and
M ichelle0526. I think you ladies all read this multiple times. M any, many thanks.

Thanks for reading!

BPOV

"Nooooo," I groan as I hear the alarm.

It's way too freaking early. Why did I agree to this crazy plan? Slitting one eye open enough to locate the
clock, I press the snooze button. Ah, silence… and nine more minutes of sleep.

The fourth time the alarm blares, I know I really have to get up. Grunting quietly, I roll out of bed, and
then use a combination of squinting and feeling my way along the wall to stumble to the kitchen. I skim
my hands across the cold, smooth tile of the countertop until I find the coffee pot. Since I loaded it last
night, all I have to do now is turn it on.

As soon as it gurgles to life, I bend forward at the waist, laying my entire upper body on the counter
while I wait. I may or may not be moaning quietly every time I exhale. Okay, I am. This crack-of-dawn job
is so not a good idea. Realistically, I know I'm being a big baby. I used to pull a worse shift than this one.
But I was 22 then; now I'm almost 26.

Yawning, I crack one eye open to peek at the coffee's progress and sigh disgustedly. Not even enough
for one cup yet.

"Goddamn slow-ass thing," I mumble crankily. Later today, I'm going to Target and buying a coffee
maker with an automatic timer. The coffee will be brewed by the time I have to get up tomorrow.

A minute later, the liquid finally reaches the two-cup line and I quickly grab the pot to fill up my stainless
steel travel mug. After replacing the carafe, I take a tentative first swallow from my mug, testing the
temperature.

"Mmmm," I moan, in ecstasy this time instead of agony. It's perfect. I snap the lid on, and then sip my
elixir repeatedly until I feel the warmth invade my veins. My body knows this means it's time to wake the
hell up.

Holding my mug with both hands, I shuffle slowly back down the hallway to the bathroom. After turning on
the shower, I set my mug down long enough to pull off the t-shirt and underwear I wore to bed, dropping
them where I stand. I pick up my coffee, pause to kick my dirty clothes toward the hamper in the corner,
and then open the door to step into the small, steamy shower. Leaning my head back under the spray, I
remember how I always used to shower with a cup of coffee in my hand. I haven't done it in a few years –
not since the last time I worked a shift that requires me to be awake when almost everyone else is
asleep – but it's strangely comforting to me to do it again. It's like an old friend, reminding me that I'll
survive this horror.

Jeez, I'm a dramatic bitch this early in the morning. Lots of people go to work this early. I'm sure I'll get
used to it. It's not forever anyway. I've been assured that I'll be back to my regular mid-day shift within a
few months.

By the time I finish, I'm much more awake. I dry off and dress quickly in khaki Bermuda shorts and a plain
blue t-shirt. Checking the time, I realize I'm going to have to put it in high gear now or I'll be late. I brush
my teeth, leaving the toothbrush in my mouth as I hurriedly rub lotion on my arms and legs. I put on
mascara that makes my eyelashes look long and curly, but don't fuss with any other makeup except a
little bronzer and pale pink lip gloss. Then I grab my favorite Mariners ball cap out of the closet and pull
my long, wet hair through the hole in the back. I slide my watch onto my left wrist, snap the clasp, and
check my reflection in the dresser mirror. I'm ready.

After stopping in the kitchen to refill my mug and switch off the coffeepot, I grab my backpack –
containing both my laptop and my research for this morning's show – and my car keys and am out the
door by 5:05….a fucking m. Apparently, I'm dramatic and foul-mouthed this early in the day.

I skid into the pre-show meeting at 5:29 – one entire minute early, thank you. I try not to look too smug
as I take a seat at the small, round table in the station's lounge.

"Wow. Thanks for dressing up, Swan," Emmett says sarcastically from his seat across from me.

"Shut up. I'm wearing almost the same exact thing as you," I retort, sticking my tongue out at him. We
really are dressed very similarly. Both of us are wearing shorts, t-shirts and hats. Only our footwear
differs; flip flops for me, running shoes for him.

"Yeah, but you're a girl," he smirks. "Don't you care about how we look at you? Are you content to just
be one of the guys?"

Emmett McCarty and I have been close friends for several years, and one of his favorite pastimes is
teasing me, trying to goad me into a reaction that involves me either yelling at him or punching him. But
5:30 a.m. is definitely too early for teasing.

Or… maybe he's hit a little too close to home. I flip him off – internally pissed at myself for feeding his
reaction addiction – and then turn my attention to the papers Newton is laying in front of us.

Mike Newton is, in a word, an idiot. He's the producer on Emmett's morning show – and he doesn't like
me very much. The feeling is entirely mutual. He's an overbearing, know-it-all jackwagon, and when I
started as an intern at the station five years ago, he repeatedly asked me out. The first time, I laughed
so hard I almost fell down. He doesn't possess any of the qualities I look for in potential dates: sense of
humor, good personality, general affability. After three weeks of near-daily asking, I finally told him that it
just wasn't going to happen.

Since that day, Newton and I have had a hate/hate relationship. We don't usually have to deal with each
other since he produces the morning show and I'm on afternoons, but until they find a new co-host for
Emmett, we're stuck with each other.

Newton knows that I am saving his ass by agreeing to this plan, but he hasn't expressed any gratitude
about it. I'm hoarding that ammunition for a day when I really need it though. Neither Newton nor Emmett
needs to be reminded right now that Emmett's former co-host was arrested early last week in downtown
Seattle – busted for DUI and possession of a whole lot of coke. The station owners were furious about
the negative publicity KSST received, and they blamed Newton for not knowing what was going on. I
heard through the station's gossip chain that he almost lost his job before Emmett approached the head
honchos with his idea to bring me on the morning show for a while as a fill-in. The afternoon show I co-
host with Riley Biers is the station's most listened-to program, and they're hoping that a familiar voice
added to Emmett's will help the audience forget about what happened last week.

By the time Newton is three sentences in to his "vision" for this morning's show, I've tuned him out.
Propping my chin in my left hand, I pick up a pen with my right and doodle in the margin of Newton's
handout. Even though I don't want to, I go back to thinking about what Emmett said.

Am I content to be one of the guys? No, not really, although that's what I end up being most of the time. I
haven't dated anyone for longer than a month in a couple of years. I keep telling myself that I just

haven't met the right guy. That it's not me.

But what if it is?

I go on a lot of first dates. When guys meet me, they think I must be a great catch. I'm no international
beauty, but my face is okay and I have a decent body. Then there's my job. A woman who watches and
talks about sports for a living. A woman who loves going to football and baseball games… who can get
good tickets… who even knows some of the players. Every guy's fantasy, right?

Right. Until they go out with me and regurgitate whatever opinions they've heard on SportsCenter or
another radio show. And that's fine. I don't mind that. What I mind is the part that comes next...where
they get offended if I don't agree. It almost always ends the same way, with some version of "girls don't
know anything about sports". When they don't call again, I'm usually relieved.

I feel like I've tried them all: The sporties who think they could have played pro, the hardcore fans who
blindly adore anyone who plays pro, the casual fans who think teams overpay for the pros. Then I
decided maybe I should stay away from guys who like sports altogether.

So I tried the corporate guys who are constantly busy... and usually too uptight for me. I tried the tech
geeks who were frustrated by my lack of interest in the latest mega-giga-itoucheditfirst-pad. I even tried
the shipyard guys. They were fun, but liked to party a little too much for me. I go on a bender one or
twice a year, not once or twice a week.

Maybe there is something wrong with me. I haven't had a really serious boyfriend since junior year of
college – four years ago. When he broke up with me, he accused me of not being fully committed to him.
And he was right; I wasn't. Sometimes I wonder if I'm even capable of having a relationship like that. My
parents certainly weren't at my age, which is why I grew up with just my dad. Both of my parents are in
solid marriages now, but earlier in life, they were each happier alone.

I contemplate for a few more minutes as Newton continues to yammer about… something. When he
releases us only five minutes before we go on the air, I narrow my eyes at him, and then rush to the
ladies room.

When I enter the small, newly-remodeled studio two minutes later, Emmett is already seated at the far
end of the black, rectangular table that fills most of the room. Six microphones on adjustable arms
extend from the center of the table, each pointed toward one of the chairs situated around it.

"You gonna run the board every day?" I ask, shutting the door behind me. I already know the answer –
Emmett's very territorial about the small sound board in front of him.

"Yeah, if it's okay with you," he replies, looking up at me. "I like to do the sound drops. But Newton does
the mixing from the booth."

At the mention of my nemesis, I pause mid-stride to glance at Newton through the window into the
control room. He smiles haughtily at me, so I assume he's listening to the conversation. I glare back at
him.

"Sure. You know, Sam is an awesome producer," I answer, keeping my eyes on Newton as I talk about
my producer. It's true; Sam is great. But I'm saying it now because I know that Newton doesn't like him. "I
bet he wouldn't mind giving Newton some tips on effective use of music and sound bites."

I continue watching Newton long enough to see his smile fade into a scowl, and then move to the chair
next to Emmett with a slight smirk on my face.

As I pull out the chair and set my backpack and bottled water on the desk, Emmett shakes his head at
me, but he's smiling. "Starting a war on the first day?" he asks, holding his hand over the mic in front of
him so Newton can't hear. "You know he'll retaliate."

"I know," I whisper as I unpack my laptop. "I'll stop." I drop my backpack onto the floor and then sit down
in the chair.

"He brought your earpiece in. Maybe he's trying to make peace," Emmett says lowly, still covering the
microphone.

"Maybe," I shrug. I think it's more likely that he gave me someone else's unsanitized earpiece, but I'm
definitely not going to say that in front of a live mic. When I take it out of the clear, zipped bag labeled
with my name, I study it carefully. It looks clean, so I insert it into my right ear, wiggling it around a little
until it's comfortable. I plug the end of the cord into the battery pack Newton also laid on the table and
then hook the pack onto the back waistband of my shorts.

Sighing, I look longingly at the guest headphones hanging on the microphone across the table. I loved
the big, padded headphones I wore everyday for the last five years. But three weeks ago, the station
owners, two sisters named Kate and Charlotte, announced that they wanted us to look more camera-
ready, and presented us with our wireless earpieces. I'm still not used to it, and I don't know why we
have to be camera-ready, but they're the bosses. Since I love my job, I'm coping.

I plug my laptop into the tabletop outlet, and then take the USB cord Emmett hands me.

"Cheating off me?" I tease as I connect it so Emmett can see my laptop on his monitor.

"You do better research," he laughs.

"Check. Check. Give me a thumbs up." Newton's voice booms in my ear. Emmett and I both give the
signal without looking at him, already reviewing the show schedule listed on our screens. Newton is
rambling about something and barking orders to Seth, the intern. I miss my non-rambling, non-barky
Sam already. But I'm determined to start the week with a good attitude, so I pull myself out of my musing
and turn to my right to wink at Emmett.

"Let's have a great show," he says, holding both of his fists out toward me like a boxer. Smiling, I tap the
top of his fists, and then let him return the gesture.

Checking the countdown clock on my computer screen, I see that it's 5:59:30. "We're on in thirty," I
whisper, then hear Newton give the half-a-minute warning in my ear. I stifle my giggle – he's late to the
party, as usual. I wiggle my eyebrows at Emmett and take a sip of my water as I hear the morning show
music begin.

"Good morning, sports fans. It's Monday, August thirty-first, six o'clock on the dot. You're listening to The
Kickoff on KSST, Seattle's leader in sports programming. I'm Emmett McCarty. Sitting beside me this
morning is the lovely Bella Swan. Thanks for filling in, Bella," Emmett says, pointing at me.

"It's my pleasure, Emmett," I say into the mic.

"We're borrowing Bella from the early afternoon show. You're going to stay on mornings with me for a
while, right?" he asks, reading his line off the sheet that Newton handed us earlier.

"Right, Emmett. I'm keeping my butt firmly planted in this seat until we find a fool who will wake up this
freaking early on a permanent basis," I say amusedly, turning my head slightly so I can see into the
sound booth behind me. On the other side of the glass, Newton is holding up his copy of the paper I'm
supposed to be reading from, shaking it and pointing to it as his face reddens. He'll be yelling into my
ear in a minute, I bet.

I'm not known for staying on script or following rules. I say what I think, which sometimes gets me in
trouble. But I never do it dishonestly or disrespectfully. Luckily, Sam usually protects me from middle
management, and the station owners love me for two reasons: I'm fairly well-connected in this town and
I'm pretty good at my job.

"Most of our listeners probably know you, but for those who don't, why don't you give us a little bio,
Swan?" Emmett says.

"Sure, Emmett. I have a degree in broadcast journalism. I have worked here at KSST for almost five
years and have been co-hosting the afternoon show with Riley for a little over two," I say, glancing over
at Emmett. My eyes widen when I see that he's backed up from his mic and has stuffed an entire donut
into his mouth. He looks like a squirrel storing food for the winter.

Barely containing my laughter, I continue, "I love football and basketball, both pro and college. I love the
Mariners and baseball's post-season, but think the regular season is too long. I like hockey. I don't get
the big deal about soccer, but love going to games, especially when the foreign teams come here
because the fans are so intense. I will watch almost any sport, but I rarely watch boxing live in case
something goes really wrong. Done with that donut yet, Emmett? I'm running out of information."

He swallows and then chuckles quietly into his mic. "All done, Swan. Shall we move on?"

"Okay. It was an eventful sports weekend here in Seattle. The Mariners won yesterday, but the big news
belongs to the Seahawks," I announce, reading from Newton's script for once. As Emmett takes over his
part, I glance toward the window into the sound booth and smile sardonically at Newton. He nods. I roll
my eyes in reply.

"By now most of you know that the Seahawks' aging quarterback, Quil Ateara, was knocked out of the
third preseason game on Friday night with a torn ACL. He will likely be out for the entire season,"
Emmett says. "Yesterday, the Seahawks traded two first and two third round draft picks to get Edward
Cullen, who has been a backup QB for the last two seasons with the Arizona Cardinals. Cullen arrived in
Seattle last night and will be practicing with the team for the first time today."

I chime in with the stats Newton gave us on Cullen, and then Emmett and I discuss the Seahawks'
chances for a successful season with an untested, formerly backup quarterback at the helm. But we
agree that the Seahawks' backup, who played most of the preseason snaps, is not talented enough to
lead the team for the whole season.

In the next half hour, Emmett spends a little time attacking me for wearing a hat to work this morning. I
reply that it's too fucking early for me to be washing and straightening my damn hair when I have to be
at the studio at five-fucking-thirty a.m. – except I say it in words that won't get the station hit with an FCC
fine.

Emmett and I have always had a decent rapport on the air. We have co-hosted each other's shows a
few times in the past when our regular co-hosts were vacationing or sick. We used to play a game to see
which of us could get the other to laugh – a real uncontrolled, belly laugh – first on-air. We've played for
money, for beers, for bottles of Crown Royal. I don't really like Crown, but Emmett loves it, and it killed
him a little when he had to drop money on a bottle that he didn't get to take home. I ended up giving it
back to him for Christmas that year. That was the first – and only – time he attempted to kiss me on the
lips.

We didn't discuss playing the game this morning, but when we get to the seven-thirty half hour, I can tell
it's on. Emmett and I are in the same fantasy football league and as soon as he brings it up, I'm pretty
sure I know where this conversation is headed.

"Bella, tell everyone about our upcoming fantasy draft…tell them how you pick your team based on
whose butts look good," he says, smiling at me. I refrain from punching him, but only because he leans
away… and because it's hard to be mad at him when he aims his blue eyes and dimples my way.

"That's not true, Emmett, and you know it. I do a ton of research during the preseason. I have such
extensive notes on players that I drive most of my league crazy when we're drafting," I argue calmly, not
letting my voice betray my annoyance.

"But," he prompts, dragging the word out and raising his intonation slightly at the end. I'll give in on this,
but it's all he's getting.

"But I always draft two guys based solely on how they look in the tight, white pants," I say, amused, but
not laughing. "That sounds really sexist and I swear that's not how I am. But a girl's gotta have
something to look forward to…even if it's someone's behind."

"And the lucky guys this year are…," he leads again.

"I'll never tell," I say coyly. "It's too early to know for sure anyway. But I have a list of well-rounded
players who meet my criteria."

When I glance toward the sound booth, Newton's face is so red that I'm briefly worried he might stroke
out. I'm not concerned for his personal well-being, but I'll get blamed, for sure, if it happens now. He's
made no secret of the fact that he's not happy about me being here. Plus, he talked a really nice girl into
marrying him last year and I'd hate to be responsible for making her a widow, even if she might be better
off without him. So I steer the conversation in a safer direction. Emmett shakes his head at me in
disappointment.

During the five minute bottom-of-the-hour break, I grab my phone to email my mom. I spent the weekend
in Phoenix with her and my stepdad, Phil, returning to Seattle late last night. I previously texted her to let
her know I made it home safely, but I want to send her a longer note thanking her for the weekend. My
mom and I are close, but not necessarily in a mother-daughter way. She was never very maternal; most
of our bonding was done after I became an adult.

Ironically, the quarterback the Seahawks traded for was from Phoenix, but I didn't pay much attention to
it while I was there, even though the trade rumors started Friday night. Emmett texted me then, but I
replied that I was busy with my mom… who made me promise not to spend the whole weekend watching
sports on my laptop and phone.

When I got home last night, it was too late – and I was too tired – to watch any local news about him.
Cullen. Edward Cullen. Edward Cullen, I say in a British accent in my head. Kind of a stodgy name.

I finish the email to my mom right before we come back from break. Emmett begins by talking about the
new QB again. I glance at the clock. It's 8:02. I've almost made it through the morning without a major
disaster. But I only have fifty-eight minutes to get Emmett to laugh.

"Hey, Swan, your dad works for the Seahawks, right?" he asks, looking down at the papers in front of
him instead of at me.

"Right. He's a quality control coach for the offense," I answer, immediately realizing where he's going
with this line of questioning. He's really too transparent.

"Meaning?"

"He breaks down tape on opponents' games. He's always a week or two ahead of the actual schedule,
getting video ready for the offense to watch," I explain. That's a real dumbing-down of what my dad
does; it's much more complex than that, but he doesn't like me talking about it on the radio.

"And everyone calls him 'The Chief'."

"Yep. The Chief. I still don't know for sure why people call him that," I say lightly. "I've heard it has
something to do with the way he polices the team hotel hallways after curfew, keeping the players in and
the women out."

"So what does he think of this Cullen kid?"

"I don't know. He won't really discuss the Seahawks with me," I grudgingly admit. I haven't talked to my
dad since the trade anyway.

"And why is that?" Emmett asks, looking at me with shining, mischievous eyes.

"Because I once repeated something on the air that he told me in confidence. If I'd still been living at
home, I would have been grounded for the rest of my life," I answer wryly. "But I didn't know that what he
said was supposed to be off the record."

"So he hasn't given you any insight on Cullen?" Emmett prods.

"No, but he's always told me to look at a quarterback's feet first when evaluating his skills," I say.

"Really? Their feet?" Emmett asks, genuinely surprised by that bit of information.

"Yep. He says if the QB's feet are shifty while he's in the pocket, 'he'll never last in the league'," I say,
frowning and mimicking my dad's voice.

"So how are Cullen's feet?" Emmett asks.

"I don't know. I haven't seen any footage of him at all," I confess with a shrug, "which means that if my
dad is listening, he'll flood my inbox with more video than I can possibly watch."

We both laugh, but not enough to declare a winner in our game, and then go to commercial. True to
form, I get a shitload of digital footage from my dad twenty seconds later. When I play some of the video,
Em connects to my laptop and we watch Cullen's highlight reel for a couple of minutes before the short
break ends.

When we're back on the air, Emmett blandly says he thinks Cullen looks all right, then asks my opinion.

"I think he has a lot of potential, Em. His feet looked good in the pocket. Based on what I've read, he
didn't play that well when he filled in last year – he was sacked five times, I think, in two games. But, in
his defense, the Cards' O-line stunk last year, so that's not completely his fault," I remark.

"True," Emmett agrees. "That offensive front four couldn't stop anyone." He's looking at me and can tell I
have more to say, so he motions with his hand for me to go ahead.

"His seven-step-drop looks good, and his throwing motion is spot-on. In the slow-motion clip we watched
of his spiral, it was picture perfect," I rave. I'm being honest… but after I say the words, I realize that I
sound too impressed. I feel my face heating as Emmett takes over.

"But what about the most important thing, Bella? How does his butt look in the tight, white pants?"
Emmett asks, his eyes taunting. Really? He's coming in for the kill on this subject? Ah, Grasshopper, you
don't know who you're messing with.

"Meh." I respond, shrugging and wrinkling my nose slightly, biting the inside of my cheek to hold in the
laughter.

"What does that mean?" Emmett asks, trying not to laugh, too.

"It means so-so," I answer flatly… doing my best to sound unimpressed and uninterested. Honestly,
when I watched the video, I wasn't paying attention to his ass, but that revelation won't win the game for
me.

I think I know what will though.

"I've seen twenty quarterbacks with better butts than Cullen's," I announce snootily. "Even Grandpa
Favre's is nicer. Heck, I've seen defensive linemen whose butts are better than Cullen's. And you know,
Emmett, quarterbacks aren't the backsides I usually draft. I really prefer a tight end."

I win! Emmett belly laughs at the D-line comment, knowing most of them do not have good asses – they
pack on the pounds for the season. He laughs even louder at the tight end comment. When we go to
break, I ask him what I've won.

"Payback," he answers, his eyes twinkling, his dimples carving deep divots in his cheeks. I quirk an

eyebrow daringly at him, but know I'll have to watch my back for a few days. Em's a pretty good practical
joker.

It's 8:30 a.m. when we come back, and we take listener calls for the rest of the program. Most of them
offer opinions on the move the Seahawks made – and almost all of the callers seem excited. Honestly,
Quil, the injured quarterback, is past his prime and hasn't played well the last couple of seasons.

Near the end of the show, a couple of women call in to tell me that Cullen's ass is better than I judged it.
Another one calls in to say that he not only has a great ass, but also a nice face. I haven't seen him
without his helmet, so I can neither agree nor disagree with that. Maybe I can catch the news tonight. I'm
sure they'll show a picture of him. I promise to give him another look just to shut up the horde of female
callers.

I turn to roll my eyes at Emmett and scribble a note to him: "How good-looking can he possibly be?"

Emmett shrugs back at me, smiling as he writes his response: "Doesn't compare to me, baby."

I laugh silently and crumple the paper into a ball, tossing it at him.

We go off the air just before nine and have a short post-show meeting right after. Newton wants me to
stop talking about guys' asses on the air. I want Newton to fuck off and die. I think both of us are headed
for disappointment.

Emmett amuses me during the meeting by making faces behind Newton's back as he berates me for all
the butt-talk, telling me I will completely alienate all the male listeners, and the female listeners I might
attract won't stay once I move back to afternoons. I sit stone-faced while he talks and entertain myself by
thinking of ways to make him scream like a little girl. I don't think it would be difficult.

Newton also tells us that starting tomorrow, the show will be streamed live via webcam. He looks
pointedly at me and declares that he doesn't want me to wear a hat on camera.

I was mildly annoyed with him before. Now I am pissed. I am not allowed to talk about the butts of grown
men who run around in spandex pants on television, but he is allowed to blatantly parade me in front of
other grown men to attract web hits? Nice. Maybe he'd like me to just show up in a bikini tomorrow.

Whatever. I'm now officially tuned out. Leaning back in my chair, I make my Target list in my head,
wasting time by inventing mnemonic devices to remind me of all the things I need so I won't forget
anything. I could just grab a pen and blatantly write my list in full view of Newton, but I really was going to
play nice with him... for a few days at least. I'll save my clear-cut animosity for another time.

Also, Charlotte and Kate have been really good to me. Their father built this station from the ground up
and it's an important legacy to them. I don't want to let them down. They gave me a paying intern job
when I was 21 and broke, and offered me a full-time position when I graduated from college. They paired
me with Riley and promoted the hell out of our show, helping make it into the time-slot winner it's been
for the last fifteen months.

I "mmhmm" and nod my way through the rest of the meeting, wondering how it is that Newton thinks
Emmett and I are paying attention. Emmett is making popping noises with his mouth. I'm repeatedly
curling and uncurling the toes on my right foot so that my flip flop slaps against my heel in time with the
song in my head. We're both acting a little like sixth graders – but we have a really horrible teacher.

Finally, Newton wraps it up and I launch myself out of the chair.

"Bella," Newton says, "I expect you to pay attention tomorrow… about everything. I'd hate to have to call
Kate and Charlotte on your second day." I turn away, bristling at his attempted blackmail.

"Of course, Michael," I reply sweetly. I know he hates to be called by his first name – he feels like a jock,
an athlete, if everyone calls him by his last name. He probably even makes his wife call him Newton in
bed. I usually do call him Newton, but not because he likes it. It's more a product of my childhood –

growing up around college and pro football players. I call almost everyone by their last name at least
part of the time.

For the next few hours, I shut myself in my tiny office to research some baseball stats. It looks like the
Mariners could make the post-season, which they haven't done as long as I've been a sports
commentator. I find some interesting historical information and familiarize myself with the rest of the
teams who will likely be in the post-season, too.

Riley comes in to talk for a while. He and Emmett are my two best friends at the station. Well, since I find
it difficult to let my guard down emotionally, they're my two best friends anywhere. That doesn't mean
we're exceptionally close, just that I'm not exceptionally close with anyone outside my family.

I don't really have girlfriends. There's a girl in my building, Jessica, that I hang out with a couple of times
a month, but, like my dad, I've always been content to be alone. I wonder if that has anything to do with
all the first dates. Yeah, it probably does. I'd rather be alone than be with someone just to be with
someone.

It's lunchtime when I finally leave the station. I call my stepmom, Sue, but she can't get away from work. I
settle for a drive-thru, eating in my car on the way to Target. I'm able to get everything I need except the
one freaking thing I really wanted to buy: A coffee pot with an automatic timer. I know that I can't survive
another morning without one – ah, the dramatic bitch is still alive in there somewhere – so I drive from
place to place and eventually end up at Williams-Sonoma, buying a coffee maker that costs more than
my weekly pay was when I started working. It's ridiculous, but it's a necessary evil. Since it grinds its own
beans, I also stop at a way-too-expensive gourmet market and spend an hour wandering the aisles,
finally leaving with coffee beans, red wine and a bar of dark chocolate.

When I get to my apartment building, there's nowhere to park. I spend ten minutes circling the block
before I find a spot and even then, it's a hike to my building. But I'm getting home just when the local
news will be starting. I'm excited to see what the Seahawks were up to today while I enjoy the dark
chocolate and a really full glass of Cabernet.

When I open the door to my apartment, I gasp…then I yell.

"Holy mother of God, give me a freaking break!"

Chapter 2 will post tomorrow. Please review. :)

*Chapter 2*: Blindsided

A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews/alerts/faves. It means a lot to me!

Big thanks to my fic BFF's - Windgirl810, Littlecat358, M ichelle0526 and Tennesseelamb for
reading, correcting, making suggestions. Love you all. :)

Thanks for reading!

"All right, sweetie," Sue says, tying up the third huge, black trash bag. "I think that's it."

Sighing heavily, I wipe my forearm across my damp brow. For the last four hours, my stepmom and I
have been mopping up the water that was standing, practically wall-to-wall, in part of my apartment when
I got home. A cracked pipe in my upstairs neighbor's kitchen – which he didn't know was leaking when
he left for work this morning – allowed water to pour out all day. His kitchen is ruined. My kitchen,
bathroom and part of my living room are ruined. Thankfully, the water didn't get to my bedroom, so at
least I have a place to sleep and clothes to wear.

"Thank you so much for coming over, Sue. For helping me," I say, turning away to wring out the mop in
the sink. "I don't know what I would have done without you."

"I'm happy to help, Bella. You know that," she replies, dragging the heavy trash bags over to the door.
"I'll take all these wet towels home and wash them. You sure you don't want to come with me? You know
our guestroom is always open for you."

"I appreciate the offer," I respond, turning to lean against the counter. "But I'm so exhausted that I just
want to fall into bed. I have to get up in six hours."

"Your hair dryer is working?" she asks. Yawning, I nod. "Don't use it in the bathroom."

"I won't," I answer. The building maintenance guys have been in and out of here all night and
pronounced my plumbing okay, but told me not to use the electrical outlets anywhere except my
bedroom until they do a more thorough check tomorrow.

I help Sue lug the bags of heavy, wet towels to her car and make her promise to have my dad carry
them inside their house. Before she gets in, I hug her goodbye.

"You're the best," I say quietly. "I love you."

"I love you, too," she replies, squeezing me more tightly for a second.

After I change into pajamas and wash my face, I unpack my fancy, new coffee maker. Chuckling to
myself, I load it up for the morning and plug it in beside my bed. Tomorrow I won't even have to get up to
get my caffeine fix. This is the most genius thing ever. Why didn't I think of it earlier?

It's not until I'm settled in bed a few minutes later that I realize I never did any real research on Cullen for
tomorrow's show. For several seconds, I entertain the notion of digging out my laptop to read up a little
on him. But it's past eleven o'clock, and I'm too sleepy to stay awake any longer.

Dammit. I really hate feeling unprepared… flying by the seat of my pants. Oh, well. Maybe it will make
tomorrow's show interesting.

Rolling to my right, I flip my pillow over and rest my cheek against the cool side. With one last yawn, I let
my eyes slide closed and drift off to sleep.

Tuesday morning, I try to play nice with Newton. I wear dark jeans, a black v-neck t-shirt and red peep
toe wedges. I straighten my hair, wear makeup and even accessorize with a necklace and earrings.

See? Nice. Especially given the fact that I have to get up a little after four o'clock to accomplish all this
and be at the station in time for the pre-production meeting.

When I walk in, Newton nods his approval. I drink crappy coffee from the machine in the lounge and plot
ways to inflict corporal punishment on him and the stupid webcam. After I catch him staring at my chest –
again – while I'm talking, most of the plans involve him being publicly humiliated, too.

The first hour of the show flies by. Emmett and I talk about the Mariners, and then college football.
There's not much Seahawks news to discuss since yesterday's practice was closed to the media. No
new pictures or footage to analyze. So it's probably not evident that I didn't do my homework on Cullen.
Score one for Bella.

A little after seven, we take some listener calls. A regular morning show caller who nicknamed himself
Sports Fan Dan is first. Obviously not believing that a woman could possibly know and love sports as
much as a man, he insists on quizzing my sports knowledge.

"Okay, Dan, ask away," I invite, turning to roll my eyes at Emmett. "I will warn you, though, that I was
raised by my father, who was first a college football scout in Arizona, and then an NFL scout for the
Cardinals. When I was fourteen, he became a Seahawks coach. I've grown up not just watching sports,
but hanging out with athletes, coaches, and sports journalists. I absorbed a lot of information. Go ahead
and try to stump me though."

Dan asks me five questions, of which I answer four correctly. I only miss the really obscure baseball
question. Baseball stats and trivia are my weakness. I know the past thirty-five years pretty well, but
before that, I only know the biggies.

Emmett rushes to defend me, and even Newton agrees that almost no one would have known the
answer to that question. It's a moot point. Sports Fan Dan has decided I passed anyway. Then he asks if
we'll have the webcam on every day so he can see me. I turn to glare at Newton through the glass,
laughing when he turns and runs out of the control room like the scared little boy he is. Emmett and I
make fun of him all through the next commercial break until his angry voice comes through our
earpieces – reminding us he can hear everything we say. That makes us laugh all over again.

During the eight o'clock half hour, two Seahawks offensive linemen are in-studio with us. Tyler Crowley
and Garrett Stevens talk about the team and the upcoming season. They share a couple of funny
training camp stories. And they heap praise on the new quarterback, telling us that Tuesday is their
contractual day off, but Cullen was still at the stadium for a voluntary workout before six o'clock this
morning.

As we approach the bottom-of-the-hour break, I find that I'm thoroughly enchanted with these guys.
Tyler's cute and a little bit of a clown. He's sitting in the chair next to me, and he sings to me during
every break, making me laugh out loud several times. Garrett seems sweet, and his light brown eyes
shine with mischief when he tells me about a joke the team played on my dad last year.

At the end of the half hour, Emmett unexpectedly asks them to stay for the last few segments of the
show, causing me to turn and look quizzically at him since we hadn't discussed that. But he's engrossed
in something on his monitor and doesn't even glance at me.

Mindful of the two seconds of dead air, I speak into the mic. "Yeah, that would be great. Can you two
stick around?"

"Sure," Tyler replies, smiling widely at me when our eyes meet.

Emmett comes to life then, taking over as we lead into the break, but still ignoring me despite the fact
that I'm looking at him again. Irritated, I swivel my chair and shift my stare to Newton, whose eyes are
glued to the sound board. I see the muscle in his cheek twitch, but he doesn't lift his eyes. I guess he
realizes I'm pissed at him. He's probably afraid to look at me, I reason, letting my lips curl into a smug
smile. He must have only talked in Emmett's earpiece about asking Tyler and Garrett to stay. What a
jackwagon.

After we go to commercial, Emmett jumps up and announces he'll get coffee from the lounge for us.
When I offer to help, he rushes to the door, insisting he can carry all the cups himself and instructing me
to entertain our guests. Puzzled by his nervous behavior, I raise one eyebrow at him, but in his haste to
get out of the room, he doesn't even notice. I shake my head in amusement and briefly wonder what's
up with him before rolling my chair closer to Tyler.

"Emmett and I are going to emcee the Seahawks pep rally a week from Friday – before the first regular
season game. Are you guys going to be there?" I ask, looking first at Tyler, and then across the table at
Garrett.

They both say yes, and we talk for a minute about which other players are attending. Tyler nudges my
arm and says he doesn't stay out late during the season, but he'll buy me a drink in the bar after the
rally.

Emmett comes back through the door carefully balancing four cardboard cups on a flimsy, plastic tray.
Once I have my coffee, I scoot back to my place, letting him take over the conversation while I study the
paper Newton gave me during the pre-show meeting. I read through the list to make sure I talked about
everything I was supposed to during the show. See? Playing nice again.

As I'm perusing, the guys are gathered at the opposite end of the table, speaking in hushed tones. I
don't pay them much attention until I overhear a quiet comment from Tyler.

"She's a nice girl, Emmett. I kind of feel bad."

My head snaps up and I glance toward them, my eyes narrowed. "What's going on, boys?" I ask
suspiciously.

"Don't worry about it," Emmett answers, winking at me.

Consequently, I do nothing but worry about it for the remainder of the break.

As soon as we're back on-air, Emmett immediately asks if the guys ever listen to this show in the
mornings.

"Yeah, we do. In fact, somebody turned it on over the speaker system yesterday morning. I think
everyone was in the locker room getting dressed while it was on…just before eight-thirty." Tyler says,
looking over at me. Crap. He's looking at me sympathetically.

"We had a lot of fun with some of the stuff Bella said," Garrett adds, not meeting my eyes.

"What did I say?" I ask, frowning and trying to keep the panic out of my voice even though my stomach is
somersaulting nervously. Jesus. That was twenty-four hours ago, early on in the day that turned into a
nightmare. I can't remember what I said… I can't even remember what I ate for dinner last night. Actually,
I don't know if I ate dinner last night.

"About Cullen," Garrett says, finally looking over at me, amusement obvious in his eyes.

"I distinctly remember saying I think he has potential," I assert, mentally running through what else I said
on-air after Emmett and I watched the video of him. "I said his presence in the pocket and his throwing
motion are solid."

"And you said he has a so-so backside," Tyler chirps, starting to laugh. Apparently, he's past feeling
sorry for me.

"Oh, right," I admit, feeling my face flush as the guys all laugh. "That. Well, in my defense – and Cullen's
– I didn't really check out his derrière when I watched the video."

"Maybe you can get a good look at it today, Swan," Emmett snorts, fighting to keep a straight face.

"Yeah. We brought you a surprise, Bella," Garrett adds.

"Oh… no," I say quietly. My pulse begins to race, the heavy beat of it thundering in my ears.

"Oh, yes. Tyler and Garrett brought a friend with them today. Newton, send him in," Emmett laughs, not
bothering to hide his delight anymore.

The studio door opens and the third guest backs into the room….blue helmet, gray t-shirt, but no tight
white pants. It doesn't matter. Even under the broken-in jeans he's wearing, I can see that I have clearly
under-assessed his, um, assets. The ass beneath the distressed denim is superior.

The guys are all talking, thank God, so I don't have to say anything yet. When they finally get around to
asking me if I'd like to change my answer, I want to scream "Fuck, yeah!"

Instead, aware that I'm being watched, I shrug as I reply. "He's not wearing the right pants for me to
accurately judge, but I'll give him the benefit of the doubt."

Following my pronouncement, Cullen turns around, still wearing his helmet. I can't really see what he
looks like between the bars of the face mask; all I see are bright green eyes and white teeth.

Luckily, Emmett lets me off the hook after my answer. He shifts his focus to Cullen, inviting him to stay
for the rest of the show. I can't tear my eyes away from him as he takes a seat and pulls off his helmet.
Oh, hell. The lady who called in yesterday to tell me how good-looking Cullen is was clearly mistaken.
He's not merely good-looking. He's beautiful. The face surrounding his vivid, green eyes is ruggedly
handsome. His strong jawline is covered in stubble as if he hasn't shaved in a couple of days. His hair is
short and groomed on the sides and back, and longer and sticking up wildly on top.

Emmett points to the headphones hanging from the microphone in front of Cullen, and he quickly puts
them on. Then he smiles at me before he begins talking, probably amused by the way my voice no
longer seems to work. Neither does my face. I'm pretty sure that I'm staring open-mouthed at him while
his deep voice flows smoothly into the mic, chuckling as he tells us how memorable we made his first day
in Seattle. He's a good sport about it, especially considering how much shit he probably got during the
course of the day.

Eventually, I regain my ability to speak and point out that I thought his football mechanics were sound,
and that's what matters to Seattle sports fans.

When Tyler chimes in to say that Cullen's jersey is already the best-seller on the Seahawks website,
Cullen quickly turns red, embarrassed by the comment. His obvious humility, coupled with the blush,
makes him seem even more attractive and I feel my lips curve up – way up – into a wide smile. I try not to
sigh like a love-struck fool into the microphone, but I think one might slip through.

"What's your jersey number?" I ask… I have no idea why.

He looks directly at me as he answers. "Seven."

Oh, crap. Another deadly combination: his eyes and his voice. I feel a spark zip right up my spine and
am grateful when Emmett steers the discussion back toward the team. Emmett looks at me out of the
corner of his eye, but gives no other indication that he notices I've turned into a babbling, thirteen year-
old girl. Hoping to regain my composure, I pick up my lukewarm coffee and take a big drink. It works. The
coffee is so terrible that I make a face, and the bitterness jolts me right back to reality.

Tyler relays a few more stories about how they welcomed Cullen to the team, and Cullen pulls his eyes
away from me to focus on them, disputing a few of the facts. The chemistry and camaraderie developing
between the three players is apparent, and they turn out to be entertaining guests.

When Emmett and I sign off for the day, the hosts of the next show are waiting in the hallway to take our
seats. Eager to get away from Cullen's mesmerizing presence, I pull out my earpiece and unhook the
battery pack. I offer to take Emmett's, too, as I head for the control room. In return, he says he'll carry
my laptop to the lounge. After thanking him, I pause to wave goodbye to our guests, and then book it out
of the studio.

I linger in the control room longer than necessary, talking to Seth to waste time. Then, assuming Newton
wants a post-show meeting in the lounge to gloat, I walk that way. I take two steps into the room before I
realize that Emmett is inside, still chatting with the players.

My eyes land on Cullen's for a split-second before I slide them away as I veer toward the refrigerator in
the back of the room. Knowing I can't be rude, I take a deep, calming breath and load my arms with
bottled water for all of us. When I push the fridge door shut with my knee and turn around, Cullen is
standing right behind me.

"Jesus!" I exclaim, startled enough to send my heart racing. I exhale loudly and lean back against the
refrigerator. "You're pretty stealthy for such a big guy."

"Sorry, Bella. Didn't mean to scare you," he says smoothly. "I just wanted to say thanks for being a good
sport. When the guys asked me to come along this morning, I was afraid it would be awkward, but it
wasn't. It was fun."

His words register, but I'm having trouble concentrating with him standing so close to me. He smells
good. He looks really good. His green eyes are almost too bright when they're only inches in front of me.
They stand out; so beautiful in an already-stunning face.

Knowing that I need to pull myself together, I push those thoughts away and put my radio personality on
again.

"Yeah, it was fun. I shouldn't have said what I did yesterday though. I owe you an apology. First for
objectifying you, and secondly for misjudging your ass…..ets," I say, smirking up at him.

He laughs then, a deep rumble that seems to vibrate through my chest, too.

"Thanks," he says, taking the bottle of water I hold toward him and twisting off the lid. "Apology
accepted. So, will you be at the game Thursday night?"

I shrug. "Don't know. I don't usually go to preseason games. Oh, shit! No offense," I say, cringing as I
realize I've probably just insulted him again since, until this year, most of the NFL games he's played in
have been preseason.

"It's all right. I know they're not the most exciting to watch," he allows. "But I'm grateful that we'll have this
final preseason game to get our shit together as a team. This is a whole new experience for me."

I can't help smiling back when he grins at me. He's nice and cute... what's not to smile about?

"What about next week? The home opener – will you be at that one?" he asks.

I tilt my head indecisively side-to-side. "Probably. The station gets some press passes and I can usually
wrangle one. Or my dad can get me in, but I hate asking him," I say.

"Charlie's your dad, right?" he asks. I nod. "I like him. I met with him yesterday, but he didn't tell me that it
was his daughter who caused all the trouble for me. They played your comments about my ass on a
loop in the locker room after practice."

"Oh, God. I'm really so sorry, Cullen," I say, closing my eyes as I apologize again. I try to hold the
laughter in, but a couple of rogue chuckles escape. My eyes snap open and I roll my lips together to
contain the rest of my giggles.

"Yeah, I can tell how sorry you are by the way you're laughing about it," he nods, studying my face. He
looks amused as he answers, and I'm struck once again by how cool he's been about all this. I've known
enough players through the years to know that some of them get pretty nasty if commentators criticize
them on the air.

"I promise to say only good things about you next week, even if you suck." I vow teasingly.

He shakes his head. "No. Be honest about my performance. I can take it. If you ever have any praise for
me, I expect to have earned it," he says, still smiling slightly at me. "But if you want to make it up to me,
you could have dinner with me this week. Friday?"

My eyebrows involuntarily shoot upward. I wasn't expecting him to say that. "Bad idea, Cullen. You don't
want to get mixed up with crazy media people on your second full day in Seattle," I quip. I'm trying to look
aloof, but inside I'm panicking. Panicking. He's part of the one group of men I've never tried dating… the
one group I swore I never would try dating: Pro athletes.

"Too late. You should see all the media training and interviews they have me scheduled for during the
next two weeks," he groans. "I hate talking about myself, but no one just wants to talk football with me."

Suddenly aware that my hands are freezing, I call a heads-up to Em and fire three bottles at him in rapid
succession.

"Nice arm, Swan," Cullen remarks.

I open my water and take a sip before I reply. "Thanks." Then, because I am an idiot, I brag. "I can catch,
too. I've caught passes from some pretty famous hotshots."

"Really? Who've you caught passes from?" he asks interestedly. He lifts his water bottle to his mouth,
distracting me as I watch his cheekbones become even more prominent as he drinks.

"Um, Peyton and Eli," I reply, now preoccupied by the movement of his Adam's apple as he swallows.

He lowers his water bottle and looks down at me skeptically. "Manning? You have not," he says
indignantly.

I raise one eyebrow at him, on purpose this time, as I answer. "Are you calling me a liar? Pretty
judgmental considering I've only known you for forty-five minutes, Cullen. And, yes, I have. My dad
played for two seasons with the Saints when their dad was QB. We were all at some big awards thing
about five years ago, and they didn't believe me when I said I could run a deep route. I proved them
wrong."

He nods, but doesn't look convinced that I'm being honest. "Who else?"

"Phil Simms, Dan Marino," I say. He arches an eyebrow at me this time. "That was at the combine one
year when my dad made me go with him. I was grounded for the rest of my life and not allowed to stay
home alone even though I was almost eighteen. They were covering the event for ESPN or Fox or
someone and my dad told them I was a decent receiver… as long as there's no defense." I laugh.
Cullen's not laughing – or even smiling.

"Grounded for the rest of your life?" he asks, frowning.

"My dad's favorite punishment. He usually meant two weeks," I explain.

"Any other notches on your goal post?" he asks. His eyes are searching mine…still not quite trusting
that I'm being truthful.

"Well, Quil of course," I say hesitantly, hating that this has begun to sound like Julio Iglesias bragging
about all the girls he's screwed before."And Elway threw to me once, but I missed it. I was in middle
school then and was faster. I over-ran, or he under-threw."

"Probably him," he nods.

"Yeah, I should definitely blame the Hall of Fame QB and not the fourteen year-old," I say, shrugging as I
take a sip of my water.

"So, about dinner," he begins again. I'm going to have to shut this down.

"Sorry, Cullen," I answer.

"Edward," he corrects.

"Sorry, Edward. It's just not a good idea. If someone recognizes us, the news will be all over the city.
Destroys my credibility…and probably your reputation," I reason. Then, to try and get out of this
conversation gracefully, I tease him. "You know, quarterbacks are only supposed to eat dinner with
skinny models who don't actually eat at all."

"I eat dinner with lots of people who aren't models," he argues belligerently. "In fact, I don't think I've ever
eaten with a model. As for being spotted? We could eat in. My place. I won't keep you out too late, I
promise." His eyes bore into mine.

Shit. It's going to be difficult to say no to the nice, beautiful man with the fantastic ass. But I have to. I do
not want the distinction of being his flavor of the week before he moves on to someone taller, prettier,
stupider. Not that all tall, beautiful women are necessarily stupid. It just makes me feel better to think of
them that way.

"Edward, really, you seem like a good guy, but I just….can't," I say. He nods and takes another drink of
his water, nodding again when I suggest that we rejoin the rest of the group. We've already been talking
too long on our own. And now there's nothing left to say.

They leave a few minutes later, and then Emmett corners me.

"So?" he prods, wiggling his eyebrows at me.

"So what?" I ask snottily, making my best annoyed face at him.

"What were you and Cullen talking about for so long?"

I roll my eyes. "His ass... my ass," I say flippantly.

"I'm serious, Bella. What the hell did he want?"

"Nothing," I answer insistently. "I apologized a couple of times. He bitched about how many interviews he
has to do this week. I bragged about how many other quarterbacks I know. End of conversation."

"Uh uh. I think he has a crush on you. He kept staring at you during the show," he says knowingly. "Or
maybe you're the first Seattle babe he's seen."

I force myself not to react, thereby denying Emmett of his goal – which is to needle me into an outburst
during which I reveal way too much. Instead, I huff out a disbelieving breath. "Whatever. Are we posting
or not?"

"Yeah. I think Newton wants to talk to us. He reiterated the no more talking about players' asses edict.
Like we've ever listened to him," Emmett laughs. Then he lowers his voice to a hoarse whisper. "I think
he's wearing a mirdle today."

"A what?" I ask, perplexed. I lift my water bottle to my lips.

"A mirdle. A man girdle," he explains. When I laugh, the water goes down the wrong way and I end up
bent over, choking through my laughter as Emmett whacks me on the back. He should have saved that
for during the show tomorrow. He could have won the game. Finally, I straighten up, wiping the tears
from the corners of my eyes. Emmett looks at me seriously. "Sorry about sandbagging you there... with
Cullen. But it was a good show today."

He slings his arm around my shoulders as we walk toward the table in the lounge.

"I know. It was a good show," I agree, trying to ignore the thoughts of Cullen still hanging around in my
head. Trying to ignore the nagging feeling that I've just tossed away the chance of a lifetime.

Chapter 3 will post by next Saturday. Thanks and please review!

*Chapter 3*: Bump and Run

A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews/follows/favorites. :) I read and treasure every one.

Enormous thanks to Windgirl810 for her mad beta skills! I couldn't ask for anyone better. Also,
thanks to Littlecat358, M ichelle0526 and Tennesseelamb for prereading and editing. Love you
all a bunch!

I can't stop messing with it, so all mistakes are mine.

Thanks for reading!

Thursday night, I sit at a high-top table in the back room of Cooper's Bar, studying my notes. As more of
the guys in my fantasy league arrive, I realize the good seats at the pushed-together tables are getting
scarce. Without looking up from my papers, I hook my foot around the stool on my right and pull it
closer, then lift my leg sideways, resting my knee on the seat.

Since our fantasy football draft was moved to tonight, I didn't have to decide whether or not to go to the
final Seahawks preseason game. However, now Emmett and I will have to try to concentrate on the draft
while also paying enough attention to the game to comment intelligently on it tomorrow morning. As
Emmett learned last year, being distracted on draft night can wreck your fantasy season before it even
starts. It wasn't really his fault; the girl he was dating insisted on coming along, but was bored and whiny
once she was here. He spent the whole night trying to appease her, managing to select a terrible team
for himself in the process. He finished the season dead last in the league… and I never saw what's-her-
name again.

When I feel a hand clamp on my shoulder, I don't have to turn around to know it's Emmett. "You saving
this for me?" he asks, moving to stand beside me.

"Yep," I answer, sliding my leg off the stool, and then using my foot to push it toward him.

"Knew I could count on you to snag us good seats," he says, setting his notebook down on the table.
"Between this and your excellent research skills, you're the best work wife ever. You make my job easy."

"No matter how much you flatter me, I'm not gonna sleep with you," I remark, smirking but still not looking
at him.

"That's okay. Husbands never want to screw their wives anyway," he scoffs. "That's what girlfriends are
for."

Even though I know I'm falling right into his trap, I flip him off over my shoulder. He laughs loudly, as I
expected, then grabs the bill of my Mariners hat, pulling it off my head. When I turn to grab it from him,
he holds it above my head, out of my reach.

"Jesus! You're like the older brother I never wanted," I say through gritted teeth, standing on the rungs
of the stool to yank my hat out of his grasp.

"Hot older brother," he contends.

"Jackwagon older brother," I mutter, sitting back down with a huff. I put my hat on again, tucking the hair
around my face underneath.

"Aw, come on, Swan," he soothes. "Will you forgive me if I get you a beer?"

I tilt my head and raise an eyebrow at him. "Maybe."

Laughing, he heads toward the bar as I face forward again, looking at the big screen hanging on the
wall in front of me. The game hasn't started yet, but the local newscasters are reporting live from the

sidelines as the team warms up. I smile when I see my dad walk by in the background.

"Hey, Bella," Connor says, sitting down across from me. "Can I ask you about a couple of guys?"

"Sure," I answer, powering on my laptop, and then giving him my attention. Connor is one of Emmett's
best friends, but he doesn't follow football very closely. He quizzes me every year on draft day to get my
opinion on his picks. For the next few minutes, he peppers me with questions about players, nodding
along as I talk about touchdown to turnover ratio and net yards gained per rush attempt. When Peter –
my least favorite person in our league – sits down next to Connor and immediately contradicts most of
what I say, I roll my eyes and glance back up at the television.

Mistake. Big mistake.

As I look up, the local sportscaster's face, which was filling the screen, is suddenly replaced by Cullen's.
I study him as the camera zooms in tighter. He looks serious… nervous. Inexplicably, my stomach drops
as if I've just crested the hill of a gigantic roller coaster. What the hell?

"A little help here, Swan," Emmett says from behind me. Ripping my eyes away from the TV, I twist
around to see him holding three bottles of beer and a basket of chili-smothered fries. Laughing, I take
the fries and set them down, then take my beer as he hands one of the others to Connor. After taking
two big gulps, I slide my eyes to the screen again and breathe a silent sigh of relief that Cullen is gone.

Our draft starts a few minutes later, and I refocus on the task at hand. Rounds one and two go quickly
as everyone competes to get the star or sleeper player who will get the most fantasy points. I get the
guys I wanted in both rounds, and I help Connor choose players when he's unsure.

"Time out!" Emmett bellows, holding his hands up in a T before round three begins. "Seahawks offense
is on the field. Swan and I need to watch."

Everybody else at the table seems interested, too, turning their attention to one of the several
televisions around the room. Picking up the fresh beer Connor brought me a few moments ago, I look up
at the screen just as the offense breaks the huddle and lines up. Gladly, my stomach stays where it's
supposed to this time as I open a blank document on my laptop to take notes for tomorrow.

On first down, Cullen drops back, but his feet are too jumpy. After shifting from foot to foot several times,
he finally sets, cocks his arm and throws a decent pass, but the receiver isn't in the right spot to catch it.
The running back gets the hand-off on second down, gaining four yards. Third down and six yards to
go. Cullen will have to throw again here. I lean forward, putting my elbows on the table. This time, his
pass is on target, hitting the receiver in the hands… but the ball drops to the ground. There's a
collective groan from the table as the punter runs onto the field.

Down the table, someone calls time in and round three begins. Although I'm listening to the draft, I'm
also typing a list of topics I want to talk about tomorrow morning as Emmett reads over my shoulder.

"Swan, looks like your assessment of the new quarterback was all wrong," Peter sneers. Without lifting
my head, I raise my gaze to meet his, glaring at him from under my brow.

"What? You don't think he has a nice ass?" I retort dryly.

"I… I meant the football stuff," he huffs as his face reddens. Smirking, I lower my eyes back to my
screen. Bella, one. Peter the prick, zero. Not that I'm keeping score.

"She knew what you meant, dickhead," Emmett asserts, defending me. "Give the kid a chance. He's
been here four fucking days and has thrown two passes."

"I was just pointing out that maybe she's not that great at evaluating players," Pete says, not ready to
back down quite yet.

Emmett laughs, but it's Connor who answers. "Well, Pete, I'd agree with you except for the fact that Bella

has been top five in our league the last three years. You've never finished that high."

"Yeah, I beat you in the toilet bowl last year, remember?" Emmett chimes in. "You and I had the worst
teams in the league. And, Bella, what place did you finish last year?"

"First," I answer, smiling slightly. That's two for Bella. Okay, maybe I am keeping score.

Knowing that Emmett is still reading over my shoulder, I type "Thank you" on the screen. He responds
by bumping his arm against mine.

The next time Cullen – I mean the offense – takes the field, we don't stop the draft, but I still watch and
scrutinize every play. They seem calmer now; Cullen's feet are quick but sure, and the receivers are
catching most of the spirals coming their way. Even though they make some mistakes, they move the
ball toward the end zone. Cheers erupt throughout the bar when the Seahawks score a touchdown.
Smiling, I applaud, too.

As we get on with the draft, I find myself sneaking looks at the television – each time scanning the
players on the sidelines until I find number seven. It's even worse when the offense is on the field again.
I'm constantly focused on him, and I only see the successful catches or rushes when the instant replays
are shown.

In my head, I justify my overzealous attention: I'm only watching his face to see if he's reading the
defense. I'm only staring at his arms because I'm analyzing his throwing motion when he's under
pressure. I'm only looking intently at his lower body to dissect his three-step-drop out of the shotgun
formation. But I also can't help noticing that, although the tight pants are blue instead of white, his ass
looks pretty damn good in them.

I'm finding it difficult to pull my eyes away from him at all – I can't explain it… I can't stop it. And as the
game goes on, I'm more and more afraid that it has less and less to do with football.

At the conclusion of the draft, I study my roster, frowning as I realize that I didn't choose a very good
team. I was too distracted to select players who are likely to complement each other and rack up the
points. Unfortunately, my fantasy season is probably screwed.

While I pack up my laptop and notebook, I slide off the barstool and raise my eyes to the screen one last
time. Cullen is shaking hands with the opposing quarterback as the game ends. Standing still, I press my
right hand against my stomach, hoping to squash the butterflies flitting wildly around inside. With a sigh,
I acknowledge, at least to myself, that my fantasy season isn't the only thing that's probably screwed.

"You all right, Bella?" Emmett asks quietly.

Turning toward him, I force myself to smile slightly. "Yeah. Too many chili fries," I complain, wishing that
really was the cause of my discomfort. "I'm heading home. See you tomorrow."

"See ya, Swan," he answers, patting my back. "Take some antacids or something. I need you in the
morning."

"I'll be there," I promise. "I'll be fine." I hope.

During the pre-show meeting on Friday morning, Emmett and I are in agreement about how well the
Seahawks played the night before, despite the fact that they didn't win. However, too much accord
between the hosts is boring for our listeners, so I volunteer to play devil's advocate and point out the
areas which need improvement.

We name a few things on both defense and offense that we can discuss. I also identify the – admittedly
few – weaknesses I saw in Cullen's game. He needs to work on not looking directly at his number one
receiver; it tips off the defense. And he's not a great rusher, so he should stay in the pocket as long as
he can, even if he's pressured. I nitpick a couple of other things, but that's it. I don't see any other big

flaws.

Almost as soon as the show starts, Newton plays a few post-game comments, during which Cullen
basically steals my thunder by pointing out the same errors I was going to talk about. Fantastic. Not only
is he a pretty good quarterback, a nice guy, and great looking, he's also smart, willing to admit mistakes,
and self-effacing without being annoying.

Cue the butterflies.

But I ignore them for the moment because I'm so angry with Newton. He couldn't have told me during the
pre-show that I was going to talk about exactly the same things Cullen did? It had to be obvious that I
hadn't listened to any of Cullen's post-game presser.

Mindful of the webcam, I completely turn my back to it as I look at Newton in the control room, mouthing,
"What the fuck?" His only answer is to smile smugly at me. Jackwagon.

I spend the first hour of the show agitated… on edge. And a little bit pissed off by the way my stomach
flutters nervously and my heart races every time we play Cullen's sound bites. I also shuffle my feet
almost constantly under the table, which I know from past experience drives Emmett nuts.

"Jesus, Swan, stop all that fidgeting. What are you so freaking jumpy about today?" he growls during a
break. Because of the webcam, I can't flip him off like I'd like. I shrug and refuse to talk to him instead.

I calm down enough to finish the show though, vowing to stop thinking about Cullen… about how good
he looked last night – in command on the field, with his helmet off on the sidelines, smiling as he talked
to some of the other players. I sigh, looking over at Emmett. He's studying me curiously again. I roll my
eyes at him and really do wipe away most thoughts of Cullen as we come back from break.

Once Friday's post-show meeting is over, I bolt from the station, avoiding talking to Emmett about my
erratic behavior today. I run a few errands, and then meet Sue for a late lunch and shopping. She tells
me she heard the show this morning, but I successfully deflect her more in-depth questions about my
opinion on the team… and the new QB.

When I get to my building several hours later, I run into one of the maintenance men in the hallway.

"Hey, Bella. Good news," he says.

"Really, Dean? I could use some today," I respond with a sigh as I unlock my door.

"Yeah," he smiles. "Everything's dried out in your place. We'll replace the warped hardwoods on Monday
and Tuesday, and then paint on Wednesday. Sound good?"

"Yes. Thanks," I answer walking inside and starting to close the door.

"Uh, so we need you to pack up everything laying around. And you should unload all the kitchen
cabinets, too. We'll kick up a lot of dust with the hardwood and sheetrock repair. But we'll cover all the
furniture for you," he informs me, quickly backing up the hallway, still grinning as he delivers the bad
news. "Bye, Bella. Have a great weekend."

"Oh, you, too," I reply sarcastically, knowing that I'll be spending part of my days off packing and moving
my own stuff.

When I get inside, I see that Dean left several boxes and tape for me. I'll have to remember to thank him
when I see him again. He really is a sweet guy. Maybe I should date him, except he's about twenty years
older than me… and married.

After pouring myself a glass of white wine, I collapse onto my blue and white striped couch, which
amazingly stayed dry during the flood last Monday. I sink back into the deep cushions, prop my feet on
the coffee table, and then turn on the local news.

"Ugh! Freaking Cullen again!" I exclaim when he shows up on the screen. The sports anchor is
analyzing the Seahawks' performance last night. Embarrassingly, within a minute I find myself arguing
out loud with some of his judgments… especially the ones criticizing the new quarterback.

"He was under pressure!"

"I'd like to see you throw off your back foot when a 300-pound linebacker is breathing down your neck!"

"Sure, why don't you make your point by showing the two inaccurate passes he threw over and over?"

When they play a clip of Cullen's press conference from the night before, I have the same reaction I did
this morning – floppy stomach, pounding heart. While I watch him, I chug the remaining wine in my glass,
and then reach forward to set it down on the coffee table. Instead of sitting back up, I let my head fall to
my knees, which seems to magnify the sound of my rushing blood.

"What is wrong with me?" I wonder, muttering the words softly against my denim-clad thighs. I've always
prided myself on my objectivity – even when it came to the Seahawks. Since I basically grew up around
the organization and since my dad is a coach, I'm a fan, but I've never let that overshadow my
impartiality. I've never blindly defended the team, let alone one specific player, against critics before.

And I've never talked back to the people on TV.

I look up again when they show footage of him arriving at CenturyLink Field this morning. Then I pick up
the remote and turn off the television, thoroughly disgusted with myself… and my fidgety legs and racing
pulse.

Resolving to use my nervous energy for something productive, I pull my hair up into a ponytail, change
into old shorts and an even older Mariners t-shirt, and get to work packing up my kitchen. I carefully
wrap the antique bowls and teacups that belonged to my Grandma Swan. The rest of my things aren't
meaningful to me – and mostly came from Target – so I'm not as gentle when I box them.

A little after nine o'clock, I carry the last box into my bedroom, and make a face when I catch a glimpse of
myself in the dresser mirror. I'm a mess. Some of my hair has fallen from the ponytail holder. My t-shirt is
ripped along the shoulder seam. There's another small hole halfway down my back, made by the
cigarette of a jerk I dated three summers ago. This outfit would definitely not pass Newton's webcam
dress code… which kind of makes me want to wear it Monday.

Jeez, I'm such a loser. Exhausted, home alone, and thinking about work on a Friday night – early on a
Friday night. Other people my age are probably getting ready to go out, while I'm ready to go to bed.

Shaking my head, I walk back to the kitchen and look longingly at the empty candy wrapper laying on the
counter. While I was packing, I finished the dark chocolate bar that I bought at the gourmet grocer last
Monday. I wish I had just one tiny square left – or maybe another whole bar.

My growling stomach reminds me that I didn't eat dinner. I open the refrigerator and pick around a little
bit. I throw away an expired carton of yogurt before closing the door. Then I look in the freezer. Two diet
dinners. Banana popsicles. A box of garlic bread. Nothing I want to eat.

All right. That's it. I pick up my keys from the counter and head out the door. I'm going to the grocery
store.

I deserve more chocolate.

I wander through the market, putting whatever the hell I want into my cart. I know better than to shop
while I'm hungry, and I'll regret buying all this junk food later. But at the moment, it sounds delicious.
When I get to the chip aisle, I decide I can't live another day without jalapeno pretzels and make a sharp
turn with my cart.

My eyebrows raise when I see a guy about halfway down the aisle, facing away from me. He's tall, broad-
shouldered, wearing a white t-shirt and dark jeans that are kind of tight.

I take several steps into the aisle, still studying him from the back. He's probably married… or gay.
Single, hetero, hot guys don't grocery shop on Friday nights. When he turns to the side to grab a bag of
chips off the shelf, I get a good look at his profile. Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit. It's worse than if he was
married or gay.

It's Cullen.

I feel my body descend into fight or flight mode and fleetingly wonder why he affects me this way. As the
adrenaline kicks in, my heart bumps unevenly, my breaths are quick and shallow, my stomach is
fluttering again… and I want to get the hell out of here before he sees me.

Hoping for a quick getaway, I back out of the aisle at warp speed, not bothering to turn around and look
behind myself. And not remembering the giant display of football tailgate items stacked at the end of the
aisle. Too late, I feel it at my back as I crash into it, still moving fast.

I cringe as boxes of processed cheese, bags of tortilla chips and cans of chili tumble down from the
precarious pyramid they were arranged in. The only upside is that I am able to remain standing. Cullen
turns his head toward the commotion and does a double take when he recognizes me. So much for my
great escape. His lips curl into a smirk, and then into his beautiful, crooked smile just before he cracks
up. Turning around, he pushes his cart to my end of the aisle, his face reddening as he continues
laughing uncontrollably.

"Shut up," I grumble when he's close enough. Crouching down, I start to pick up the fallen food.

"Oh, come on. This is funny. Weren't you watching where you were going?" he asks.

"Clearly not," I reply snottily, tilting my head back to look up at him. "I was going backwards, trying to get
out of here before I had to have another conversation with you about your ass."

Snickering again, he bends down to help me pick up the mess. Watching him, I can't help but smile
because it really is funny, even though I'm embarrassed. A couple of high school age stock boys come
to my rescue as well, and everything's picked up within a couple of minutes.

When we're done, Cullen pushes his cart up right next to mine and examines the food inside.

"Christ, Swan, are you eight? Frosted Flakes, Ding Dongs, ice cream. Planning on keeping your teeth
long?" he asks teasingly.

"I've had a crappy week, and now I'm at the grocery store on a freaking Friday night," I argue. "I'm
allowed to buy comfort food."

His expression turns from amused to concerned in an instant. "What happened to you this week?" he
asks.

His interest takes me by surprise, and I wind up giving him a shortened version of the mess the water
leak made. Then I apologize for being overly dramatic about it.

He shakes his head, smiling down at me. "Let me take you to dinner," he suggests.

Hell. When he asked me last Tuesday, I thought he was cute and nice, but the cons outweighed the pros
for me at that point. That's not the case tonight. I want to go. I really want to go – but I know I can't.

"I appreciate the offer, but… I'm sorry. No," I say quietly, dropping my eyes to the floor after I've
answered him. When I look back up, he's studying my face.

He nods at me and I make an excuse about needing to finish my shopping. As soon as he turns his cart
away, I high-tail it to the self check-out and get out of the store before I can make an even bigger fool of

myself.

I ignore all thoughts of Cullen as I put away groceries. I don't think of him at all as I settle on the couch
with a Diet Coke and a king-size bag of peanut M&Ms. But when I go into the bathroom to get ready for
bed, I gasp at my reflection, and then close my eyes and groan. It didn't even occur to me that I looked
like this when I ran into him. Ratty hair and clothes. Face streaked with dried sweat. Flecks of mascara
settled into the creases under my eyes.

Embarrassed all over again, I rush through my nighttime routine, eager to escape into a peaceful,
Cullen-free slumber. I have no problem falling asleep as soon as I'm between the cool, crisp sheets.
However, my night is anything but peaceful and Cullen-free. I toss and turn. I dream of running… in
tunnels, on football fields, along beaches… away from him, toward him, with him. Always him.

It's the first night I dream of Cullen. When I wake up Saturday morning, I smile wryly as I admit to myself
that it probably won't be the last.

At ten o'clock the next Tuesday morning, I go to the ladies room at the station and touch up my makeup.
Wanting to look polished and professional, I brush my hair and pull it into a low ponytail. I change out of
my jeans and into a straight, knee-length skirt. But refusing to wear the uncomfortable, three-inch heels
any longer than necessary, I leave my flip flops on and carry my dress shoes as I walk up the hallway
toward my office. When I hear someone whistle behind me, I know it's Riley even before he speaks.

"Lookin' good, Bella," he calls. "Hot date?"

"Quit it," I gripe, frowning over my shoulder at him. "I have a freaking lunch meeting."

"Damn, you were never this grouchy when you were working with me. What the hell has Emmett done to
you?" he teases, following me.

He flops into the extra chair in my tiny office and stays for a while, making me realize how much I miss
talking to him every day. Before he leaves, we agree to have drinks after the Seahawks rally we're
emceeing on Friday night.

Once he's out the door, I spend a little time looking at the Mariners schedule for the rest of the season,
but I can't concentrate. I'm nervous about my lunch meeting with the station owners, worried about why
they want to speak to me away from the station… alone.

When my phone rings a few minutes later, I pick it up to see who's calling. My dad. I smile as I answer
and ask what's up. He says things are dead around the stadium and he'd like to take me to lunch.
Feeling guilty because I haven't seen him for over two weeks, I explain about my noon meeting, but offer
to stop by on my way. The restaurant is only a few blocks from CenturyLink Field anyway.

Twenty minutes later, the security guard waves me through the gate into the staff parking lot at the
stadium. Since Tuesday is players' day off, the lot isn't crowded at all – and I should be able to safely
avoid running into any tall, hot quarterbacks.

The maze of tunnels and lower hallways is deserted, so the clacking of my high heels echoes loudly off
the concrete walls as I walk toward my dad's office. Once I reach it, I knock quietly on the door.

"Come in," he calls. When he looks up and sees me, his face breaks into a smile and he stands to come
around his desk and hug me. "Bells! That was fast. How's my girl?"

"Good, Dad," I say, squeezing him tightly, then leaning back to kiss his cheek.

I sit down in one of the chairs in front of his desk. We talk football – but not Seahawks football – a little
bit. Off the record, of course. He asks about my personal life, as usual. I sidestep those questions and
ask about Sue, even though I saw her Friday and text her daily. I'm not sure how much of that he knows.
She's always been very good about keeping things said between us just between us. Although she and

my dad didn't get married until I was in college, she's been around since I was fifteen and has helped me
through some pretty bumpy times. In some ways, she's more like a mother to me than my mom is,
although I would never tell my mom that. Sue's more nurturing. Renee really prefers to be more like a
friend. I love each of them and figure I'm lucky to have them both.

A brisk knock interrupts our conversation just as my dad steers it back in my direction, making me want
to kiss the assistant coach who peeks around the door.

"Sorry, Chief. Coach needs you in the war room," he says, then turns to me. "Hey, Bells."

"Hi," I answer, and then check my watch. I still have some time before lunch, but I don't want my dad to
feel bad. I smile as I look up at him again, picking up my car keys from my lap. "It's okay. I should get
going anyway."

We walk into the hallway together and hug goodbye. He turns to go toward the team meeting rooms
while I turn the opposite direction, making my way toward the parking lot. As I round the corner into the
corridor leading outside, I'm practically run over by a large, sweaty, handsome quarterback.

"Whoa!" he says, reaching out to steady me as I teeter on my ridiculously high heels. He grips my upper
arms firmly, but his touch is gentle. I blink stupidly at him twice, and then pull it together as he releases
me.

"Jesus, Cullen. Didn't you hear me coming? You could have killed me," I quip, quirking an eyebrow at
him.

"Did you put a GPS chip in me, Swan? Everywhere I go, you're there," he replies with a smirk.

"No. In fact, since it's players' day off, I thought I'd be spared from having to look at that." I wave my
hand in a circle in front of his face.

He chuckles lightly. "I came in for a little extra practice. You know, I'm the new guy around here. Gotta
impress the coaches. You hanging around for a while?"

"Nope. Just on my way out," I answer, trying to ignore the way my stupid heart is hammering in my chest,
the way I can still feel the heat from his hands on my arms.

"Hey! As long as you're here, want to prove you can run a deep route?" he asks.

"Hmm, I'm not exactly dressed for it, Cullen. I'll have to get a rain check."

"What? You can't run in a skirt?"

"I can run in the skirt," I scoff. "It's the heels that are the problem."

"So run barefoot," he offers with a shrug. I could, but I really should get away from him.

"You'll get in trouble," I say noncommittally... but I feel myself wanting to do it. Crap!

"No, I won't. That's not even a good excuse. You're chickening out. Afraid you haven't got it anymore,
Swan?" he taunts. I'm aware that he's intentionally trying to provoke me, which makes it even more
stupid that I fall for it.

"I'm not afraid," I insist belligerently, cringing at the tone of my voice. Jesus, I sound like a little kid.

"Prove it," he challenges, narrowing his eyes for an instant. It's the equivalent of a double-dog dare –
and I've never been good at turning those down.

"Fine. Lead the way," I tell him, holding my arm out for him to go first.

"Ha ha, I don't think so. No more unimpeded looks at my ass, Swan. I don't want any more sound bites

about my body parts playing in the locker room while I'm trying to concentrate on the game plan," he
laughs.

Why do those comments I made about his ass keep coming back to bite mine?

With an exaggerated huff, I start down the tunnel that leads to the field, my heels clicking rapidly on the
cement. When we get to the end, I stop and kick my shoes off, then bend over to pick them up before
stepping on the turf. Yeah, I realize that makes my skirt hike up in the back a little. And, yeah, I realize
Cullen's still behind me.

I carry my shoes and keys toward the sideline bench, setting them down while I watch Cullen get a
football from the bag laying nearby. I know I won't be able to run fast in this pencil skirt, so I decide to roll
the waistband a few times. When I notice that Cullen is watching me, I roll it once more, so that it's just
above mid-thigh. Then I look up at him and grin.

"Okay. I think I'm ready. Will you toss me a couple of short ones first to warm up? I don't want to suck
when you go deep," I say, not realizing of my poor choice of words until I hear his laughter echo through
the empty stadium. Shifting my weight onto my right leg, I put my hands on my hips and let my irritation
come through in my tone. "Are we doing this or not?"

"Sorry, sorry. Five yards?"

I nod and walk to the forty-five yard line. He lines up evenly with me, calls go, then drops back and
throws the first pass. I undercut and miss it.

"My bad. Same spot," I call as I pick up the ball and toss it back to him.

He fires again, and this time I catch it. When I look at him, his eyebrows are raised... he's surprised.
Guess he still thought I was lying.

"One more," I say. I catch the next one, too, but turn too far toward it. It hits me right in the boob.

Fuck. He throws hard. Tears spring to my eyes as I press my forearm against my chest and bend
forward slightly.

"Shit! Sorry, Swan. Did I hurt you?" he calls. Determined not to be a wuss, I take a deep breath and
straighten up. I chuck the ball at him as I walk back.

"I'm good. I just forgot to protect myself. I'm starting to remember why I don't do this very often though," I
answer, still feeling the sting. I'll definitely have a bruise. "All right. I have a lunch thing and don't want to
look like I've been snagging deep balls. Please don't laugh at the way I phrased that."

"Okay." His lips curl into that sexy, goddamned, lop-sided smile. I can tell he's struggling to do as I
asked.

"One shot, Cullen. That's all you get. You'd better hit me."

"I'll do my best, Swan. You want to run out or post?" he asks.

"Skinny post."

Again, he raises his eyebrows, this time seemingly impressed that I know what a skinny post route is.
"Whenever you're ready."

"Give me a count this time," I order, lining up on his far right at the fifty yard line. I get set in my stance:
right leg back, ready to push off; upper body angled forward slightly. When I look at him, he smiles at me
and I roll my eyes in return, shaking my head when I hear him chuckle.

"7 – 7 – 25 – legs – hut, hut," he calls and smacks the ball against his left hand. I take off at full speed,
sprinting up the field 15 yards, and then cutting across toward the center of the field. After another 15

yards, I turn my head to spot the ball and damned if the thing doesn't fall right into my hands five yards
later. I catch it easily and continue running, not even trying to stop the grin that spreads across my face.

"Woohoo, Swan! Nice catch," he yells. I run to the end zone and spike the ball, then turn around to
curtsy cheekily at him. He's smiling widely as he jogs toward me. I stoop to pick up the ball, and then toss
it at him when he gets close.

"You're not going to try to chest bump me or smack my ass, are you?" I ask, smirking at him.

"I wasn't planning to, but I'm game if you are," he laughs. I watch as he licks his top lip and steps closer
to me.

My heart, which was beginning to slow after my exertion, picks up speed again. It's thumping along to the
beat of its own drummer…. and I think the drummer might be Cullen. Oh, shit.

"No, no. I'll settle for you eating your doubting words about me running a go route," I reply, grabbing the
ball from his hands and taking two steps back.

"All right, legs. You win. You've proved your point."

"Legs?" I fire the ball straight for his chest. He catches it before it hits him and tucks it under his arm.

He shrugs. "You're fast."

I nod. His eyes are all sparkly and the corners are crinkled up in the cutest way. Oh, no. Oh, crap. I need
to get the freaking hell out of here.

"Thanks. Well, this was fun, but I really have to go." Really. Even though I'm not moving my feet at all at
the moment. Looking down, I unroll the waistband of my skirt and try to smooth it out once it's back to its
original, more modest length.

"So….lunch date, huh?" he asks casually. When I glance at him, he's nonchalantly tossing the ball up
and catching it again and again. I can tell he's trying to act less interested than he actually is… at least I
think he is. Do I hope he is? Damn it, I think I do.

"It's actually business," I answer. I can't help it. I don't want him to think I'm dating someone… even
though I know I can't date him.

"Business," he repeats, smiling.

"Yeah. Lunch with the station owners. They're either firing me or they're going to try to make me stay on
the morning show with Emmett indefinitely," I say as we begin to walk back toward the sideline.

"You don't want to stay on the morning show?"

"I'll do it for a while – maybe until spring. But not permanently. I like the mid-day slot. And I hate getting
up at four o'clock."

"Bella, I'd really like to take you to –," he starts, but I interrupt.

"You seem like a nice kid," I sigh. "But I don't date athletes."

"You think I'm a kid?" he asks, sounding offended… and totally ignoring my statement about athletes.
"Aren't we about the same age?"

"I don't know. I'm almost 26."

"I just turned 25."

"Eeek. Yeah, you're a kid. I don't date younger men either," I tease as we stop beside the bench and

turn to face each other. "I can't be caught cougaring it up with the local hotshot. It's bad for my old
spinster image." I try to play it off jokingly, but he doesn't look amused.

"I'm not even an entire year younger than you," he protests, his vivid, green gaze burning into mine.

I sigh again, wiping the smartass look off my face before I answer him. "We have too many crossed
wires, Cullen. The whole 'you work with my dad' thing is bad enough, but added to the fact that it's my
job to critique your on-the-field performance, it's just… too messy. Too complicated."

He purses his lips, but nods resignedly. "Well, I guess I'll see you around then, huh?"

"Yeah, I'm sure we'll run into each other. Good luck Sunday," I say.

"Thanks."

After picking up my shoes and keys, I tell him goodbye and walk toward the tunnel entrance where we
came in fifteen minutes ago. Pausing as I step off the turf, I look back at him to see if he's watching me.
He is. I lift my hand to wave, and he does the same before he turns away, heading for the sideline stairs
that lead to the locker room.

Unexpectedly sad, I vow that I'm not going to visit my dad at the stadium any more until I'm over this…
this… whatever it is. I can't risk having to be alone with Cullen for another second.

If he asks me out again, I don't think I have it in me to turn him down.

Please review. :)

*Chapter 4*: The Pocket Collapses

A/N: Sorry for the delay! Real life. What can I say? :)

Thanks, as always, to my lovely friends who beta/edit: Windgirl810 and Littlecat358. I love
them!

I did not let my prereaders preread this chapter... but I love them, too, and if they think
they're getting out of it permanently, they're wrong. M ichelle0526 and Tennesseelamb, you
guys are the best!

Thanks for the reviews/follows/favorites. They make my day!

Thanks for reading!

As I drive to the restaurant, I should be focused on this meeting with Kate and Charlotte. I should be
concerned about what they're going to say. I should be preparing a defense for every one of my
professional transgressions, just in case I'm being called here today to answer one – or many – of
Newton's complaints.

But I'm not doing any of those things. I'm thinking about Cullen.

"I'm being sensible… mature," I reassure myself. The explanation I gave Cullen about why I can't go out
with him is perfectly rational. Even if he doesn't recognize the potential for occupational disaster for each
of us, I do. "I made the right decision."

So why does it feel so wrong?

Sighing, I park my truck in the lot at Raphael's. I flip the visor down and reapply my lipstick, and then
check my hair. Okay, deep breath. No more dwelling on Cullen.

As I get out of my truck, I remind myself that I may have to fight for my job during this lunch. And I really
love my job. There's nothing I'd rather do to earn a living. If they tell me I have to stop deliberately
annoying Newton, I'll stop. If they tell me I have to stay on mornings, I'll continue dragging my ass out of
bed at four a.m… regardless of what I said about only staying on until spring to Cullen.

Cullen.

Dammit! I don't want to think about him anymore. I don't want to remember the look in his green eyes
after he asked me out and I turned him down. Again. I don't want to relive the ache I felt in my chest
when he waved goodbye and turned away.

I don't even want to imagine how painful it would be to watch him walk away if we were actually in a…
shit, I can't think about this now. Or ever.

At the door to the restaurant, I grit my teeth and force myself to smile. When I tell the hostess whom I'm
here to meet, she leads me toward one of the several curtained-off, private rooms along one wall. Even
though I'm a few minutes early, Kate and Charlotte are already seated at the table, and they both stand
as I enter.

"Thanks for coming, Bella," Kate says as we shake hands. In every meeting I've had with them, she's
taken the lead when we've talked business.

Once I've said hello to Charlotte, too, I sit down. After nervously taking a sip of the white wine Kate pours
for me, I start to relax, concluding that since we're talking about the weather and which dishes on the
menu sound good, I must not be in that much hot water.

Soon after we order, Kate folds her hands and rests them on top of the table.

"Bella, you know that you were one of the first people Charlotte and I hired after our father retired," she
begins. I answer affirmatively. "And since the days when you were a poorly-paid intern, you've been a
hard-working and reliable employee. And, most importantly, you've been great on the air."

"Thank you," I reply, smiling slightly while I wait for the part of this speech that begins with "but".

"But none of that had really prepared us for the last two weeks," she says.

Oh, crap. I am in trouble. Before I can interrupt to apologize, Charlotte interjects.

"We hoped moving you to the morning show for a while would help staunch the listener loss after Brian's
arrest and the subsequent bad publicity KSST received," she asserts. "When your first day coincided
with the arrival of the new Seahawks quarterback, we thought we were catching a lucky break. In a
situation like that, fans will tune in to hear what's going on with their team."

"Right," I agree, nodding cautiously.

"We had no idea exactly how many would listen," she adds, "or whether they'd stay."

As Charlotte is speaking, Kate pulls a folder from the briefcase laying on the chair beside her. Opening
it, she takes out the top sheet of paper and hands it to me.

"These are the Arbitron ratings for the last two weeks, Bella. The week before you started with Emmett
and last week," she explains. Looking down, I study the numbers. They're good. I think I'm not getting
fired. "You can see the data is impressive. There's been virtually no drop-off since your first day, and
overall listenership was up over four-tenths of a ratings point last week."

"This is great," I nod. "But, you know, it's Emmett's show. I'm just helping out."

"Yes, you are helping," Kate laughs. "And in recognition of that, we have a proposal for you."

She hands me a document that I quickly realize is a contract extension. As I read through the first few
paragraphs, my heart begins to race. They're offering me a sizeable raise – and adding two years to my
deal. They're also adding a non-compete clause; if I leave the station, I can't work in radio anywhere
within a fifty-mile radius for a year.

"Uh, this is extremely generous," I comment, looking back up at Charlotte, and then Kate. "Am I going to
have to do a bunch of crazy stunts? Because I draw the line at running races dressed as a bottle of
ketchup."

"No," Kate says, chuckling. "Other than the events you already participate in, nothing else is
mandatory."

"I'm just… I don't want to sound ungrateful," I offer, wrinkling my nose slightly, "but this seems like a bit of
an overreaction for one week of good ratings."

Charlotte turns to grin at her sister. "I told you she'd see through it, Katie," she boasts, and then takes
over the conversation for a moment. "Bella, we absolutely think you're a valuable part of the KSST team.
But the truth is we've heard through the grapevine that KSEA is going to try to lure you away. They don't
have any female on-air talent, and they know that your personality and knowledge are attracting new
listeners. We're offering you a package we hope will be lucrative enough to entice you not to jump to our
largest competitor in the market."

"Oh!" I exclaim with a laugh. They both look at me oddly, wondering why I'm amused, I guess. "When you
asked to meet with me, I figured I was in trouble… you know, for some of the stuff I said last week."

"About Edward Cullen?" Kate asks, bending her head forward. The back of my neck prickles at the
mention of his name. "I'll admit I wasn't sure it was going to turn out as well as it did, but you wouldn't
have been disciplined over that either way. It was entertaining and encouraged listener participation."

"And when Mike got him to come into the studio the next day, it was a real coup for the station,"
Charlotte adds. Yuck. Praise for Newton. I bite my tongue. Hard. "We were the first media outlet in
Seattle to get an interview with the new QB. And he seemed like a good sport."

"He was," I agree, feeling my cheeks heat. I pick up my wine and take a big gulp.

Before either of them speaks again, the waitress arrives with our entrees. The talk at the table turns
away from business as we eat. They each talk about their kids a little, and then Charlotte pulls out her
phone to show me a few pictures of the anniversary trip she and her husband took to Paris last month.

"It's the most romantic thing he's ever done for me. And after twenty-five years, it's nice to still be
surprised," she laughs. "What about you, Bella? Are you dating anyone special?"

"No, no," I answer, looking down into my wineglass and using my index finger to circle the rim repeatedly.

"Well, the right guy will show up someday," Kate says. "Charlotte always thought she was unlucky in
love, but then she met David. They were inseparable immediately."

"I remember you being the same way when you met John," Charlotte replies, "even though you tried to
fight it at first."

"I did," Kate nods, smiling as she reminisces. "I thought it was ridiculous the way my heart would speed
up when I saw him. I was very independent and content on my own. Until I met him. From the day I first
spoke to him, I just wanted to know him."

"Let us old married ladies live vicariously through you, Bella," Charlotte pleads. "Has any man ever
made you feel that way?"

Just one. My stomach simultaneously flutters with excitement and clenches in fear. This is not something
I would reveal to my bosses though, even if our lunch has taken a girlfriend-like turn for the moment.
And even if the man wasn't a professional athlete whose every on-the-field move is subject to being torn
apart and scrutinized… by me.

Dropping my eyes, I use my fork to pull off another bite of grilled salmon.

"Huh uh," I lie just before lifting the fork to my mouth.

"Well, it'll happen sooner or later," she predicts. "And take it from me, when it happens, it's pointless to
fight it. It's like trying to stay on your feet while flood waters rise around you. You might as well allow
yourself to be swept along."

They both laugh lightly. I fake laugh as I set my fork down; I'm not going to be able to eat any more. And
I definitely want to switch topics.

"Who needs all that?" I ask, still forcing myself to smile. "I had a real flood in my apartment last week."

My comment successfully diverts the conversation, and I spend several minutes relaying the story, then
lamenting the fact that my apartment is now a construction zone. Half of the new, pre-finished wood floor
is installed, and all the living room furniture is covered with drop cloths.

Once we're finished eating, we stand to leave. After thanking them for lunch and for the proposal, I
promise to get back to them soon with an answer.

"Are either of you coming to the Seahawks kickoff rally Friday night?" I ask as we walk to the parking lot
together.

Charlotte says no, but Kate looks at me curiously. "Have you heard which players are attending? I might
make an appearance if Jasper Whitlock is going to be there."

Laughing, I nod at her. Besides being one of the best tight ends in the league, Whitlock is a Southern

gentleman, great-looking and very personable. My dad introduced us when the Seahawks drafted him
four years ago, and he's always been really nice to me. During training camp last year, I spent so long
talking to him one day that my dad asked if we had something going on. We didn't. Even if I didn't have
my own personal non-fraternization policy where pro athletes are concerned, we didn't hit it off that way.
But I consider us casual friends, and he comes on the radio with me every time I ask him.

"He's confirmed," I answer.

"He's my favorite player," she says, raising her eyebrows. "And not just because of the – how did you
put it? – way he looks in the tight, white pants."

"Yeah, that's it," I laugh, relieved that they're not upset about the way my big mouth tends to cause a
stir.

"What about Edward Cullen?" she asks.

"Uh, um, he's not on the list," I respond, hating the way my pulse reacts – as usual – to the mention of
him.

"The new face of the franchise isn't coming? Oh, I bet he shows up," Charlotte predicts. "He'll be getting
all kinds of pressure from the front office."

"Maybe," I shrug, trying to sound indifferent. But my racing heart is already eagerly anticipating seeing
him again, because I agree that he'll probably show.

And I'm not sure what I'm more afraid will happen if I get stuck talking to him – that he'll ask me out
again… or that he won't.

Friday afternoon, I lean across my bathroom sink, getting closer to the mirror to apply eyeliner. I rarely
wear more than neutral eye shadow and mascara on my eyes, but Newton reminded me this morning
that I "should be high-def camera-ready" for the rally. Even though I doubt the local news crews will get
me on film, I guess it's a good opportunity to use all the crap at the bottom of my makeup bag.

The last three days, I've been so amiable at the station that I deserve a halo. My refusal to respond to
Newton's repeated jabs has earned me both praise and disappointment from Emmett – and dirty looks
from Newton. The odds are against me holding my tongue forever though. Especially since he's actively
attempting to piss me the hell off every morning.

After getting dressed in Bermuda shorts and a burnout Seahawks t-shirt, I put on black wedge sandals
and walk to the kitchen. The fresh paint smell is slowly retreating from my apartment, and last night Sue
came by to help me unpack everything I boxed up last weekend. Cringing, I remember what happened
when she mentioned a certain quarterback.

"Thanks for coming to help, but I feel guilty," I said soon after she arrived, walking to the refrigerator. I
grabbed two cans of soda from inside, and then offered one to her. Popping the top on mine, I
swallowed two big sips. "I know Dad doesn't like for you to be gone in the evenings during the season
since he's gone all weekend."

"Edward Cullen asked Charlie to spend some extra time with him in the film room," she explained. "So
he's still at the stadium. Said he'd probably be pretty late. Sweetie, are you all right?"

Coughing, I nodded, waving her off when she moved closer. "Wrong way," I sputtered, pointing to my
throat.

"Well, anyway, your dad's very impressed with the new quarterback," she continued. "Says he's going to
be a great trigger man. Did I say that right?"

"Yes," I responded with a laugh, my voice croaky. What the hell? I almost choked to death on my Diet

Coke just because she said his name… or maybe because my dad is hanging out with him… or maybe
both.

"You'd think after this many years with both of you, I'd be familiar with all the terminology," she replied.
"But sometimes I still can't keep it all straight."

After that, I couldn't change the subject fast enough, and neither of us mentioned him again. However,
my brain, which I'd successfully kept from thinking about him too much since Tuesday, rebelled, fixating
on him almost constantly for the rest of the night.

Glancing at the oven clock, I see that I have a few minutes before I have to leave, so I pick up the brown
paper-wrapped package laying with the rest of today's mail on my counter. It's from my mom. I know it's a
birthday gift, and I intended to wait until my actual birthday on Sunday to open it, but I decide to open it
now instead.

Carefully, I tear the paper off the box and lift the lid, pausing to read the card she put inside. I take the
protective sheet of cotton padding off the top, gasping when I see the silver and turquoise necklace and
earrings underneath. When I was in Phoenix two weeks ago, I practically drooled over this jewelry when
my mom and I were shopping, but I decided it was too pricey to buy. Tears spring to my eyes at the
thought of my mom going back to get it for me.

Rushing to the bedroom, I stand in front of my dresser mirror and remove the sapphire earrings that
were my Grandma Swan's, replacing them with the dangly earrings my mom sent. Then I put on the long,
thin necklace. It's beautiful, but not flashy. I love it.

Realizing that I'd better get going, I head out the door, pausing to pick up my black wristlet from the
kitchen counter. As soon as I'm on the sidewalk, I take my phone out of my pocket and call my mom to
thank her. We talk during my entire five-block walk to Lucky's Pub, where the rally is being held.

After a cloudy morning, the afternoon has turned beautiful – warm and sunny. As I approach the bar, I
can see that the street is blocked off and the stage is set up. Bar employees are setting up mobile beer
carts. At the side of the stage, our radio remote crew is busily running wires from the microphones and
speakers to all the sound mixing equipment. A few feet away, Newton is holding a clipboard and talking
to Seth. Emmett is standing next to them, staring at the handful of Seahawks cheerleaders – Seagals –
who have arrived.

As I tell my mom goodbye and hang up, Emmett sees me. Frowning, he takes a few steps toward me as I
approach.

"Whoa, Swan. Why are you so dressed up?" he asks when I reach him. "I almost didn't recognize you."

"Shut up. I'm not dressed up," I answer as I make a face at him. He can't suppress his quick grin of
pleasure at getting a rise out of me.

"Yes, you are," he insists, trying not to laugh. "You're not wearing jeans and a hoody. Your hair is
straight and shiny. You're wearing actual makeup. Jesus, Swan, you look like a…. a….. a girl."

"I always look like a girl, jackwagon," I retort.

"Not this kind of girl. Are you wearing fake eyelashes?" he cracks, leaning close to my face.

"Personal space, Mac," I snap, shoving him back and using the nickname he hates. "I just put on bronzer
and nicer clothes."

"Seriously, what's going on? You trying to land a man? Your biological clock starting to kick in? Tick,
tock," he teases. "You are turning 26 this weekend, right?"

I roll my eyes at him, but nod, partly happy that he remembers. Riley has forgotten my birthday the last
two years.

"Jesus, Swan. That was completely sexy. You should definitely do that at whoever you're trying to pick
up. It's hot," Emmett declares. Without thinking, I roll my eyes again. "Yeah, totally hot."

"Emmett," I growl, narrowing my eyes at him.

"Cool your jets, Swan. I'm not trying to offend you. I'm just saying you went from looking like one of the
guys this morning to …. all woman now," he says. Although it still sounds insulting, I know that he's trying
to compliment me.

Riley arrives a few minutes later, and Newton goes over the schedule for the three-hour broadcast while
Seth hands us our ear pieces. The crowd is steadily growing, and several more Seagals have gathered
on the side of the stage near the pep band. I haven't seen any players yet, but since they don't go on
the air for another two hours, that's not alarming.

At four o'clock, we're on. We sit on stools on the stage and interview a few retired players, and then a
sports columnist from the Seattle Times. Emmett, Riley and I work well together, and I'm having a great
time except for one thing: Newton. He's constantly talking in our ears – I think just to hear his own voice.

The pep band plays during commercial breaks, and the guy-heavy crowd cheers loudly every time since
the Seagals come on stage in their tiny shorts and go-go boots to do high kicks. I resist the urge to roll
my eyes. I'm sure they're nice girls… with perfect legs and double-D boobs.

"Bella, don't forget to watch for players," Newton says in my ear during one of the breaks. Checking my
watch, I see that it's about thirty minutes until the head coach and players are scheduled to be on.
"Refer to my list. I want to know when the VIPs arrive."

Nodding – so he'll know I heard him and shut the fuck up – I turn to look at Emmett as I widen my eyes,
suck my cheeks in and bite down hard. Emmett is trying not to laugh.

"How did I get appointed chief spotter?" I grouse, leaning over to speak to Emmett. All of our mics are
dead during the breaks, so Newton can't hear me. "We all know these guys."

"Yeah, but Riley and I are distracted by them," he answers lowly, jerking his head toward the dancing
girls. There's a redhead who keeps looking at Emmett with a wide, flirty smile.

"You're such a boy," I say disdainfully, but I can't help chuckling when he winks at me, flashing his deep
dimples.

During the next couple of segments, I scan the players who are starting to congregate on the opposite
side of the stage, and check off the faces I recognize from Newton's list. I leave the stage for the final
segment, letting Riley and Emmett talk to the pep band alone. I'm not even sure why we're interviewing
them. While they call the Seagals up and have them introduce themselves, I huddle with Newton to go
over the player list. He's wearing too much cologne, which makes me sneeze repeatedly.

"So, Whitlock isn't here? Or Cullen?" Newton barks, looking at me for confirmation.

"I haven't seen them," I answer, glaring at him. "Don't yell at me. It's not my fault if the VIP jerks don't
show up."

"Well, if they do show up, it would be nice if you could try not to discuss their asses on the air," he
sneers, smirking smugly.

"So, it's okay to talk about their asses if they're not here?" I ask with faux excitement. "Yay!" I clap my
hands together quickly several times. I knew I wouldn't be able to control my mouth forever.

"Be careful, Bella," he warns angrily. "You don't want me as an enemy."

"Or as a friend," I retort, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Newton, Emmett is going to throw to break. You want me to play us out since the band isn't ready?"

Seth asks from behind me.

"Yeah, play us out," he orders gruffly, stalking away. "I'm getting a beer. I'll be back."

Whirling around to face Seth, I start laughing.

"Shit, Bella. I was scared to interrupt," Seth admits, glancing at me as soon as he starts the music. "His
face was so red."

"I'm glad you did, Seth," I say, reaching to grasp his forearm. "I know better than to say stuff like that to
him. You probably saved me from getting fired. I'll buy you and the crew a beer when we're done, okay?"

"Sure."

We both turn our heads when someone shouts my name from across the stage. It's Whitlock. Smiling, I
wave at him, then turn to tell Seth to mark his name from the list.

"I saw Cullen, too."

"What?" I breathe, looking back toward the players.

And sure enough, there he is, moving to stand next to Whitlock. Inhaling a shaky breath, I try to focus on
what Seth is saying, but his voice sounds far away… muffled by the sound of my thundering heartbeat.

God, Cullen looks good. And he's looking at me. I don't know how long I stand there, taking him in,
before something that Seth says breaks through the spell.

"Huh?" I ask, ripping my eyes away from Cullen and pivoting to face Seth.

"Newton's coming. Get back on stage before you insult him again," he whispers. I mumble a thank you,
and then climb the steps, making my way back to my stool just as the head coach of the Seahawks,
Coach Erickson, is getting settled for his interview.

Before I sit down between Emmett and Riley, I shake hands with the Coach, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

"Hi, Bella," he says, smiling at me. "I tried to drag your dad down here with me, but he said he's not
allowed at your remotes."

Laughing, I nod. "That's kind of true," I admit. "He came to my first-ever remote, and he whistled and
yelled my name so many times that I almost died from embarrassment. At the time, I banned him for life,
but I'd lift it now if he asked. I think he's matured."

While we're still laughing, Newton's voice booms in my ear. "Bella, sit the hell down. We're back on in
twenty seconds."

Suppressing the urge to turn and flip him off, I squeeze Coach's hand, and then pull away. As I boost
myself onto my seat, I glance toward Newton, glaring at him and hoping he reads the implied fuck you in
my eyes.

Our interview with the coach runs long, so we have to rush through all the players in order to get off the
air on time. To my chagrin, Newton is actually good at this part of producing – he has everything timed
out perfectly. We talk to the defensive line, corners and safeties. Then the offensive line, a running
back, and two wide receivers. Whitlock is next to last, leaving the new quarterback as our final guest.

As Cullen walks on stage, the crowd cheers noisily. He's a little flushed, making me wonder if he's
uncomfortable with all the attention. Emmett speaks first, rattling off some stats from the preseason
game as Cullen picks up the extra microphone and sits down. For the next couple of minutes, he
answers everything Emmett and Riley ask. Determined to be level-headed tonight, I stay quiet and
watch… listen.

While Riley is talking, I turn to my right to look at him, also scanning the crowd. Several of the Seagals
are standing front and center, blatantly staring at Cullen. Rolling my eyes, I turn my attention – and gaze
– back to Cullen just as he begins speaking. He's looking at me, but then quickly slides his eyes toward
the Seagals and back. When our eyes meet again, he briefly lifts one eyebrow just enough for me to
know that he realizes why I rolled my eyes. Unable to stop the grin that curls my lips, I shrug my
shoulders almost imperceptibly, and he smiles crookedly at me in return.

"Bella, are you with us? You haven't said a thing," Newton says sharply.

Bristling, I grit my teeth, letting my mouth settle into a grim line. As soon as Cullen is finished, I interject.
"Getting away from football for a minute, what's your favorite thing so far about Seattle?"

"I'm not sure I can narrow it down to one," he answers, his gaze still fixed on mine, though neither of us is
smiling any longer. "I'll have to give two: The food… and the people."

The crowd erupts in applause at his answer, and he turns to smile at them. Shaking my head slightly, I
struggle with my feelings – my irritation at Newton and my attraction to Cullen. And I know my best
course of action at the moment is to steer clear of both of them.

Emmett takes over again, thanking all the players for coming, and then signing us off the air. As the
players all file onto the stage to wave to the crowd, Riley and I stand and move to the side. The pep
band plays us off the air as I head down the stairs, yanking my earpiece out.

"Trade you," Seth offers, holding a bottle of beer toward me.

"Thanks, Seth," I say quietly, trying to smile at him. Lifting the bottle to my lips, I take two long pulls
before lowering it, and then turn to Riley. "Want to go inside?"

"In a minute," he replies distractedly, looking at something on the stage.

Looking over my shoulder, I'm surprised to see that none of the players have left yet. Usually they head
inside to the VIP area as soon as these rallies are over. But they're staying in place while Emmett thanks
the crowd for coming. Then I get another surprise.

"Bella! Come back up here," he says. My stomach drops. "We have a little treat for Bella. Her birthday is
Sunday."

"I'm killing both of you jackwagons," I mutter to Riley, grabbing his arm and dragging him up the stairs
with me. "You're coming, too."

Once we reach Emmett, the pep band begins to play Happy Birthday. From the other side of the stage,
two Seagals approach, carrying a cake lit with a lot more than 26 candles. Behind me, all the players are
singing along with the crowd. I fake smile widely, trying to be a good sport, but I'm embarrassed. As soon
as the song is over, I blow out all the candles – in one breath, thank you – and then stick my finger into
the icing and take a bite. Smiling, I hold up my beer to toast the crowd as I say thank you into Emmett's
microphone.

Less than two minutes later, I sit between Emmett and Riley at the bar, sullenly picking the paper label
from my beer.

"Come on, Swan. Lighten up," Emmett says.

"You guys ambushed me," I whine. "Buy me shots."

When the bartender sets two fruity shots in front of me, I throw them both back immediately, not realizing
I have an audience until Whitlock speaks from behind me.

"Happy birthday, Bella," he says in his unmistakable, slow drawl.

Raising the back of my hand to my mouth, I spin my stool around to face him.

Oh, shit. Cullen's with him.

"Thanks," I answer, letting my eyes land on Cullen for a second, but then pulling them back to meet
Whitlock's gaze. "Would you like a drink?"

"No, thanks. We're heading upstairs to the VIP lounge. You guys want to come up with us?" Whitlock
asks.

"Thanks, but we'll stay down here amongst the common folk," I tease, smirking at him.

"Why won't you come up, Bella? You used to like me," Whitlock says sadly, holding a hand over his
heart, but his eyes are shining mischievously.

"I promised to buy drinks for our crew," I explain with a laugh. "I'll sit with you VIP jerks next time."

"Deal. But come on up if you change your mind. It would be nice to catch up with you," he replies,
leaning down to kiss my cheek.

As they walk away, I swivel my stool to face forward and Emmett leans over to bump my shoulder with
his. "Someone was staring at you again."

"Why? Do I have something in my teeth? Frosting on my face?" I quip, wishing that I wasn't a little thrilled
by Cullen's attention. "You can go upstairs if you want. That redheaded cheerleader has been giving
you the eye all evening. I'm sure she's up there, too."

"Nah. I'd rather hang with you and the guys," he answers, shrugging. "She's probably a ho."

Laughing, I tap my bottle to his and Riley's. As we finish our beers and order another round, we watch
the Mariners game on the television above the bar, naming several things we want to talk about
Monday. All the while, no matter how hard I try to push them aside, thoughts of Cullen keep darting
through my head.

Is he still here? Is he upstairs talking to all those girls who were ogling him earlier? If I was up there,
would he talk to me? Would I even want him to?

"Where's the crew?" I wonder. "They should be done by now." Intending to search for them, I twist
around, but instead of looking at the door, my eyes slide upward to the VIP balcony. Even among the
group of players, Cullen's so tall that he's easy to find, standing in a larger group that includes a few
offensive linemen and several scantily-clad women. Figures.

My stomach constricts painfully, but I force myself to smile as I drop my eyes and see Seth approaching,
followed by Paul, Jared and Ryan. Newton is bringing up the rear. I say hi to all the guys – except
Newton, whom I'm not speaking to – and spin around to tell the bartender that the next round is on me. I
really don't want to buy Newton's drink, but I'm unsure how to communicate that without getting myself in
deeper trouble with him. I don't care, of course, but since Charlotte and Kate put so much faith in me, I
don't want to deliberately make things worse… not tonight, anyway.

When I finish my beer, I'm ready to go home. I don't want to sit here any longer trying not to look
upstairs. Hopping off the barstool, I hug everyone except Newton goodbye and walk outside,
successfully keeping my eyes away from the beautiful quarterback with the bright green eyes and great
ass.

I walk leisurely, in no rush to get home to my lonely apartment. I never really allowed myself to speculate
about what might happen tonight, but I guess I never considered that Cullen and I wouldn't speak at all
except during the interview. And I didn't imagine that the fact that we didn't would leave me both relieved
and pissed off. Why does he bring out such warring emotions in me?

I've walked about a block and a half when a big, gray SUV pulls to the curb and stops just ahead of me.
The passenger window lowers and I hear someone call my name from inside. Well, not someone. Cullen.

Cullen calls my name.

Perfect.

"Hey," I reply. Briefly, I turn to look at him and wave, but I keep walking forward until he calls out again.
"What?"

"Can I talk to you?" he asks.

"I don't know, can you?" I retort, using my dad's favorite proper-grammar-inducing line from my
childhood. He laughs as he rolls up the window and turns off the car, then gets out to meet me on the
sidewalk.

"Do you need a ride home?" he asks, smiling down at me.

"No, thanks. I'll walk," I answer. "It's too nice outside to ride in a big, smog-making, ozone-destroying
truck anyway."

"Then may I walk you home?" he asks.

I chuckle even though I try not to. "Suit yourself," I reply with a one-shouldered shrug as I start walking
again, more quickly this time. He jogs a few steps to catch up with me, and I hear his horn honk twice as
he locks the SUV.

"Will my car be okay here?"

"Don't know. Did you park in a marked parking space or do you VIP jerks just park wherever the hell you
want?" I ask. Wow. That sounded really snotty.

"Have I done something to offend you, Bella?" With a heavy sigh, I stop walking and turn to face him.

"No." I shake my head slowly, forcing myself to look into his piercing eyes. When I see the frown on his
face, a dull ache throbs through my chest. "That was uncalled for. I'm sorry. I just –."

Dipping my head, I lower my eyes and stop talking before I say anything I'll regret later….like I just can't
let myself get pulled into something I think will end in disaster for me. I just have to be a bitch so you'll
stay away. I just want to kiss you until I can't think straight.

"You just what?" he asks softly, putting his hand under my chin to tilt my head up. The gentle pressure
of his fingers causes a quick flash of heat to course through me. Shit, Cullen. Why can't you just be an
asshole?

"I don't know. Why are you walking me home?" I ask, taking a step back so that his hand falls away. I
can't continue thinking logically while my skin is tingling from his touch.

"I don't think you should be walking alone this time of night," he replies.

"It's not even eight o'clock yet. I live down here. I walk around all the time," I argue.

"I want to talk to you, get to know you," he says. He looks into my eyes as he steps forward, closing the
distance between us again.

"Why? I'm just an average girl," I declare, starting to panic at the thought of spending more time alone
with Cullen. "Divorced parents. Raised by my dad. Solid B student all through school. Sports fanatic
who's lucky enough to have a job I love. That's it."

He raises one side of his lips in a smile as he answers. "Thanks for the Wiki summary, Swan, but I prefer
to figure things out for myself."

"Cullen, any sort of friendship between us will compromise my journalistic integrity," I protest, cringing as

I hear how high-pitched my panicked voice has become. Realizing how close to crazy my screechy
statement sounds, I rein it in, hiding once again behind my number one defense mechanism - humor.
"And you've got your quarterback image to think of, too. I don't really look like an NFL flavor of the week.
Tall, blonde, leggy… that's what you're supposed to go for."

"What if I like not-tall, brunette, leggy?" he asks, smiling crookedly.

"I'm barely five-foot-six," I answer. "I'm not leggy."

"You're definitely leggy," he nods.

"You've been checking out my legs?" Pursing my lips, I tilt my head to the side and raise my eyebrows.

"You talked about my ass on the radio," he reminds me.

My eyes dart away, and then back to his as I struggle not to smile. Giving up, I laugh and shrug.
"Touché."

"Have dinner with me."

"I can't."

"Why not? There are fifty restaurants on this street," he exaggerates. "Have dinner with me before you
judge me and tell me who I should date."

"It's much more fun to judge you without really knowing you," I quip, chuckling softly when he laughs.
"But I really don't want to be seen out with you, Cullen. It'll be in the newspaper or on someone's
Facebook."

"So pick a place that's dark. Let's go to a dive, or to somewhere there won't be sports fans who will spot
me. Then if I determine you really are average, no one will know we even dined together. You can
escape anytime you want if you decide I'm a VIP jerk. Jesus, Bella, give me a shot here."

His impassioned plea crushes what's left of my already-crumbling resolve. Sighing, I roll my eyes.

"Okay. Let's go there," I say, pointing to Nara, a sushi restaurant across the street. "It's dimly-lit and the
food is delicious. Do you have a hat or a fake moustache you can wear?" Chuckling, he shakes his head
no. "Oh, well. It would be difficult for you to really be incognito anyway with that face. If my name ends up
on some idiot's blog though, I will hurt you."

"Okay, Bella," he replies, smiling down at me.

"And I've had two shots and three beers, so I can't be responsible for everything I say. Don't try to put
any moves on me though. I grew up around some of the meanest defensive backs around and they
treated me like a little sister. They taught me how to fight off handsy boys," I say, while internally
wondering if I would fight him off if he got handsy. Probably not.

"Okay, Bella," he says again.

"And don't talk to me patronizingly," I demand.

He nods. "Is that it? Can we go in now?"

"I don't know… can we?" I ask, unable to stop the grin that spreads across my face as he laughs out
loud.

Once we're inside, I walk up to the hostess desk, glad that Saika is working tonight. Her parents own the
restaurant and I come in enough that most of the family knows me, but I like Saika the best.

"Hi, Bella," she greets. It doesn't escape me that she's staring at Cullen even though she's talking to me.
"Two for dinner?"

"Yes. Somewhere private please."

She leads us to a secluded table in the far back corner, returning within a minute with a Sapporo for
each of us. I pick mine up immediately, taking a quick sip. We're quiet until we've ordered, but then
there's nothing to do except face him.

He studies my face intently for several seconds before he speaks. "Why don't you like me, Bella?"

I frown as I answer. "I never said I didn't like you," I assert, shaking my head minutely. "I just said this isn't
a good idea….for either one of us."

"Because of our jobs? Your dad? Those are flimsy excuses." he argues.

"They're valid reasons," I insist. But I don't want to discuss my reasoning – especially my biggest reason,
which I have not and will not verbalize: I'm scared to freaking death of him… of my physical reaction to
him… of the way I already feel about him… of the way I think he'll break my heart if I let him. "Besides,
you've got a big-time, brand-new job anyway. Shouldn't you be concentrating on that? Removing
distractions from your life instead of adding them?"

"I've been concentrating heavily on my new job. Does that mean that I should ignore my feelings when I
meet someone I really like?" He leans across the table to speak quietly, urgently to me.

"I don't know," I whisper, incapable of pulling my gaze away from his. I swallow loudly as we continue
staring at each other for several seconds until he finally slumps back in his chair.

"Well, we've already ordered, so why don't we get to know each other a little? When we're done, if you
don't want me to bother you again, I won't. Scout's honor," he says, holding up three fingers…three long
fingers, which are attached to giant hands. "Bella?"

"Um, yeah… okay. You first," I say. "You grew up in Chicago, right?"

"Yes."

"Parents?"

"Two," he jokes, grinning. I can't help chuckling lightly. "Doctors. Dad is a cardiologist. My mom is an
oncologist."

"Wow," I reply, genuinely impressed. "Brothers and sisters?"

"Two sisters. One normal person and one bitch I can't stand. The bitch is just like my mother, which
should give you some insight into that relationship as well," he shares, pausing to take a drink of his
beer.

"I'm sorry," I offer honestly.

"It's all right. She's been that way as long as I can remember," he shrugs. "Ask something else."

"I know you went to Northwestern, but what was your major?"

"Communications."

"And you were drafted in the fourth round three years ago."

"Yes," he nods.

"Lots of girlfriends?"

"Nope. I dated the same girl from senior year of high school until halfway through senior year of college,"
he says. "It didn't work out, but we're still friends. She's best friends with my sister. The normal one."

"Since then?"

"I've dated, but nothing serious since her."

"Why?"

"This is starting to feel like an interview," he muses. "Is it possible for us to have a regular
conversation?"

"Sorry. I wasn't aware I was doing it wrong," I mutter, rolling my eyes. Defense mechanism number two –
sarcasm mixed with obstinance – is kicking in.

He sighs, making me a little happy that I've succeeded in annoying him. But, shockingly, I'm also upset
about it. My shield must be slipping.

Our server appears with our entrees, and as we begin eating, Cullen turns the tables, quizzing me. His
questions are leading though, encouraging me to talk freely about my life. And I do. I tell a few funny
stories about the difficulties of being a girl growing up with my dad – and fifty-three NFL players each
year. I talk about my parents and step-parents, and he points out how lucky I am to have four people
who are supportive of me.

"I agree, Cullen."

"Do you always call people by their last names?" he frowns.

"Most guys, yeah," I confirm, "except for Emmett, Riley and Seth. There's no hidden meaning to that
though. Emmett hates to be called McCarty or Mac, Riley's first name sounds like a last name and Seth's
last name is too long."

He nods, presumably satisfied with that answer. "You haven't mentioned any boyfriends," he prods.

"Not much to tell. One serious boyfriend in high school and one in college. No one significant since then.
Most guys I go out with discover that it's not as fun to date a female sports fan as they thought it would
be. I'm too opinionated," I shrug. Then I continue with a smirk. "I'm thinking about hitting up a Trekkie
convention or something next time I need a date."

"You like the jumpsuits?" he asks, perplexed.

"No," I scoff, chuckling. "I just want to be the one doing the dumping at the end of the night. Sci-fi is not
my thing."

"I thought maybe it was related to the thing you have for men in football pants," he teases.

"Jesus. I'm never gonna live that down," I mumble, but I'm amused. "I could kill Emmett for getting me to
say that on the air."

When he smiles crookedly at me, I can't breathe. Suddenly, I'm all too aware that the defenses I felt
slipping all through dinner are practically non-existent now. I like him. I really freaking like him. After only
spending an hour with him, I've revealed things that I haven't shared with anyone else in years.

I pick up my beer and finish it, hoping the waitress arrives with our bill soon. I need to get the hell out of
here.

"Is it true? Do you really draft two guys for that?"

"Yeah, until this year, but that's a long story. Please don't ask," I beg, reluctant to explain why I was so
distracted during the fantasy draft last week. The waitress sets the bill on the table, and I grab it quickly,

holding it close to my chest when he reaches for it. "My treat. Please."

"All right. I'll get it the next time. Sunday night?" he asks as I bend down to grab my clutch from the floor.
I almost fall off my chair and have to grasp the table for support as I sit up again.

"Huh?"

"Sunday night. Will you have dinner with me Sunday night after the game?" he repeats. That snaps me
out of my defenseless stupor. My heart beats frantically as I scramble to resurrect the walls I normally
protect myself with.

"No, Cullen. This was it," I say, leaving enough cash on the table to cover the bill and the tip. I stand up
and walk out, waving goodbye to Saika as I pass the hostess desk. I know he's behind me and I know I'm
being rude, but I can't look into his eyes and say no again. I go out the restaurant door and start to head
up the block.

"Christ, Swan. Will you slow down?" he calls when he hits the street just a few feet behind me.

Whirling around to face him, I force myself to smile widely. "I only live two more blocks up. I'll be fine."

"It's dark. I'm making sure you get home," he states flatly. "Then I'll leave you alone."

We fall into step side-by-side, but don't speak until we're at the door to my building.

"This is me."

"I'll walk you up," he replies tersely, holding the door open for me. We ride up the elevator in silence,
and then I lead the way down the hall, holding my keys in one hand and my clutch in the other. At my
door, I put the key in and unlock it, but don't open it before turning around to face him.

"So… thanks for walking me home, Cullen."

"You're welcome. Thanks for dinner," he responds. "Sorry I wrecked your night."

"You didn't," I contend, feeling something in my chest shatter when I see the rejection in his eyes. "I'm so
sorry. I… I'm not usually rude like this."

"Good to know that I bring out the best in you," he remarks, chuckling, but not at all amused.

Since I know from experience that no one believes the "it's not you, it's me" speech, I don't try to make
it… even though it's actually freaking true in this case.

"Good luck Sunday," I say instead, forcing myself to continue looking at him. "For what it's worth, I think
you're going to be great. I'm shocked you haven't gotten this opportunity earlier in your career."

He nods, but I can see that this time, he's the one with his guard up. "See you around, Swan." He turns
and takes two steps away from me.

"Cullen… Edward, wait," I plead, prompting him to turn around and look at me expectantly. Shit! My heart
races uncontrollably, and I'm not even sure what I want to say. But I don't want him to go. "I… I just…"

"What, Bella?" he asks, clearly irritated.

"I just… I want to," I start, and then can't continue.

Before I can think about it – before I can talk myself out of it – I step toward him, letting my clutch fall to
the floor. With one hand, I grab a handful of the Seahawks t-shirt covering his chest, wrapping my other
arm around his neck to pull him down to me. As I press my lips to his, I'm not surprised that he doesn't
immediately respond. I am surprised, however, by the wave of desire that spreads through me from just
one chaste, closed-mouth kiss with a guy who's barely puckering up in return.

Relaxing my lips, I start to step away, and then inhale sharply when I feel his arm come around my waist
to pull me back. He cups the back of my head with his other hand, holding me still as he kisses me
again. This time Edward is an active participant in the kiss. After a few more closed-mouth pecks, we
both open our lips at the same time. Another spike of arousal flashes through me as he slides his
tongue along mine.

Slowly learning each other, we move together, apart, together. He traces his tongue along my lower lip,
and I do the same to his. When he pulls his head back slightly, I open my eyes to find his vivid eyes
looking back at me.

"Crap. I was afraid it was gonna be like this," I whisper, smiling when I feel a low chuckle vibrate through
his chest.

Curling his fingers around my waist, he pulls me impossibly closer, lowering his mouth to mine again.
This time the kiss is not as slow, not as gentle. Our open lips meet over and over, crashing together as
we breathe heavily into each other's mouths.

Although I don't want to, I twist my mouth away after a few minutes. We are making out in the middle of a
hallway, after all. Cullen lets me, slowly releasing me from his hold. As I step away, I unclench the fingers
that are still gripping his shirt tightly.

"I wrinkled you," I mumble lamely, looking at his chest and trying to smooth out the material.

"It's okay," he answers quietly, smiling as I look up at him. He raises one hand, brushing the backs of his
fingers along my cheek. "Have dinner with me Sunday."

"I still think this is a bad idea."

"Maybe it is. We'll figure it out, either way," he replies.

Reaching up, I grasp his hand and he squeezes my fingers as he lowers our joined hands to hang
between us.

Nodding, I finally answer. "I want to have dinner with you – as long as we keep it quiet and private. And I
promise to leave my inner bitch at home."

Laughing, he lets go of my hand to pull his phone from his pocket. He has me program my number, and I
ask him if he wants me to meet him somewhere Sunday.

"Well, I'll probably be pretty tired. Is it okay with you if we eat at my place and order in?" he asks. When
he sees my raised eyebrow, he shrugs. "You said quiet and private. It is. And I promise to keep my
hands to myself."

Dammit. I'm not sure that's what I want anymore. But this isn't the time to decide.

"All right," I agree. "Text me directions?"

"Yeah." He steps forward, pulling me into a hug. As I wrap my arms around his solid shoulders, I let my
eyes slide closed and hang on tightly. Rearing back, he kisses me softly twice. "I'll see you Sunday."

When I back away, he bends down to get my purse for me, smiling as he hands it to me. Suddenly self-
conscious, I turn and open my door, yanking the keys from the lock. Once I step inside, I pivot so I can
see him once more as I close the door.

"Goodnight, Edward," I say, smiling.

"Night," he answers.

After locking the deadbolt, I turn around and lean against the door… thinking of the path we've taken to
get this far. The first time he asked me out, I was flippant. The second, I was evasive. I was downright

condescending the third. Tonight I relented, but acted like a total bitch most of the evening. And still he
wants to see me again.

What the hell is wrong with him?

I don't know the answer to that, but I do know what's wrong with me. I'm standing in the midst of rising
flood waters, about to let myself be swept away. And I think I like it.

I'm so screwed.

Thanks for reading. Please review! :) Next update will be September 30.

*Chapter 5*: Blown Coverage

A/N: It's late, but still Sunday where I live. :)

I so appreciate those who review/follow/favorite. Thanks so much!

This chapter was an oddity for a lot of reasons I won't bore you with. I'm so lucky to have such
great friends: Windgirl810 is the best beta ever and has helped me conceptually with this
story for over a year. Littlecat358 helped me so much with this chapter -
content/wording/characterization. M ichelle0526 preread and typo-corrected. Tennesseelamb
flits around making me laugh. Especially last night. :)

Okay, that's it. Thanks for reading!

Saturday morning, I wake up to the most fantastic sound. Opening my eyes, I lift my head to look at the
fancy, bean-grinding, gourmet-java-brewing beauty still sitting on my nightstand… and I smile.

"I love you," I mutter sleepily, not at all concerned for my sanity at uttering those three little words to an
inanimate object.

Since it's the weekend, I set the timer for seven, allowing myself to sleep in. Well, if you consider getting
up at seven sleeping in. I don't, but when I was working overnights at the station several years ago, I
learned not to alter my sleep schedule too much on the weekends. It only makes Monday morning that
much more painful. So, it's early to rise… and a long nap on the couch later.

Once the coffee's ready and I've filled my stainless steel mug, I prop my pillows against the headboard
and lean back against them, flipping the television on to watch ESPN. I try to pay attention as the
College GameDay hosts preview today's games, but as soon as someone mentions the Big Ten, my
brain veers off on its own detour.

The Big Ten. Northwestern is in the Big Ten. Cullen played at Northwestern.

Cullen.

Closing my eyes, I shake my head at myself. What am I doing? Setting myself up for disaster, that's what
I'm doing. I never considered myself stupid before, but maybe I am. Agreeing to see Cullen – alone – is
even more idiotic than that kissing stunt I pulled last night.

Lifting my mug to my mouth, I swallow several sips of the almost-scalding coffee, and then press the
warm steel against my lips, smiling. Kissing Cullen might have been the dumbest thing I ever did that felt
that good. As my heart speeds up, I picture his face behind my closed eyelids. My fingers curl more
tightly around my mug as I remember gripping his shirt, sliding my hand along his strong, broad
shoulders. Rolling my lips together, I recall the way he pulled me close, holding me in place as we
kissed… and kissed… and kissed.

I so totally want to do that again. And I guess, yeah, that means I'm pretty stupid.

It would be much wiser for me to stay the hell away from him. Whatever happens from here, it is sure to
complicate both my private and professional lives. Personally, I already like him more than is reasonable
since I don't know him very well. What if he's like so many players I've been around in the past who only
enjoy the challenge of the chase? I'm not naïve about the way these things usually turn out for the
woman: She gets left in the dust while the player moves on to someone else.

Professionally, this relationship is a mistake of potentially catastrophic proportion. It's Journalism 101:
Dating anyone you cover – players, coaches, owners, refs – is a no-no. A huge no-no. Huge, huge no-
no.

"I love my job. I love my job. I love my job," I whisper, eyes clenched tightly shut, as if repeating it will

magically make me forget the nice man with the great ass.

It doesn't work.

Well, maybe he'll turn into a VIP jerk and be such a jackwagon tomorrow night that I'll swear I'm never
going to see him again. But I'll probably still kiss him first.

When I hear my phone ping in the other room, my eyes pop open. Who would be texting me at a little
after seven on a Saturday morning? With an irritated sigh, I kick the covers off and get up, carrying my
coffee with me to the kitchen. I pick the phone up from the counter, frowning when I don't recognize the
incoming number.

*Hey. Are you awake?

A generic text from an unknown number. I'm gonna be so pissed if I just got my ass out of bed to read a
text from someone I don't even…

Wait. Area code 602 is Arizona, but this isn't my mom or Phil. My stomach flutters nervously as I think of
someone else who lived in Phoenix until very recently. Setting my mug down, I type a reply.

*Hey. Yes. Who is this?

Instead of an answering text, my phone rings in my hand. Shit! I haven't even spoken at full volume yet
this morning and I've had next-to-no caffeine. I might sound like a bullfrog. I clear my throat anxiously
before I slide my finger across the screen.

"Hello?"

"Hi," he answers, his voice low and still a little rough from sleep. "What are you doing up so early?"

"I had to get up to see who was texting me," I reply, smirking. Taking my mug from the counter, I wander
to the living room and sink down onto my sofa. I dismiss his hasty apology, swearing that I was already
awake. "What did you want?"

"I was just going to send you directions to my place," he explains. "I didn't expect you to be up. Then
when you answered, I don't know. I wanted to say hi."

"Hi." My voice is soft and I'm smiling widely.

"Hi." He chuckles twice. "So, are you sitting around making up reasons to call off our dinner?"

"I don't have to make them up. There are plenty of built-in grounds for cancellation here," I argue. "But…
no."

"Good," he pronounces. "I'll text you the address, and then I'll see you tomorrow. You're coming to the
game?"

"Yeah. I'll be up in the press box. Working."

"I'll be down on the field. Working," he counters. We both laugh. "I'd better go. I have to be in a team
meeting in less than an hour."

"Okay. Good luck tomorrow, Cullen."

"Thanks, Swan," he says. "Bye."

"Bye."

Soon after we disconnect, he sends the text with his address and precise directions from CenturyLink
Field. Then he sends another saying he's looking forward to dinner. I type a concise, but honest,

response.

*M e, too.

Sighing, I lean forward to set my phone on the coffee table, and then curl into the corner of the couch
with my coffee. How can my feelings be so complex for someone I barely knew existed two weeks ago?
My stomach churns with fear, and yet flutters euphorically. I don't know what to do… I don't think there's
much I can do to slow down my runaway emotions. The only way to protect myself is to go into this with
open eyes and a guarded heart. So, that's what I vow to do.

Sunday when I arrive in the press box, Riley and Emmett are already inside, seated in the front row.

"Want some nachos?" Emmett asks as I sit down in the seat between them. His mouth is full, so I just saw
enough partially-chewed food to kill what little appetite I had. Just like when I watched the last preseason
game, I'm filled with nervous anticipation.

"No, thanks," I dismiss, making a disgusted face. I open my messenger bag and lift my laptop out, setting
it up on the desk in front of me. Out of habit, I also set out a notepad, two pens, a highlighter and a pack
of gum. As I organize everything the way I like it, the guys continue the conversation they were having
about what they did last night. Listening, I begin to put the pieces together.

"The redheaded Seagal? You went out with her?" I ask, turning to look at Emmett. "You went straight up
to the VIP lounge when I left Friday night, didn't you?"

"Sorta," he grins. "What? I'm a young, single man."

"Gross," I declare.

"What about you? You cut out early Friday," Riley asserts. "Did you do anything fun?"

"Uh, walked home," I say, skipping over the quarterback, the dinner… the kissing. "But I went out last
night with Jess and some of her friends."

That diverts the conversation. I figured it would because Emmett has met Jessica before and it was lust
at first sight for him. After disappointing him with the news that she still has a boyfriend, I focus on the
field far below, reaching to my right to pick up Riley's binoculars. The teams are warming up; I find
number seven quickly, and then look through the binoculars to get a closer view. For a few minutes, I
watch him stretch and throw warm-up passes before heading back to the locker room.

When the game starts thirty minutes later, the Seahawks defense takes the field first. They're fired up,
playing in front of almost 70,000 screaming fans.

"The Rams aren't going to be able to move the ball at all if that O-line doesn't toughen up," Riley
remarks. While they talk strategy, I pick up the binoculars again and zoom in on Cullen. He's standing on
the sideline, helmet off, talking to the quarterback coach.

"Looking for your dad?" Emmett asks.

"Huh?" I turn to look at him.

"Your dad. Is that who you're looking for with the specs?" he repeats. "You keep pointing them at the
sidelines. If you're trying to find your dad, he's down on this end." Emmett points at the group of coaches
and trainers, and I follow his finger with my eyes. Immediately, I recognize my dad by his stance.

"Oh, yeah. There he is. Thanks," I nod. No more binoculars for me. I'm being way too obvious.

The Seahawks defense holds and after the punt, I watch Cullen run onto the field. My heart pounds as
the offense breaks the huddle and lines up.

"Here we go," Emmett mutters. "Let's hope the kid can handle the pressure."

The first play is a flat route; a short pass to the running back, Brady Fuller. Brady catches the ball and
turns, running up the field fifteen yards before being tackled. Outside the press box windows, the crowd
cheers loudly. Underneath the desk, my fists are clenched triumphantly in my lap. There's very rarely
any cheering or open rooting for either team in the press box. Journalism 101 again. It's unprofessional.

As the offense moves down the field, my nerves settle a little. Although the Rams defense finally puts a
stop to the progress, the Seahawks kick a field goal and have the lead. During the television time out
before the kickoff, I slump back in my chair, relieved for Cullen.

"Why do you have clothes in your laptop bag?" Emmett asks. Snapping my head to my left, I see him
looking down at the bag I carelessly left open on the floor beside me. "Swan, did you spend the night
somewhere last night?" His tone is playful and he jabs me twice with his elbow.

"No, you nosy jackwagon. I didn't," I reply, swiveling my chair enough to grab the bag with my foot and
shove it under the desk. "I'm going to get a water. You guys want anything?"

Although it's not unheard of to have a beer or two during the game, neither of them asks for one. I
return several minutes later with two waters and a soda for Emmett. For the rest of the half, I type
detailed notes about plays, the different defensive schemes the Rams are using against Cullen and
which offensive plays are working best for the Seahawks. They're moving the ball pretty well, but fail to
score a touchdown and go off the field at halftime trailing seven to six.

My anxiety begins to spike again during the idle time, brought on by the knowledge that Cullen really
wants to get his first NFL win and the realization that when this game is over, I'm going to be alone with
him in his apartment. Trying to preoccupy myself, I pick up the piece of paper in front of Emmett. While I
read through the first half stats he wrote down, I absently unwrap a piece of gum, chew it until the initial
burst of flavor is gone, and then swallow it. I repeat this process four times before I realize what I'm
doing… which is giving myself away.

"Swan, that's one of your most annoying nervous habits," Riley comments, getting my attention. He
points to the growing wad of wrappers on the desk between us. "What are you freaked out about?"

"You know, that gum stays in your stomach for seven years," Emmett offers helpfully.

"Emmett, you are an adult, at least theoretically," I say, turning my head his way. "You understand how
the human body works. You really think that's true?"

"My mom said it was true," he defends defiantly.

"It's not true, Emmett," Riley agrees. "I think it's really seven weeks."

Rolling my eyes, I shake my head. "You two are ridiculous."

"Hang on," Emmett begins, capturing my attention again. He's frowning. Uh oh. "You're acting nervous.
You have clothes in your bag, and if I'm not mistaken, it's that blue dress you wore the other day which
Seth told you looked cool and hot at the same time." He pauses as he peeks under the desk. "Instead of
flip flops, you're wearing those boots guys always compliment you on. You have a date." Proud of his
pronouncement, he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I do not have a date," I insist. It's a dinner. No one used the word date.

"Oh, shit! Emmett, it's her birthday," Riley reminds him. "Happy birthday, Bella."

Emmett apologizes for not remembering what today is. When he and Riley assume that I'm having a
celebratory dinner with my dad and Sue, I don't correct them. I never confirm it either though.

The second half of the game is ruled by both defenses, with neither offense able to move the ball up the

field well. The Rams, however, score a field goal, increasing their lead. When the Seahawks get the ball
with less than five minutes left in the game, I tap my fingernails on the desk.

"Dinner will be a lot more pleasant if they can squeak out a win, huh, Swan?" Riley laughs, patting my
shoulder. I smile and nod, but then turn my attention back to the field.

"Blitz," I mutter, watching the defense crowd the line of scrimmage. As soon as the ball is snapped,
Cullen drops back three steps and pitches the ball to Fuller. The fans are yelling, so I guess Fuller gains
some ground, but I'm watching Cullen get slammed to the ground by a defensive back who broke
through the line.

"Oh, that should be a flag. That D-back took more than two steps after the ball was released," Emmett
says quietly, then nods when one of the refs tosses the yellow marker onto the field. As I watch Cullen
stand up again, I slowly let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding.

The referee's microphone comes on as he makes the call. "Personal foul. Roughing the passer.
Defense, number seventy-one. Fifteen yards from the end of the run. First down."

Fans stay on their feet as the drive continues, cheering wildly when it's finally first and goal. On first
down, Fuller gets the ball again, but is stopped in the backfield for a loss of two yards. Cullen throws on
second down, but the pass is short, missing the receiver. Two downs left. A field goal won't be enough to
win. It's touchdown or bust.

Leaning forward, I move my hands to my lap under the desk. Following the same silly superstition I did
when I was a kid and rooting for the team because of my dad, I cross all my fingers and even hook my
thumbs together. Then hold my breath again.

As Cullen drops back, I try to take in the whole play. The offensive line is holding firm, buying him time,
and I suddenly see that Whitlock is wide-open in the corner of the endzone. Cullen's arm cocks back,
and then he fires the ball in a perfect, accurate spiral. Whitlock snags the ball; the referee – joined by
most of the crowd – signals touchdown, and the celebration begins.

Smiling, I uncross my fingers and noiselessly clap under the table. The point-after attempt sails through
the uprights, and I let my gaze drift to the sidelines, seeking number seven. I spot him standing with a
couple of the offensive linemen. He's taken his helmet off and is wearing a baseball cap as he drinks
from a Gatorade cup. I can't see his face, but I bet he's smiling crookedly and watching the replay of the
touchdown on the stadium's big screen.

The Seahawks just need one more defensive stop to win the game. And they get it, spurred on by the
frenzied crowd. Keeping my eyes on Cullen, I watch him walk to the middle of the field as time expires,
shaking hands with the opposing quarterback and several other players.

When the teams head to their locker rooms, I pack up my laptop and notebook. Riley leaves, but Emmett
waits around for me.

"Want to sit in on the presser since we're here?" Emmett asks. "Or do you have to get going?"

"Let's go down there. I'm supposed to go find my dad anyway," I answer. Emmett and I make our way
down into the tunnel, flashing our press passes at security.

"Bells!" I hear my dad call from behind me. I turn to see him walking quickly toward me. "Happy birthday!"

"Thanks," I answer, hugging him.

"Did you change your mind about dinner with Sue and me?" he asks hopefully as he lets me go.

"No, Dad. I have plans. Can I change in your office after the press con?"

"Sure. Just come on down when you're done. I'll be here late tonight since I've been dumped by my

daughter," he chuckles.

"Can we do dinner some night this week instead?" I ask, feeling a little guilty… but not that much.

"Sure," he answers. "See you in a bit." He continues up the hall toward his office.

Meanwhile, Emmett clears his throat exaggeratedly beside me. "Care to explain this one, Swan?"

No, not really. But I have a feeling he'll just keep after me, so I turn to him and shrug sheepishly. "I have
a little date thingy," I admit, feeling my face flush.

"Who's the lucky fella?"

"We are so not discussing this further," I laugh as we begin walking again, headed to the room where
press conferences are held. "Besides, you know me. I'm the queen of first dates who never call again."

"Well, it's your birthday. Maybe that will be good luck," he remarks as we enter the room and find seats.

"Maybe," I echo, attempting to sound indifferent. But inside, my heart thumps a little faster, a little
harder, and I hope he's right. Crap.

The presser starts a few minutes later. Coach Erickson is first, answering questions for about fifteen
minutes before turning it over to Cullen. I almost gasp when I see him walk into the room in a blue and
white striped dress shirt and charcoal gray pants. He looks great in everything, it seems. Football pants.
Jeans. Dress pants.

Okay, time to stop that particular train of thought. I shift around in my chair, crossing my legs as Cullen
gives his attention to the reporter who's speaking. For the next several minutes, I watch him intently,
noting the way he squints his left eye slightly when he's listening. His responses are deliberate and
articulate, never sounding like preplanned, standard answers.

When a reporter seated in our row stands to ask a question, Cullen's eyes sweep past me – but then
return. As our eyes meet, the muscles at the sides of his jaw twitch and his lips curl upward slightly, but
he quickly turns his attention back to the reporter, asking him to repeat the question. Smirking, I note
that it's the only time during the press con that he seems to lose his train of thought.

When it's over, I tell Emmett goodbye and go to my dad's office. He steps out so I can change into the
just-above-knee-length dress I brought – the one Seth said looked cool and hot at the same time, just
like Emmett guessed. I pull my Frye engineer boots back on, and then let my dad in as I'm fixing my hair
and makeup.

"Bells, you get prettier every year," he remarks.

"That's sweet, Dad, but I think you're biased," I remark. My phone vibrates and I pick it up quickly to read
the new text. It's from Cullen.

*You still here?

*Yes, Chief's office.

*Can you meet me at my building in 20?

*Sounds good.

*I'll meet you in the lobby.

*Okay

"Well, that's certainly a big smile, young lady," my dad observes, looking at me from behind his desk.
"That text from a young man?"

I roll my eyes. "Dad, you make me sound like I'm still in high school. I'm just going to have dinner with
friends. It's no big deal. Quit prying," I scold. I walk around his desk to kiss him goodbye, then make my
way out to the press parking lot.

I follow the directions Edward sent me, driving across the West Seattle Bridge and finding his building
pretty easily. After parking on the street about half a block past it, I turn off my truck and take several
deep breaths.

"This is stupid. I can be brave. It's just a date," I mumble. With one last check of my reflection in the
rearview mirror, I get out and walk toward his building. As I approach, I can see him standing just inside
the double doors. Smiling crookedly, he steps outside to greet me.

"Happy birthday, Bella," he says quietly when I get to him.

"Thanks, Edward. Good game today," I reply, smiling back.

"My performance was mediocre, but the team did well," he allows. "You look great. Now I feel
underdressed."

He changed from his dress clothes to jeans and a black t-shirt with the name of some beer I've never
heard of emblazoned across the front. He looks hot. I think no matter what he wears, he looks hot. I think
if he was wearing nothing… I think I'd better stop thinking like that.

He holds the door open and we walk inside toward the elevators.

"Good evening, miss," the guard says from his seat at the security desk. As I answer, I feel Edward's
hand press lightly against my lower back, nudging me forward as the doors open on the far elevator.

"See you later, Chris," Edward calls once we're inside. He inserts a key to light up the "PH" button where
the number ten should be on the numbered panel.

"Top-floor penthouse, huh?" I ask.

He shrugs, reddening slightly. "I didn't pick it. Someone at the Seahawks found it for me since I only had
one day to move here," he replies. "I really like it though. It's private, but still feels like part of the city.
And the view is great."

When the elevator stops on the top floor, we exit into a marble hallway. The double doors leading into
the penthouse are propped open, and Edward tells me he rarely shuts them. Only two other people
have keys to this floor – the security guard and the building caretaker.

The interior of the apartment is contemporary, with clean lines and dark, masculine wood. Music,
something old I don't readily recognize, surrounds us, and even though I'm actively looking, I can't find
the hidden speakers. He shows me around the apartment – skipping his bedroom. We finish in the living
room, and I walk past the baby grand piano toward the wall of windows overlooking the sound.

"I can see why you like it here, Edward. It's incredible," I marvel, hearing the wonder in my voice. I smile
when I see a ferry crossing the water below.

"Thanks," he says, coming to stand next to me. "I hate to ask, Bella, but are you hungry?"

Immediately, I realize that since it's a game day, he probably hasn't eaten since early this morning.
"Starving," I answer.

"I am, too. Uh, Mrs. Berty – she's the building caretaker's wife – made dinner. Chicken parm, I think."

"Already have the ladies cooking for you, huh?" I tease as we walk together into the kitchen.

"She brings me dinner twice a week," he laughs, using potholders to pull the dish from the warm oven. "I
think she feels sorry for me since I'm new in town."

"And?" I lead, guessing there's more to the story.

"She also cleans for me once a week," he admits, looking at me from the corner of his eye. "But that's it,
I promise." When he turns to smile at me, I want to kiss him again… and again.

Instead, I ask how I can help, and we spend the next few minutes carrying everything to the table. When
we sit down, he pours each of us a glass of wine.

"To older women," he toasts, holding his glass toward me. Laughing out loud, I tap mine against it before
taking a sip of the dark, red wine.

As we eat, we continue talking, both of us getting more comfortable. He's dangerously easy to confide
in, and I end up telling him about the contract extension I was offered last week. He wants to know all
about it, and seems sincerely pleased for me when I tell him I think it's a great deal. Besides Edward, the
only other person I told was my lawyer when I asked him to look at it last Thursday.

He carries our plates to the sink, and returns with another, smaller plate. On top is a miniature cake with
a lit candle. Immediately, I recognize that it's my favorite cake – from my favorite bakery.

"How did you…," I gasp, looking up at him as he sets it in front of me.

"Communications major, remember? I know how to ask the right questions of the right people," he grins.
"And before you freak out, no one realized why I was asking."

"Did Mrs. Berty do this, too?" I ask. It doesn't really make a difference if she did… but I think it might
make a difference if she didn't.

"No," he replies, sitting down again. "This one was all me. I stopped at the bakery after I left the stadium.
Happy birthday. Make a wish."

Closing my eyes, I lean forward a little and blow out the candle. I don't really think of a wish… I only think
of him. But when I open my eyes to see him watching me, smiling at me, I'm afraid those things might be
synonymous.

After we each have several bites of what he agrees is the best carrot cake ever, he suggests we go up
to the rooftop terrace. Impressed, I raise my eyebrows, and then laugh when he reddens again.

"It came with the penthouse," he shrugs. "But it's really cool up there."

Once we're upstairs, I have to agree. Edward's private terrace is spacious, covering half the rooftop,
and the wall separating it from the part of the roof that other tenants can access is at least nine feet
high. This part of the terrace faces west and northwest, and I notice the sun is rapidly sliding toward the
Pacific.

"You want to sit up here for a while?"

"Sure," I answer, looking around at our options. On the right is a patio table that seats six, but we've
already been sitting at a table for over an hour. There's a teak double lounger, too. No, that's a little too
horizontal for tonight. Our other option is a seating area with an outdoor couch and four chairs. I point to
it. "There?"

As we sit down on the couch, I twist sideways to face him, pulling my knees to the cushion and adjusting
my skirt to cover them. He turns toward me, too, and we both rest our hands on the back of the couch,
close but not touching. The same music that was playing in the apartment is turned on up here. I still
don't recognize the female voice singing to us, although I feel like I should… like I've heard it before.

"Who is this?" I ask, pointing up.

"Ella Fitzgerald," he answers. "Do you like jazz?"

"I like all music. I don't listen to jazz much, but I remember my grandma playing some of these records
when I was younger," I remark, smiling both at Edward and at the memory of my Grandma Swan.

He asks me about her, and I reminisce for several minutes about spending time at her house on the
Oregon coast, sometimes staying there when my dad was away on extended scouting trips. His green
eyes are warm and interested, and I know I should be worried about how much I like him, how easy it is
to be here with him – but I'm not.

"So, you like jazz, huh?" I ask.

"My mom's dad was a jazz pianist. He played on some of Ella's records, including this one. I like the
music, yeah, but I like listening to it even more because it's like he's here playing for me."

"He must have had a fascinating life." I smile, pleased when Edward launches into several stories about
the musicians his granddad knew and the places he traveled. He also tells me that his granddad taught
him to play the piano, but that he's not very good.

As he's talking, he moves his hand closer to mine on the back of the couch and plays idly with my
fingers. The warmth that rapidly spreads through my body, the way my skin tingles all the way up my
arm, is absurd given the fact that we're barely touching. I have to force myself to speak when he pauses.

"When did he pass away?" I ask, trying to hide the fact that I'm out of breath.

Edward laughs. "I made it sound like he's dead, didn't I? He's not. He lives in Chicago with my parents...
drives my mom crazy, I think. He's still kicking, still playing. He's lost some of his agility, but he's still the
best as far as I'm concerned," he says. "I'm named after him. Edward Masen."

"That's sweet," I say, lifting my fingers slightly so that they slide between his.

"Couldn't share a name with anyone better," he shrugs, shifting his gaze to our joined hands. "They –
my grandparents – practically raised us. My sisters and I were all born while my parents were in med
school."

"That must have been rough," I remark.

He looks at me again, his gaze hard and unyielding. "Don't worry about them. Having three kids at home
was barely a speed bump for them on their respective career paths."

"I meant rough for you and your sisters," I explain quietly.

"Sorry," he mutters, and then takes a deep breath. "I didn't intend to spill all that on our first real date."

"If it will make you feel better, I'll tell you something inappropriately personal for first date chitchat," I
offer. He nods, chuckling. "I didn't wear a bra until I was almost fourteen because it never occurred to my
dad, whom I lived with, that I needed one. Well, I didn't really need one then – still don't – but at that age,
you just want to be like everyone else."

Pointedly, he quirks one eyebrow before dropping his gaze to my chest.

"Hey!" I laugh, leaning forward to cover his eyes with my free hand.

"You're the one who said it," he insists, laughing, too. "I'm just verifying your observation."

"Take my word for it."

"Okay, okay," he relents, reaching up to grab my wrist. He pulls my hand away from his eyes, and then
wraps his fingers around my palm and sets our hands on his knee. Lowering my eyes, I study his hand,
his strong forearm, and I involuntarily tighten my grip on both of his hands.

Lifting my head, I look out toward the horizon and see that the sun is gone, and the daylight is quickly

receding. "We missed the sunset," I note. The lights along the terrace wall must be photosensitive
because they come on, casting the terrace back into soft light.

"We'll catch the repeat performance another night," he says, drawing my eyes back to him. I feel my lips
drop open slightly as we continue staring at each other. My heart hammers in my chest as he skims his
thumbs along the skin of my hands.

"Edward?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you gonna kiss me or not?"

"Yeah, I'm gonna kiss you," he replies, smiling.

He leans toward me and presses his lips to mine gently. The immediate rush of arousal is the same as it
was two nights ago, but the burn is slow, steady as we move our mouths together, kissing leisurely for
several minutes. Then, grasping the hand on the back of the couch more tightly, he releases my other
hand and lifts his fingers to my neck.

Reaching for his shoulder, I tug, trying to draw him closer. He scoots as close as he can with our legs in
the way, never slowing the motion of his lips. Still not satisfied with our awkward position, I pull away and
we both open our eyes, silently communicating. We let each other go completely, and I shift my legs,
allowing him to scoot closer as he wraps his arms around me and presses me into the back of the
couch.

With his lips on mine again, I lose all sense of time. We start slowly, often rearing back to smile at each
other or place kisses along each other's jaws. Eventually, though, the intensity grows… my desire
grows. But I'm not ready to sleep with him. Wrenching my mouth away, I let my head fall back, moaning
quietly as Edward kisses down my neck. Breathing hard, he rests his head on my shoulder, leaving his
lips pressed against my skin.

"This does not help my dilemma," I whisper, still trying to catch my breath.

"What dilemma, legs?"

"Are you really gonna continue to call me that?" I ask with a chuckle.

"Does it bother you?"

"No."

"Then, yeah. I'm gonna call you that," he answers. I feel his lips curl upward against my neck. "What
dilemma?"

"I have to go to work tomorrow morning and talk about you," I explain. "And I'll be thinking about this."

"What this?" he teases. "This?" He presses a kiss against my skin. "Or this?" He skims his lips up my
neck.

I whimper and tighten the fingers that are, just like Friday night, clutching the front of his shirt.

"This?" he says with his mouth against my ear just before he traces his tongue along the rim of my ear.
"Or maybe this." He settles his lips against mine again, kissing me several times.

"All of it," I try to say, making both of us laugh when it comes out in an unintelligible murmur.

"Just be honest," he advises, pulling back to look at me. "I'm not gonna be mad if you criticize my
performance. You won't say anything I don't already know."

"I think my objectivity where you're concerned is hopelessly compromised," I grumble.

He chuckles. "You can always bring back that inner bitch from Friday. She doesn't like me."

"Yes, she does. She's like that with everyone," I smile.

"I have faith that you'll come up with something terrible to say about me. If all else fails, you can talk
about how unimpressive my ass is again," he says, shifting around to sit back against the couch and
pulling me with him. I unclench the fingers gripping his shirt and lay my palm over his heart while I rest
my head against his shoulder.

"Newton doesn't want me talking about asses anymore," I complain.

"You're going to let that stop you?"

"No, probably not," I admit. His breath ruffles my hair as he chuckles. Pressing my face against his shirt, I
inhale his scent, and then exhale loudly. "I should go. I have to get up at four."

"Okay," he says, kissing the top of my head. "Are you busy Tuesday?"

"Working in the morning, but otherwise, no. Why?"

"I'd like to see you," he says. "I'll be done at the stadium by noon. We could have lunch, and then… do
anything you want."

"Yeah, I'd like that."

He walks me to my truck a few minutes later, holding my hand as we head up the sidewalk.

"This is me," I say, stopping beside my truck and leaning back against it.

"What?" he asks incredulously. "You chided me for driving an ozone-destroying SUV a couple of days
ago, but you drive this old truck? It probably doesn't even meet current emission standards."

"Don't be mean, Cullen," I warn, even though I'm having trouble not laughing. "I love this freaking truck."

"And it's clearly an American classic," he says, backpedaling and trying to keep a straight face. He
flinches when I teasingly press my fist against his abs. Oh, good God. They're rock-solid. I'm definitely
going to have to step up the core work if we date long enough to sleep together.

Date. Dating. Shit. I'm dating a player. We are going to have to set some ground rules, but there's only
one thing we need to get straight tonight.

"Um… I didn't tell my dad… you know," I say uncomfortably.

"I won't mention it to anyone," he smiles. "It's just between us for now. Okay?" I nod, and we agree that
I'll call him on Tuesday when I'm done working. After he opens the passenger door for me, I get in and
start to slide across the bench seat. "Bella?"

Stopping in the middle of the seat, I turn back his way. He puts his palms on the seat and leans toward
me. "Thanks for coming over. I hope it was a good birthday."

"It was, Cullen. Thank you," I reply, leaning forward to press my lips to his gently. We kiss twice, and
then he stands up and shuts the door.

As I pull away from the curb, I look at him in the rearview mirror, still standing on the sidewalk with his
hands hanging loosely from his back pockets. I'm profoundly irritated by the way my heart bumps
erratically in my chest even after spending the last few hours with him. With a sigh, I reluctantly admit
that despite my intention to keep my eyes open and my heart guarded with Cullen, it might already be
too late.

Thanks for reading. Please review.

*Chapter 6*: False Start

A/N: Huge thanks to my lovely friend Littlecat358 for editing and giving me advice... over and
over. I've been a little neurotic. M ore huge thanks to Tennesseelamb who multitasks, editing
chapters while teaching elementary math to uncooperative pupils. :) Love ya, ladies!
M ichelle0526 was a busy mama this weekend, but I love her, too. :)

Thanks so much for reviewing/favoriting/following. Thank you, Nic (xoxo), for reccing and
pimping, and also to twilover76 for the rec. :)

Thanks for reading. Please review.

Stifling a yawn, I walk into the lounge Monday morning and head straight for the crappy coffee machine.
Emmett is already sitting at the table in the middle of the room, but Newton is nowhere in sight. That's
odd because I'm a couple of minutes late.

Immediately, my imagination runs away with me. Maybe he got hit by a truck… had to have an
emergency appendectomy… was deported back to wherever douchebags come from. Maybe I won't
have to listen to his carping this morning. Unfortunately, just when I start to hope, I hear his annoying
voice as he comes in the door behind me.

"Oh, goody. Bella decided to join us this morning after all."

It's 5:33, jackwagon, I think, agitated. I control my outward reaction though. Partially because I refuse to
provide him with evidence that he's getting to me, but also because I'm too freaking tired to put any real
effort into sparring with him.

As I pour coffee from the pot with my right hand, I pick up the sugar shaker with my left and dump a
generous amount into my cup. I usually drink my coffee black, but it's going to take more than caffeine to
perk me up this morning. Still facing away from them, I stir it in slowly, allowing myself to smile as my
mind drifts back to the reason for my exhaustion: Cullen. Although I went to bed before eleven, sleep
didn't come easily. Memories of our date, however, did… do. Even now, a prickly warmth spreads up my
spine as I remember the feel of his lips, the way he wrapped his arms around me and used his body
weight to press me into the cushions of the couch.

That lingering desire, mixed with the exhilaration I felt after spending such a great evening with him, kept
me awake far too late and woke me often. All night, his words kept floating through my head – Make a
wish… You look great… Yeah, I'm gonna kiss you.

With a silent, happy sigh, I bite the inside of my cheek and force the grin off my face as I prepare to turn
around. While I was wide awake last night, I also reaffirmed my decision not to tell anyone about this
budding relationship for now – not even Emmett. I don't want to put him in a position of withholding
information to protect me. Besides, there are two significant factors that may derail this thing with Cullen
before it really even gets going: I have an enormous fear of commitment; and he'll figure out sooner or
later that as a starting NFL quarterback, he can have his pick of women. I can't imagine that I'll prevail
among a flock of actresses and supermodels.

When I turn around, I'm surprised that Newton has left the room again. Emmett is still hunched over the
table, reading the newspaper. Without an audience, the scowl I went to so much trouble to get in place is
wasted. That annoys me for real and I sigh – loudly this time – as I walk to the table. I set my laptop bag
on the floor and flop down into the chair Emmett kicks away from the table for me.

"I was going to ask about your date, but judging by your attitude, I don't have to," he says, sitting up and
looking at me. "Didn't break the bad first date streak, huh?"

"Hmmm," I answer ambiguously, taking a sip from the cardboard coffee cup. Since he's not reading the
paper anymore, I slide it across the tabletop toward myself. I have to take another drink of the too-

sweet-but-still-bitter liquid to hide my smirk when I see the front of the Seattle Times Sports section.
There's a picture of several Seahawks players, and number seven is mid-frame... facing away from the
camera.

Swallowing more coffee, I stare at Cullen's ass. I probably should officially retract everything bad I said
about it on the air. Although since what I said is the reason we met thirteen days ago, I don't regret one
disparaging word.

"What was it this time, Swan? Did you criticize his fantasy team? Argue with him about the fairness of the
2-3-2 playoff format?" he teases. "Or was it the classic Kobe versus Jordan debate?"

"No. No. And there is no debate. The attention and electricity that Michael Jordan brought to the NBA will
never be equaled again. In addition to his on-the-court dominance, he transformed and elevated the
brand worldwide," I insist vehemently, flipping the distracting picture over, and then finally turning my
eyes toward him. "But we didn't argue about that, either."

"What did you fight about then?"

"Nothing," I shrug as I slump back in my chair. "In fact, during the last hour of the date, we hardly spoke
at all."

That's true, but I don't disclose one very important detail: We weren't talking during that hour because
we were too busy kissing. The memory of his lips, his hands affects me the same way it has for the last
several – mostly sleepless – hours: Racing heart, shallow breathing, tingling skin.

"Pre-show meetings start promptly at 5:30, Bella," Newton says sharply as he reenters the lounge. His
grating voice yanks me from my daydream and drops me right back into my crack of dawn reality.

"Well, since it's five thirty-seven now and we haven't started yet, I seem to have made it in plenty of
time," I reply after glancing at the clock on the wall.

"We didn't start because we were waiting for you. If it's too difficult for you to arrive on time, perhaps you
should speak to Kate or Charlotte about moving back to afternoons."

Okay, that's it. If he wants to play games, we can play games. As my irritation swells, I look at him, letting
my mouth hang open in faux horror. "What?" I ask, pressing a hand to my chest. "I would never do that! I
love working on the morning show."

"You're the best co-host I've ever had," Emmett chimes in, trying not to laugh. He claps a hand on my
shoulder and squeezes. "Maybe I'll get lucky and they'll decide to keep you here permanently."

"That's what I'm hoping, too," I gush, gazing adoringly at Emmett. Jeez, the last time I oversold a lie this
blatantly, I was a teenager trying to convince my dad that all Matt Larson and I were doing alone in my
room was homework. Newton doesn't believe me any more now than my dad did then, but at least
Newton can't ground me for the rest of my life.

Muttering under his breath, he slaps the notes for the show on the table. "Now that we're running late, I'll
just go over the most important points," he begins, focusing his self-important glare on me. I widen my
eyes mockingly back at him. "We'll lead with the Seahawks, obviously."

"Obviously," I echo… using the same haughty tone he did.

"Bella, are you going to comment on everything I say this morning?" he snaps.

I pull my lips to the side briefly as if I'm mulling it over. "Probably not everything," I answer, punctuating
my snotty response with an eyeroll. "Some of the things you say defy any sort of a logical response."

Emmett chuckles quietly beside me, nudging my foot under the table as Newton starts speaking again.
I'm not sure if he's congratulating me or cautioning me. Either way, I sip my coffee and stop reacting to

Newton's jabs.

When we go on the air less than twenty minutes later, we lead with the Seahawks game, as Newton
directed. Emmett begins by playing several sound bites from Cullen's press conference. Like last week,
the sound of his voice causes my heart to pound and my stomach to flutter anxiously, but I think I
conceal it well for the first couple of minutes. I refer to the notes I made yesterday during the game as
we discuss overall offensive yardage, noting which plays had the biggest gains. It's not until Emmett
wants to get specific that I run into trouble.

"What did you think of Cullen's performance?" he asks.

"We just heard Cullen himself list areas of his game that will require improvement for the Seahawks to
achieve any level of real success this year," I answer, looking at Emmett.

He's frowning… probably because I'm not giving any sort of personal judgment. That's so not me. Giving
a critical opinion about his play yesterday is more difficult than I thought it would be though. And I'm
downright ill-tempered when Emmett gives his own less-than-flattering evaluation.

"I think the Seahawks could be in for a long season if Cullen can't spread the ball to his receivers more,"
he declares. "Constantly going to Whitlock won't keep any opposing defenses on their toes."

"It's too early to make pronouncements like that, Emmett," I argue. "He – the team – has only had two
weeks to work on timing. They may need several more games to hit their stride."

"Or they may never hit it," Emmett observes.

"You're not giving him a chance," I huff, not realizing how defensive I sound until Emmett raises his
eyebrows at me in surprise. Immediately, I back off and try to strengthen my position by giving statistics.
"I mean, you could be right. I just think that drawing that conclusion after one game – a game where
Cullen completed fifty-eight percent of his passes and threw for almost two hundred yards – is
premature."

Emmett allows that he could be rushing to judgment, and we move on to discuss the defense for a
couple of minutes before our first break. As soon as the commercial starts, Emmett turns to study me.

"You okay, Swan? You're testier than normal. Is this date thing bugging you more than you're letting
on?" he asks quietly.

"You did not just sell me out to Newton in front of a hot mic!" I whisper furiously, blocking my microphone
with my hand. "Jesus, Emmett. Why don't you just talk about my date on the freaking air?"

"Want me to?" he teases, scooting his chair closer to mine. "We could do a whole segment on bad
dates. Maybe get some listeners to call in and give you advice."

"I'm gonna beat the crap out of you as soon as we're away from the stupid webcam," I say, smiling but
gritting my teeth.

"There's my girl," he grins, reaching over to pat my cheek, and then laughing when I shove his arm
away. "You're okay? For real?"

"I'm fine."

"I get it. I get it," he says, holding his hands up in surrender when he hears my adamant tone. He
continues studying my face though, as if the explanation for my odd behavior is evident there
somewhere.

"Quit staring at me."

"But you're so pretty," he deadpans.

Laughing, I shake my head at him. "You never save any of your good material for the air, Emmett. You
could win the game every day."

"I'm too busy watching my back," he responds. "You still haven't retaliated since the day I unexpectedly
sprung Cullen on you."

Huh. He's right. I haven't. Uncharacteristically, it hasn't even occurred to me to try and get back at him.
What the hell has Cullen done to me? Distracted me and invaded every corner of my brain? Yep.
Convinced me to disavow my hard-and-fast rule against dating athletes? Yep. Made it necessary for me
to vigilantly guard my heart against his charm, his looks, his insistent attention? Yep, that, too.

"I like to keep you looking over your shoulder, wondering what I'm gonna do," I cover, smirking.

"If you want to surprise me with a good-looking athlete, please let it be a swimmer," he pleads lowly,
leaning closer to talk to me. "Those back muscles really do it for me."

"I'll see what I can do about getting Phelps in here."

"Whoa. Hold up, Swan," he frowns. "I meant a female swimmer."

"How would that be embarrassing or painful for you?"

"Those girls are strong," he nods. "They could definitely hurt me… in a good way."

"Shut up," I say with a chuckle, knowing that most of this is for my benefit. "We're back on in twenty-two
seconds."

"Did I cheer you up?" He rolls his chair back to his spot. I nod, listening to the intro as we come back
from break.

"Move on to the Mariners for this segment. We'll return to NFL talk at the bottom of the hour," Newton
commands in our ears. Neither of us replies in word or gesture.

"Really, Swan. I'm here for you if you need to hug it out," he whispers, flexing his arm and leaning toward
me. "My pipes are solid."

Laughing silently, I shake my head at him and punch his bicep lightly before looking at the countdown
clock on my monitor again. As the timer ticks down to zero, I lead in from the break, grateful that we'll be
talking about a safer subject for a while.

"Welcome back to the Kickoff on KSST, Seattle's leader in sports programming. Let's turn our attention
to baseball for a little while. The red-hot Mariners continued their winning streak in Toronto last night,
beating the Blue Jays five to two."

I relax as Emmett and I dissect batting averages and on-base percentages. I settle back into my on-air
personality, and I sound more like myself when we get back to the Seahawks during the next hour.
Emmett doesn't press me for an opinion on Cullen again, but I know the reprieve won't last forever. One
way or another, I'm going to have to get better at separating my personal feelings from my professional
judgments. I've had to do it before – criticize players I liked off-the-field. But never someone I liked this
much… never someone I've been kissing.

As soon as the post-show meeting is over, I shut myself in my tiny office and pour over statistics for a
couple of hours. Compared to the first-ever starts of some of the best current quarterbacks, Cullen
matches up well. I compile some second game stats so I'll be prepared to analyze his play next week,
and I feel better knowing I have impartial data to use for comparison.

When I hear my phone buzz on the desk, I glance down at it. My stomach flops when I see that it's a text
from Cullen. Heart racing, I pick up my phone and grin as I read the message.

*Hey. Heading into film room. Wanted to say hi. Quit being so nice to me.

*Okay. Tomorrow I'll be a bitch when I see you.

*Funny, but I meant on your show.

*I know. I'm working on it. You might not want to listen next week.

*I'll still listen, Legs. Gotta go. See you tomorrow.

*K. See ya.

After setting my phone down again, I groan quietly and lean back in my chair. As I stare at the tiny holes
in the ceiling tiles, I keep asking myself the same question: How the hell can I ever be objective about
him?

And I'm afraid the answer to that question is… I can't.

"So, Bells, you haven't said a word about the Seahawks all through dinner," my dad says as I take
another bite of cheesecake. I was surprised when Sue invited me to eat with them tonight at my dad's
favorite steakhouse, knowing that Mondays are usually long days for him during the season. But Sue
was adamant that it was his idea. "When we're together this time of year, you're always quizzing me
about what's going on at the stadium."

"And you're always answering that you won't discuss it with me," I reply without swallowing. I hold my
hand in front of my mouth to hide the food, but crude table manners perfected during several years of
NFL training camp are difficult to overcome.

"True," he laughs. "But I figured at the very least I'd be subjected to your evaluation of Cullen's
progress."

"Should have listened to my show," I quip, mouth empty this time.

"I did," he insists. "You didn't really give an opinion – you just said to give him a chance."

"Maybe that is my opinion,"

"Bullhockey. You had more of an opinion on his backside the first day he moved here."

"Daaaaaad," I whine, covering my face with my hands.

"Don't embarrass her, Charlie," Sue admonishes. Peeking through my fingers, I look across the table
and see her wink at me.

"She's not embarrassed; she just doesn't want to answer the question. Come on, Bells, tell me what you
really think of him," he coaxes.

Blowing out a breath, I lower my hands. "I think he's gonna be good, Dad. I'm impressed."

"Funny. That's the same thing he said after he met you at the studio that day. He said he was impressed
with your knowledge and sense of humor," he replies. "I told him you get those traits – and your good
looks – from me."

"Thanks, Dad." I roll my eyes.

"She gets the sarcasm from you, too," Sue adds, making us both laugh.

"What do you think of him, Dad?" I ask, then qualify my statement when he looks at me suspiciously. I
hold my right hand up as I swear to keep it quiet. "Off the record. Way off the record. Flying monkeys
couldn't get me to repeat it, and you know how terrified I am of them."

"All right," he nods, chuckling. "I agree with you. I think once Cullen's more settled in his role, once we
work out a few timing issues, he has the potential to rack up some great numbers. Hopefully with wins to
go along with them."

"Then the Seahawks would sign him long-term, right?"

"Probably try. Could be difficult to keep him though if he gets hot," he says, pausing to drink the last bit
of coffee from his cup. "It'll cost us. Or he may not even want to stay."

Sue asks a question then, but I don't hear her words. I feel like I'm going to throw up. I haven't thought
that far ahead… haven't let myself imagine that Cullen and I might still be dating at the end of the
season. But my dad's statement forces me to face the fact that Cullen might not even be living here in
six months. There's another reason for me to carefully guard my heart… not fall too deeply… keep it all
casual.

I can do that. Probably. Possibly. I take a few sips of water and try to refocus on my dad when he sets
his napkin on the table beside his empty dessert plate.

"I'm sorry, ladies. I hate to eat and run," he says, looking apologetically at me.

I force a slight smile. "It's okay, Dad. I know this is a busy time of year for you."

"And I know that you two prefer to talk without me listening anyway," he laughs. "Happy birthday, Bells.
Call me later this week, okay?"

"Yep. Thanks for dinner and the new laptop bag," I answer, leaning forward to trade cheek kisses with
him as he starts to stand.

"You're welcome. The dinner was me, but the bag was all Sue," he responds, turning toward her and
reaching for her hand. Even after more than ten years together, they're still openly affectionate –
trading looks, holding hands, kissing hello and goodbye no matter where they are.

"Don't stay at work too late, Charlie," Sue admonishes, smiling at him. He leans down to kiss her and
whispers something that makes her nod and giggle. Giggle. How ridiculous. Neither of them notices as I
roll my eyes.

As soon as my dad's out the door of the restaurant, Sue leans across the table. "Okay, Bella. There's a
storm brewing behind those brown eyes. Out with it."

"What storm? Maybe I'm just grossed out by the inappropriate parental PDA," I joke.

"Deflecting with humor," she nods. "That's your favorite way of not talking about whatever's going on
with you. Could this be related to that mysterious birthday dinner you had last night? Your dad said you
were tight-lipped about it. How was it?"

"The dinner was good. Really good." Unable to contain my smile, I lower my eyes and push my dessert
plate away.

"Now we're getting somewhere," she replies. "Anything you're ready to share?"

"Um, no." I meet her gaze again, shaking my head. "Not because of you though. It's new. It's… scary.
You know I'm not good at lasting relationships."

"Sometimes it just takes the right man to overcome that," she soothes. "All right. I won't snoop. But I'm
always here if you need anything."

"I love you for both of those reasons, among others," I laugh.

"Sweetie, I love you, too. And I'm thrilled that you had a really good dinner on your birthday," she smiles.
"If you're ever ready to introduce him to us, you just let me know."

I have a little twinge of guilt for not disclosing that Dad already knows him, but I push that aside. I can't
worry about that now. Instead, I mention the contract extension I was offered last week, telling her that if
my lawyer okays it, I'm going to sign it. She promises to keep it quiet and let me tell my dad myself once
it's a done deal.

We stay a little longer at the restaurant, but I head home early. I don't know what Cullen and I are doing
tomorrow, so I straighten up my apartment a little, just in case he comes here. By the time I get into bed,
I'm nervous… excited… and sleepy. Smiling, I flip my pillow over to the cool side and let my eyes slide
closed, still thinking of him.

At Tuesday's post-show meeting, Newton tells us that we'll be traveling to LA next week and doing the
show remotely for three days as the Mariners close out the season against the Angels. It's been several
years since the Mariners were in the playoffs, and Charlotte wants to capitalize on the city's excitement.
I'm not thrilled by the thought of spending three days out of town with Newton, but at least Emmett will be
there, too. He, of course, is elated, already enthusiastically plotting trips to the beach and Disneyland.
Ten thousand six year-olds and one giant twenty-eight year old who will act like a six year-old. Happiest
place on earth my ass.

Afterward, Emmett and I have to record commercials for some of KSST's advertisers. We get those done
fairly quickly, but then Newton tells me I have to do three more alone. Once Emmett's gone, Newton
becomes extra picky, making me re-record over and over because my tone is flat or my inflection
emphasized the wrong point – or he's just being a jackwagon. I vote for option number three.

It's almost eleven when I'm finally finished. Before I leave the station, I stop briefly in Riley's office to say
hello and gladly take the folder of baseball research he offers. For the last two years, we've split the
research duties on our show, and even though we're not hosting together right now, we've still been
sharing our info with each other. Yesterday, I emailed him all the stats I have on the 49ers, who the
Seahawks will play this week. He, in turn, has broken down the teams and pitchers the Mariners will face
for the rest of the season. Teams and pitchers the Mariners will mostly have to beat in order to keep
their position for the playoffs.

Once I get to my apartment, I call Cullen, but his phone goes to voicemail.

"Hey, Edward. Um, I'm home. Call me when you're done working," I say, hating how flustered I sound…
hell, how flustered I am. After I hang up, I set my phone down hard on the table and lean forward, resting
my head on my forearm. "Oh, my God. I sounded so stupid."

After a minute, I pull myself together and sit up, and then decide to look at the research Riley gave me.
Quickly becoming engrossed, I get through about half of the papers, highlighting and making notations
as I go along. I don't realize how much time has passed until someone knocks at my door. It's been
almost an hour since I called Cullen.

As I walk toward the door, the knocking starts again.

"Hold your hors–," I grumble, yanking the door open. When I see my date standing in the hallway, I erupt
in laughter, covering my mouth with my hand. "What is that thing?"

"My disguise. I had to go four places to find it," Cullen explains, using his index fingers to smooth the
worst fake moustache I've ever seen across his upper lip. "No good?"

"Um, no," I shake my head, stepping back to let him inside. "And you'll get killed in the local press if
someone catches you wearing that hat."

"Why? I've been a Cubbies fan all my life," he defends, pulling at the bill of his cap.

"You can be a Cubs fan after the season," I advise. "But not now. Not while the Mariners still have a shot
at the playoffs."

When I shut the door and turn around, he's right in front of me.

"Hi," he says quietly, lifting one hand to the side of my waist. When he starts to lean down, I press my
palm gently against his chest.

"Have we reached the point in our relationship where we kiss hello?" I ask, smiling at him.

"Yes. It comes somewhere between you criticizing my ass on the radio and me taking you to a jazz club."

"When are you taking me to a jazz club?"

"Friday night."

"Okay," I shrug, sliding my hand up to his shoulder. He kisses me twice, but then I pull back, rubbing my
finger across my itchy upper lip. "That tickles."

Reaching up, he rips the bad 'stache away. "Ouch," he hisses.

I wind both arms around his neck and pull him down to me, placing kisses along his upper lip until he
groans quietly. "Better?" I whisper.

He hums against my mouth, wrapping his arms around me as our lips meet again. The kiss rapidly
intensifies, each of us opening our mouths, pressing our bodies closer together. Reluctantly, I break
away after a couple of minutes, knowing that the arousal coursing through me will crush my wavering
self-control if I don't stop now. But I'm determined not to sleep with him… yet. Not this soon. Not this
easily. As I bury my face against his chest, he slides his hands up and down my back several times,
finally resting them just above my ass.

"Maybe we should go eat lunch."

"Yeah," I agree, looking up at him. "Want to borrow a Mariners hat?"

He says yes, and then follows me to my room, leaning against the doorway while I get it from my closet.
The lop-sided grin on his face as I approach him reignites the spark of desire, almost causing me to
chuck my resolve out the window and pull him toward my bed. Instead, I smirk, holding my hat toward
him, but retracting it before he can grab it. "This is my favorite one. I want it back. Give me yours as
insurance."

"Done," he shrugs, pulling it off and holding it toward me. Once we make the switch, he adjusts the strap
on mine so it'll fit, and then puts it on. Damn, I definitely don't look as good in this hat as he does. "I like
it. Want to trade permanently?"

"No way, Cullen. I freaking love my hat," I answer firmly, but I'm smiling. I hang his hat on my bedroom
doorknob and we leave a minute later, holding hands as we exit my building.

We have lunch at an out-of-the-way diner, settled into opposite sides of a booth. After we're done
eating, we stay for another hour, talking about college, first jobs, first loves. Neither of us mentions our
families though, choosing to keep the conversation light today. He also eats dessert… twice.

"Tuesdays are the only day I eat like this during the season," he explains as the waitress sets a huge
piece of coconut cream pie in front of him, the chaser for the chocolate cake he ate half an hour ago.
"Wednesdays, it's back to lean meat and veggies."

"Uh huh. Sure," I tease.

"Seriously. Weigh-ins are Friday," he reminds me. "Here. Have a bite. It's really good." He holds his fork
across the table toward me. As I close my lips around the tines, I lift my eyes to meet his and I swear I
can't look away. Even when I sit back, chewing and nodding my agreement about the deliciousness of
the pie, our gazes remain fused. Under the table, I slide my feet forward, hooking them around one of
his. At the same time, he reaches across the table and I link our fingers together.

My heart flutters wildly in my chest as a fresh wave of heat rolls through me. Every time I think I'm
becoming accustomed to his presence, my body proves me wrong. I don't even recognize this sensation.
What the hell is this? It feels like lust… but not.

He grips my fingers more tightly and I hear him swallow. After a few more seconds, he looks back down
at his pie, but we keep our hands and feet tangled together.

"Um, I got pressured into appearing on Coach Erickson's radio show tonight at seven," he says after
clearing his throat. "I feel like a VIP jerk for double-booking myself this way. I'm sorry."

"It's no big deal, Edward. I know you have a lot of work responsibilities, even when it's your day off."

"I feel guilty since the show's on KSEA though," he admits, reddening a little as he looks at me.

Laughing, I shake my head at him. "Don't feel bad. We beat them in the ratings every week."

"I knew that competitive streak would show up again sooner or later," he grins.

"I like to win," I shrug.

"I do, too," he agrees.

Outside, it's turned into a rainy afternoon, so he suggests that we go to a movie after we leave the diner.
I agree; I don't really care what we do. I just want to be with him. When we get into the theater, the movie
is starting – and the place is practically deserted. Only a handful of other people are scattered among
the seats in here. Edward pulls me into a row at the back.

"Really, Cullen?" I whisper as we sit down.

"Really, Swan? Are you insinuating that I have an ulterior motive for sitting in the back of a dark theater
with you?" he answers lowly. Biting my lip unsurely, I turn my head to look at him. He leans closer,
putting his lips against my ear. "I do, but I was trying to be smooth about it."

I can't stop the giggle that escapes, although it dies against his lips when he leans over to kiss me a
couple of times. Arms intertwined, we sit back and watch the first twenty minutes of the movie, but
Edward's running commentary makes it difficult for me to pay attention to what's happening on the
screen.

Exasperated, I finally twist in my seat to face him. "Do you always talk during movies?" I whisper.

"Yeah. It's annoying, huh?"

"Yes," I laugh. "But I think I can shut you up."

He comes willingly when I reach for him, and we both shift around, getting as close as possible with the
hard, plastic armrest in the way. As our lips meet, he slips one hand under my hair to cup the back of my
neck, stroking his fingers slowly along my skin. Unlike earlier today, this kiss doesn't turn feverish. Our
tongues slide together lazily. My fingers mimic his, ghosting across the nape of his neck, unrushed.

After the bill of his hat – well, my hat – hits me in the forehead for the fourth time, he pulls back slightly.

"Sorry, Legs," he murmurs, smiling as he reaches between us. He grabs the bill and twists it around to
face backward. Then, staring at me, he covers my hand where it rests on his neck, squeezing gently
before skimming his fingers all the way up my arm.

Molding his mouth to mine again, his hand continues to roam – gliding down my back, and then along
the outside of my thigh. He pauses to grasp my knee, lifting my leg to drape over his. Clutching him
tighter, I try to press myself closer as his roving hand comes to rest at the side of my hip. We continue
kissing until I can't think… can't breathe.

Suddenly feeling panicked, I rear back. Cullen's eyes pop open in surprise.

"Are you okay?" he asks. I nod shakily, letting my leg slide off of his. I make myself smile slightly, and he
smiles in return before we move to face forward again. He reaches across the armrest to put his hand
on my leg, and despite the fact that I'm still freaked out, I put my hand over his.

He's quiet – mostly – for the rest of the movie. I stare at the screen, laugh when he laughs, and wonder
why my emotions about him are so jumbled. I'm terrified of him, yet I like him. He turns me into a nervous
wreck half the time, but I want to spend time with him. I definitely like kissing him. Then again, the abrupt
urge to flee that had me pulling away only minutes ago is also strong.

Sighing quietly, I conclude that I must have deep-seated psychological issues when it comes to
relationships. Wow. There's a newsflash. After rolling my eyes at my own foolishness, I glance down at
our hands, looking at his long, slender fingers resting just above my knee. And seeing my fingers laced
between them.

Unable to stop myself, I lay my other hand on his forearm. It's his left arm – his non-throwing arm. I brush
the light coating of hair back and forth a few times. Then I trace my fingers from his wrist to his inner
elbow, pressing lightly when I feel the muscles flex beneath my touch. As I skim my fingers back down his
arm, he squeezes my leg and leans over.

"Enjoying the movie, Swan?"

"Yep." I turn to look at him, pushing away my worries for the moment. "It's scintillating. Outstanding
drama."

"It's a comedy," he cracks, knowing I was joking, too. "And it's over." That part I didn't know.

As we walk outside, he checks his watch, declaring that he'd better take me home. I know he doesn't
want to be late for Coach's show. I reassure him that I'm not upset.

He walks me to my door, bending down to kiss me, but like earlier, rising anxiety has me pulling away
before it turns into much more than a peck.

"Seven o'clock Friday?" he asks as I unlock and open my door, confirming what we agreed on during
lunch. I nod before saying goodbye and disappearing inside, leaving a slightly confused, beautiful man
in the hallway.

I keep myself distracted for a while by calling my mom, but I've got an eye on the clock the whole time.
When it's time for the coach's show to begin, I make an excuse to hang up, and then turn my stereo on,
tuning in to KSEA. Picking up a magazine, I sit down in the middle of my couch, propping my bare feet on
the coffee table.

I genuinely like Coach Erickson, but I impatiently flip through my magazine – not really reading anything
– for three segments before he finally brings Edward on. They talk about last Sunday's game, and then
touch on next Sunday's game, too. I'm impressed by how much Edward already knows about the 49ers
defensive players and the schemes they run most against inexperienced quarterbacks. Toward the end
of the show, they move on from football.

"Good choice of head wear, Cullen," Coach teases, explaining the Mariners ball cap while the crowd at
whatever bar they're broadcasting from cheers. "Didn't take you long to get your Mariners gear, huh?"

"Actually, I borrowed this hat from a friend," Edward laughs. "But I was told I have to return it, so I'll be
getting my own soon."

I giggle as the bar crowd applauds again. Then Coach asks a final question before the show ends.

"Hey! I didn't ask how you celebrated your first win. What did you do?" Coach prods, following up with a
promise that Cullen won't get in trouble for his answer. I toss the magazine to the side and sit up

straight. Holding my breath, I wait to see what he'll say.

"I went home," he responds. Judging by the tone of his voice, I bet he's turning red. "Had some dinner.
Had some cake. Sat outside listening to music. It was a great night."

My breath rushes out in a gust. "It was a great night," I whisper, agreeing with him even though he can't
hear me.

The warmth – heat – once again pulsing through my veins is quickly becoming a familiar reaction to
Cullen, although I'm still not sure how to label it. My heart pounds furiously as I get up and walk to the
kitchen on shaky legs. I pick up my phone and send him a text.

*You can keep my hat.

*Chapter 7*: Pass Interference

A/N: Sorry for the break between updates. New position at work almost killing me. Two
teenagers, a pre-teen and a husband seemingly willing to finish the job. :) Hoping I can get
back on track now.

Thanks go out to Littlecat358 for beta'ing. And to M ichelle0526 and tennesseelamb for pre-
reading and editing. You have no idea how much I love you all.

I also got recced by the Fic Whisperer. Thanks, Nic! Thanks, also, to Twilover76 and M agTwi78
for the recs. I truly appreciate it.

I'm hardly ever home right now since I'm at work all day and on chauffeur duty almost every
night with the kiddos (who ever thought I'd be looking forward to the day they can drive
themselves?), but I read and love and treasure all reviews, follows and favorites.

Thanks for reading. Please review.

"Son of a buck," I mutter, looking through my fantasy roster once more.

Around me, the noise level increases as the back room of Cooper's Bar fills up; our league meeting
starts in ten minutes. I usually have my lineup for next week ready to turn in by now, but I'm struggling to
decide which players I should start. Even though I made one good trade earlier today, I still don't have
much hope for my team this season.

"Something wrong, Swan? Heh-heh-heh," Emmett prods, punctuating his question with a condescending
chuckle. With difficulty, I resist the urge to kick him under the table. He knows I'm annoyed by how poorly
my fantasy team did last weekend. We spent three segments talking about it on the show this morning.
"Have you ever been this far down in the league standings?"

"Don't think so." My tone stays even, but I'm certain my agitation is obvious to him – I'm continuously
clicking the button on my retractable pen.

"You know, when you picked such an odd mix of players during the draft, I assumed you had some
elaborate endgame," he muses, pausing to sip his beer. "Some Machiavellian plan that would make the
rest of us feel like dumbshits again this year."

"Maybe I do," I retort.

"Nah. I figured it out the next day. What was wrong with you during the draft, I mean."

That gets my attention, and I turn to look at him. Emmett is smart and he's always been observant. Did
he catch on to my preoccupation with watching Cullen on the big screen that night?

"Huh?" I ask, playing dumb… but holding my breath.

"Come on, Bella. We both know you were only paying attention to one thing that night."

Oh, crap. He knows. My mind races a hundred miles an hour, trying to come up with an explanation.
Surely I can pass off my poorly disguised obsession with watching the Seahawks that night as research
for our show.

Hoping to conceal my panic, I roll my eyes and sigh dramatically before I answer. "I have no clue what
you're talking about."

Crooking his finger at me until I lean closer, he whispers in my ear. "Connor. I know you have a crush on
him." Stunned, I pull away slightly. The wide-eyed look of surprise on my face is genuine – I don't have
to pretend at all. Emmett continues, determined to reveal his deductive reasoning prowess. "You were

overly helpful when he was picking his team. You smiled like the Cheshire cat when he defended you to
Peter. And you kept sneaking looks at him all night."

Pursing my lips to the side, I think about what he's said. I did help Connor quite a bit because I like him –
as a friend. And I was pleased when he and Emmett put Peter the prick in his place. But Connor is not
the one I was sneaking looks at all night… it was the quarterback on the television over Connor's
shoulder. Number seven. Cullen. The guy I spent most of the day with yesterday… the one I talked to on
the phone for an hour last night before bed… the one I'm letting keep my favorite hat.

Suddenly aware that my lips have curled into a smile – and I'm dangerously close to giggling – I force my
brow into a frown.

"It's okay. I won't tell," he remarks, apparently convinced by my expression that he's guessed correctly.
"But you know he has a pretty serious girlfriend, right?"

"Um, I know," I nod, deciding this is a much better explanation than anything I would have come up with. I
lower my eyes as if I'm ashamed. "I would never try to bust up someone's relationship. I'll behave from
now on."

"'Atta girl," he says, punching my arm lightly. "Hey, we'll have some fun in SoCal. That'll take your mind
off it."

Emmett spent the whole afternoon texting me all the things he wants to do during our free time in L.A
next week. He's full of ideas. I only have one: Ditch Newton. I could be prejudiced, but I think my idea is
the best of the bunch.

While I finish my lineup sheet, he rambles on and on about going to the beach, the Santa Monica pier,
some restaurant where celebrities supposedly hang out. I'm not that excited, but I play along, promising
to do most of what he wants. It's not like we'll have a lot of down time anyway; we'll still be doing our
morning show daily and also providing some commentary during the three games the Mariners have
while we're there.

I'm so busy appeasing Emmett that I don't notice Peter heading my way until he pulls out the chair on the
other side of me. He smiles smugly as he sits down. He's currently in third place; seven spots ahead of
me. I fully expect him to gloat, and he doesn't disappoint, snidely whispering comments throughout the
meeting. It takes an incredible amount of restraint, but I don't react to him at all. I do almost spit beer on
him, though… twice.

As soon as the meeting is over, Emmett stands. "Swan, I'll go tell the commish that we won't be here next
week, okay?"

"Uh huh," I reply distractedly, packing my notebook and laptop away. When I feel an unwelcome hand
clamp onto my shoulder, I bristle instantly, turning to face Peter with one raised, pissed off eyebrow.

"Look at the bright side, Bella. You're so far down in the standings, you don't have much further to
drop," he taunts.

Scooting my chair back roughly, I shrug his hand away as I close the flap of my new messenger laptop
bag. "I prefer to look at it as a personal challenge to launch a comeback."

"There's no way you can win the league with your team," he sneers.

"Maybe not," I remark as I stand, plastering a wide, fake smile on my face. "But it sure will be fun to
watch your free fall while I try."

When I turn around, Connor is standing right behind me. Startled, I stumble backward into my chair.
Connor reaches one arm toward me, and I grip his forearm to regain my balance as we smile at each
other.

"Sorry, Bella," he says. "I just wanted to say thanks for helping with my team. I've never been in second
place before – even though I know it's only the first week. But I feel guilty. I think you spent too much
time on my team and not enough on your own."

Laughing, I shake my head. "No, no. Congratulations on your weekend. Hope it continues," I reply. "Until
I catch up, at least."

"Still, I want to buy you a drink. You have time?"

I start to agree, but then see Emmett coming back toward us. When I realize that his gaze is fixed on the
spot where I'm still clinging to Connor's arm, I quickly pull my hand away. "Uh, I can't tonight. I'll take a
rain check, though. Later in the season?"

"Okay, but if you pass me before then, you're buying," he teases.

Emmett walks me to my truck a few minutes later, his arm slung around my shoulders while he advises
me on ways to get over my fake crush.

"I'm not picking up a random guy at a bar, Em," I argue. "That's not my style."

"Don't knock it. Sometimes hookups work out."

"For you maybe. Speaking of hookups, how is the redheaded Seagal?" I ask, jabbing him lightly with my
elbow as we stop beside my truck. "Is she cool?"

"I don't really know," he admits. "We don't talk that much. But she's hot. That's for sure."

"Gross," I laugh, opening the door. I set my laptop bag on the bench seat and push it toward the
passenger side. "You're such a boy. See you in the morning."

Both of our phones ping at the same time. Emmett pulls his from his pocket.

"Newton. To both of us," he remarks. I watch with amusement as his lips move while he reads the
message. "Cool. He just got Cullen confirmed for the show tomorrow. A full seven-minute phone
interview."

Oh, crap. Feeling my pulse begin to race, I concentrate on breathing. In. Out. In. Out. What am I gonna
do? I have a difficult time talking about Cullen on the radio without giving myself away. How the heck am I
going to talk to him? When my phone rings, I have a feeling I know who it is – and there's no way I can
answer right now.

"I figured Newton would be aiming for an interview with Cullen after last night. Did you hear him on
Coach Erickson's show? He really does seem like a good guy." Emmett is studying my frozen face.
"Bella? You gonna get that?"

Jolted out of my daze, I pull my phone from my back pocket. Cullen's number is displayed on the screen,
just like I thought. I silence the ringer and look back up at Emmett. "I'll call them back. Uh, I'll do the
interview prep if you take the lead on-air."

This is a no-brainer for Emmett; he prefers to ask most of the questions when we have guests anyway.
He readily agrees, and I head home to get started. I don't call Cullen back until I'm sitting in bed with my
laptop. He answers on the second ring.

"Hey, legs. What are you doing?"

"Writing questions to ask you tomorrow."

"Are you already home? I was gonna see if you wanted to stop by after your fantasy meeting."

"I would have if I didn't have to work," I respond. "Whose fault is that?"

"I'm guessing you're going to say mine," he laughs. "It was really the Seahawks PR department, though.
I'm not the one who set it up. I probably found out at the same time you did."

"Whatever," I mutter snottily. "I'm just warning you, I have no idea how I'm gonna act tomorrow. You
might get the inner bitch at seven a.m."

"I'm not scared of her anymore." He's amused; I'm not.

"I'm glad this is fun for you, Cullen." Ah, evidently he doesn't have to wait until morning to hear from the
inner bitch.

"You're really worried?" After I huff out a yes, his tone changes. "Swan, just be yourself. I listen to you
every morning and you're always great."

"You listen every day?" I ask, disarmed by his statement… by the ease with which he says it.

"Yeah. I like hearing your voice when I wake up," he says softly. Oh, hell. How am I supposed to guard
myself against him? Then he chuckles. "Well, sometimes it's Emmett that I hear first. I'm not so crazy
about that."

I laugh with him, but know that if we stay on the phone, I'm going to end up writing questions like "What
do you wear to bed, Cullen?" and "Would you like me to wake you up in person?"

"Still, Emmett has a pretty sexy voice," I joke, knowing that I'm nowhere near ready to talk about the way
he makes me feel. "All right. I gotta finish my work. I'll talk to you in the morning."

"Goodnight, legs."

"Night."

With a sigh, I hang up and lean back against the headboard, closing my eyes. I've never fallen for
someone this way before… this hard, this fast. I don't want to stop it – I'm not sure I could if I tried
anyway. But the growing intensity of my emotions scares me more each time I talk to him, and strong
feelings are not something I've dealt with well in the past.

Opening my eyes, I smile wryly as I type a question on the interview list – one I'll delete in a few minutes.

What the hell am I going to do about you?

During the pre-show meeting the next morning, Newton reluctantly agrees that my list of stats and
questions is better than his. He even manages to choke out a "Nice work, Bella", although the grimace
on his face indicates that it's painful for him to utter the words.

I start the show feeling pretty calm, but as the clock creeps closer to Cullen's segment, my anxiety level
increases. We have a five-minute break just before his interview, and I rush to the ladies' room, taking
several deep breaths while I wash my hands. When I get back in the studio, we still have two minutes 'til
we're on-air again, and Emmett is in the control room. He doesn't look happy, but since the mic isn't on
in there, I can't hear what he and Newton are discussing.

I sit down in my chair, facing away from them. Taking a final look at the sheet I prepared on Cullen, I
grab a highlighter and mark a couple of stats we can talk about if the conversation stalls.

"Bella, Cullen's on the line and ready to go," Seth says in my ear. As my heart flutters nervously, I flash
a thumbs up over my shoulder. "And Newton wants you to do the interview."

Instantly, I swivel my chair around to look at them through the window. Emmett is stomping his way back
into the studio. Newton is on the phone, not paying attention to me.

"What's going on?" I hiss, facing Emmett as he sits down.

"Newton thinks the dynamic will be more interesting if you ask the questions since you're a woman and
you have a relationship with Cullen," he grumbles, making air quotes around some of what he said.

"What?" My lips drop open as I breathe quickly.

"Because of the ass comments and the way Cullen and you joked around when he came on the show
the next day. And at the rally last week, Newton liked the way Cullen answered the one question you
asked. He thinks you guys have some great rapport on the air or something." He waves his hand my
way, clearly grumpy about the decision.

"Emmett, I don't want to–."

"It's okay. He's probably right," he says, dismissing my protest. "We're on in ten seconds."

I clear my throat nervously as Newton counts me in. "Welcome back to the Kickoff on KSST. As Emmett
said before the break, we are joined by a special guest this morning. Seahawks quarterback Edward
Cullen is on the line with us. Good morning, Edward."

"Hey, guys."

I begin with basic questions about his weekly routine; listeners are always curious about what goes on
behind the scenes. Then we move on to last week's win over the Rams. I let him talk freely, completely
veering away from the topics I planned to cover, but I love listening to him dissect the plays, the
defensive schemes.

As he's talking, I start to relax, and by the time we're into the fourth minute, it's less of an interview and
more of a conversation – a two-person conversation. I'm so engrossed in what he's saying that I kind of
forget we're on the air, and I'm startled when Emmett butts in, reading a question off the list I prepared.

"Were you ever worried that you would always be a backup quarterback? That you'd never get a chance
to start?" he asks.

"Yeah, of course, Emmett. But I'm pretty determined. When there's something I really want, I don't give
up easily."

"You're used to getting your way, then?" Emmett's words are clipped. I know he's pissed off about the
interview, but he shouldn't be short with a guest.

Edward doesn't seem bothered by the bad manners, chuckling before he answers. "Not exactly. But I
figured if I worked hard enough, I'd eventually have the opportunity to prove myself. And I've been
training for this since I was sixteen."

"Well, your persistence seems to have paid off," Emmett remarks brusquely, still not making eye contact
with me. "But now you have to go on the road to face the Forty-Niners, whose defense is ranked top-five
in the league."

"They're actually ranked second in red zone defense, and it will be a challenge to go against them,"
Edward agrees, continuing to ignore Emmett's impolite tone. "But every week in the NFL is tough. And,
honestly, that's why we all play the game. We're competitors."

"How do you deal with it when you lose?" I ask, attempting to wrest control of the interview back from my
co-host, Mr. Testosterone.

"It stings, you know, for a few hours," Cullen admits. "And then you have to let it go for the most part
because there's always another game to prepare for."

Emmett rushes to interject before I speak again. "Realistically, what are your expectations for Sunday?
The current line has the Seahawks as a ten-point underdog."

The question, although it's not one of mine, is legitimate. However, the way Emmett asks it teeters on the

line between hard-hitting and downright rude. Neither of us would normally challenge a hometown player
in such a way, which leads me to believe that he's intentionally attempting to make Edward mad. Edward
remains laid-back when he answers, though.

"I don't really pay attention to that kind of stuff. The games are decided by the players on the field, not
by odds makers in Vegas."

Apparently disappointed that he's failed to incite a reaction, Emmett goes a step further, touching on a
mostly-taboo interview subject that no player ever wants to answer: The future. "What do you think will
happen next year? Think the Seahawks will offer you a long-term deal?"

Turning to Emmett, I frown and mouth, "What the hell?" He shrugs. I'm not sure what he's trying to prove.

"It's too early for me to speculate on that," Edward answers evenly.

"But would you want to stay if you had the opportunity?"

"Absolutely. I really like it here."

"If you have more games like last week, I think you'll have fans begging you to stay," I offer, trying to
smooth things over before we wrap up. "We know you've got to get going."

"Yeah, I've actually got a meeting with the Chief in a few minutes," he offers.

"You don't want to be late," I tease. "Trust me on that one."

"I trust you, Bella," he says with a chuckle. "Thanks for having me on, guys."

After we thank him and say goodbye, we throw straight to break. As soon as we're clear, Emmett leans
back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, and looks at me. He knows what's coming. Glancing
into the control room, I see that Newton is on the phone again; he's not listening to us.

"You'd better hope Cullen sucks and gets run out of Seattle," I seethe, glaring at Emmett, "because he'll
never agree to come on with us again."

"Lighten up, Swan. Guys aren't as sensitive about this stuff as chicks."

"Chicks?" I realize that Emmett is choosing his words for maximum offensive effect… and it's working. I'm
breathing fast; my heart is pounding. I don't recall ever being this mad at him before. "What were you
doing during that interview?"

"Trying to see what he's made of. You were just letting him run the whole damn show," he declares.

"Bullhockey. Don't pull that macho, what-kind-of-a-man-are-you crap with me. That ambush wasn't about
Cullen. If you have a problem with Newton, then take it up with him," I spit. "Don't take it out on our
guests, and don't take it out on me."

Turning away from him, I study the screen in front of me to see what we're supposed to discuss during
the next half hour.

"Great segment, you two," Newton pronounces excitedly in our earpieces. "Bella, I want you to work on
some interview strategy for next week. I'll email you a list of Mariners players we'll be talking to."

When I hear Emmett chuckle, I refuse to look at him.

"Well, we did discover one thing about Cullen this morning," he states. When his declaration goes
unacknowledged despite his lengthy pause, he continues. "He's better at controlling his outbursts than
you are."

I use every ounce of willpower I possess to remain stoic for the remainder of the break. When we're back

on, I act normal, but I refuse to look at or speak to Emmett off the air. Finally, during the 8:30 half hour,
he writes me a note.

I'm sorry. You were right. I won't act like that again.

I read it, but don't reply, prompting him to take it back and write more.

I'll take you to lunch. You pick the place.

Again, I don't do more than glance at the paper. He tries again.

You can call me a jackwagon as many times as you want.

Even though I'm still mad, that one makes me chuckle. I've certainly had plenty of bad radio moments,
too, so I give in, scribbling down the name of a pretty expensive restaurant on the backside of his note.
He cringes but nods when I show him. Pulling the note back toward me, I write one more sentence.
Smirking, I watch him read it.

And trade me your best fantasy running back.

It's an unfair demand, and I wouldn't do it even if he agreed. It would be unethical for me to force a move
like that. Plus, it's against league rules. But watching the color drain from his face before he looks up
and realizes I'm joking amuses me. And it means one thing: I win.

In the late afternoon, I stop by my lawyer's office to hear what he has to say about the new contract
Charlotte and Kate offered me. As soon as I'm settled in one of the leather chairs in front of his desk,
Jenks levels his dark eyes at me.

"Bella, I have some reservations about this contract," he says, handing the papers across his desk to
me.

"The non-compete clause?" I ask, nodding when he answers yes. "Me, too, but I think that's a deal
breaker for them."

"The way it's written, you have to comply whether you leave KSST voluntarily or involuntarily," he says.
Noting my confused look, he explains further. "Even if you get fired, you can't work in any broadcast
media outlet – radio or television – within a fifty-mile radius for a year. That's a pretty steep penalty."

"So, you think I shouldn't sign it?"

"I think you should propose that they remove the involuntary portion of the clause at the very least," he
hedges.

"And if they won't?"

"I can't recommend that you sign it," he shrugs. "I'm sure you don't intend to get fired, but if you do, or
even if you get laid off, you'd still be obliged to comply with the contract."

Fired. He's right that I don't intend to get myself fired, but I don't know how the station management
would view what I have going with Cullen. My pulse races and I take a stuttering breath as I look down at
the papers on my lap.

"There's not a morals clause in here, right?" I mumble, flipping through the pages of the contract.

"As your lawyer, it worries me that you're asking that question," he sighs. "You're not engaging in
behavior that would be in violation of one, are you?"

"Uh, that would depend what it covered," I answer, looking up at him. "What if I was in a relationship with
a co-worker or something?"

"If that's a violation of a known company policy, they could terminate you for cause with or without a
morals clause," he advises, leaning back in his chair. "But there isn't one in this proposal, no. So, unless
you're violating a specific policy or doing something otherwise dishonest or unethical, you should be all
right."

"Okay. Thanks, Mr. Jenks," I answer, feeling more at ease. I don't know of any rule KSST has that
governs who I can or cannot date. After putting the contract in my bag, I stand to shake his hand.

"Bella," he urges, grasping my hand more tightly for an instant. "Whatever you're up to, please be
careful. You're getting a generous raise in this deal. I'd hate for you to give it all to me for legal fees."

"Me, too," I nod, smiling. "I'll be fine."

"This is not the kind of girl I am," I mutter, standing in front of my closet the next evening. I slide hanger
after hanger along the rod, instantly rejecting everything I see. Too dressy. Too casual. Too businessy.
"Jeans and flip flops. That's the kind of girl I am. Not jazz clubs and heels."

Sighing disgustedly – and getting closer and closer to the back of the closet – I turn around again to
look at the bed where I laid out my favorite skinny, black pants. They're my go-to pants when I don't
know what to wear… and I have no idea what to wear tonight.

"Liked it better when I only had first dates," I grumble. Then, realizing what I said, I look up at the ceiling
and quickly apologize to the karma gods. "I take it back. I take it back. I take it back."

And someone up there must hear me because when I look down again, moving the next hanger out of
the way, my prayers are answered. "I forgot I had this," I say quietly, pulling the shirt from the closet.

When Jess talked me into buying it last spring at the boutique where she works, she insisted it was so
cool that I couldn't pass it up. It's delicate, made of a double-layer of an almost-sheer fabric. The shirt is
flesh-colored, with black ruffles at the neck and arms. I've never worn it before. It's too skimpy for a first
date. It's too sheer for work. It wasn't dressy enough for the college friend's wedding I went to last
summer.

It's perfect for tonight.

I lay it on the bed with the pants, and then go back to the bathroom to finish getting ready. I'm nervous
as I get dressed a few minutes later, buttoning the front of my shirt with shaking hands.

"Jeez. It's not like it's our first date," I scold, looking at myself in the dresser mirror. It's our third. Or
fourth if you count dinner last Friday. But I was a bitch most of that night, so I think it shouldn't count. It
would be the crappiest first date in history.

Stepping back, I look in the full-length mirror on the back of my bedroom door. "This is still not the kind
of girl I am," I insist, focused on the high-heels, the sexy-for-me outfit. I grab my cropped, black blazer
out of the closet and put it on, and then look at the clock. I'm ready twenty minutes early.

Walking to the living room, I pace back and forth a couple of times, but the sound of my heels on the
hardwoods seems too noisy. Afraid to wrinkle my pants, I don't sit down, instead standing behind the
couch. I grab the television remote and turn on SportsCenter, but I'm not really paying attention to it. I'm
still inexplicably jumpy. What am I so afraid of? That I'll freak out again? That he won't like me anymore?
That I like him too much? Crap, I think it's all of those things. Lost in my thoughts, I'm startled when he
knocks at the door.

"Cullen," I greet, forcing myself to smile as I open the door.

"Swan," he answers with a laugh. He bends down a little to kiss me. "You're tall."

"For about three hours," I reply, stepping back to let him in. "Then I'll ditch the heels."

He hands me a bag as he comes through the doorway. "Got you something."

Pushing the door shut with my elbow, I turn toward him and peek inside the bag. Before I can stop
myself, I giggle. "You got me a new Mariners hat?"

"I owe you one since you saved my ass the other day."

I take it out of the bag. It's dark blue with a tattered bill – exactly like something I would pick out for
myself.

"Thank you. I love it," I say, looking up at him. He's watching me, smiling at me. My heart speeds up as I
reach for his neck, pulling him down toward me. Just before our lips meet, I jerk back, narrowing my
eyes. "You're not taking your Cubs hat back, are you?"

"Nope. Will you let me borrow it sometimes, though?"

"Anytime you want," I murmur. I lean in and kiss him, wrapping both arms around his neck. His hands
rest at the back of my waist, but he pulls away before the kiss goes very far.

"We should go if we want seats," he says softly. He lifts one hand to my face, tracing my jaw with the
backs of his fingers.

I agree, and twenty minutes later, we park in a part of town I'm not very familiar with. After Edward pays
the parking attendant, we head up the sidewalk holding hands.

"Where are we going?" I ask when he pulls me into an alley.

"Coolest little speakeasy in Seattle," he answers, reassuring me with his crooked grin. "You'll love it. I
promise."

Squeezing his fingers a little more tightly, I follow him to an almost-unmarked door. The only sign at the
entrance is a small bronze plaque – and it's so weathered that it's difficult to read. I can only make out
the word "Gin". He opens the door, and we walk inside and up the steep, narrow, poorly-lit stairs. At the
top, we go through another doorway and into a room that is exactly what Edward described: Cool.

Along a brick side wall is a bar stocked with more bottles of alcohol than I can count. A stage with a
piano, drum set, and bass is on the back wall. And scattered around are tables, couches, deep bucket
chairs. Edward looks around, and then points to a table on the far wall.

"Is that okay?"

Still looking around in awe, I nod absently. Soon after we're seated, a waitress appears. I order a vodka
and soda with a twist. Edward orders just the soda and twist.

"I'm drinking alone?" I ask, raising one eyebrow at him.

"I don't usually drink alcohol for three days before a game," he answers.

"You drank a beer last Friday at dinner," I remind him.

"I was nervous," he shrugs.

"About your first start?"

He shakes his head, and then whispers his answer in my ear. "About having dinner with you."

Lifting my hand to his shoulder, I push him away slightly so I can see him. His eyes are downcast, and
even in the dim light, I can tell that his face is a little red.

"Why?" I ask, struggling to understand.

"I figured I was only going to get one chance. I didn't want to screw it up."

"Edward," I exhale, sliding my hand up his neck. When he raises his eyes to meet mine, my heart seems
to stop for an instant. I keep looking at him… even though the intensity of his gaze scares me. I think
he's waiting for me to say something. I should say something – tell him that I'm the one who almost
screwed it up; I'm the one who didn't deserve another chance. Opening up to people about my feelings
has never been easy for me, though.

So instead, I lean forward and kiss him… three times. I keep my lips pressed against his until the
waitress sets our drinks down on the table with a thud, clearly trying to get our attention. We smile at
each other as we slowly pull apart.

"Thank you," he says, turning to look at the waitress. When I shift my gaze to her, I notice how close
she's standing to Edward's side. And how short her skirt is. She's going on and on about the singer who
will be performing shortly while Edward listens politely – and I scowl at her. She ignores me completely,
focusing all her attention and cleavage on him.

Shaking my head slightly, I take my jacket off and hang it from the back of the chair. Then I pick up my
drink, sipping it as I look around. It's getting louder in here as the room fills with people, and I watch the
band take their places, talking animatedly to each other. When Edward's large hand lands gently on my
back, I scoot my chair toward him, wedging myself under his arm. Finally, another table signals to the
chatty waitress and she walks away.

"I thought maybe she was going to steal you away," I tease, tipping my head back to look at him.

"I'm not going anywhere, Bella," he replies. The way he's looking at me – seriously but with a hint of that
crooked grin I'm so fond of – takes my breath away. I don't respond other than to bury my face against
his shoulder. I feel him kiss the top of my head just as the stage lights come on.

Once the music starts, Edward and I are quiet for the first few songs, but then we talk quietly, leaning
close. I can't stop smiling, which usually annoys me. Tonight, though, I only feel happy. As the night
goes on, we dance a few times, moving in slow circles as we hold each other tightly.

Just before midnight, he walks me to my door. After I unlock it, I turn around, staring up at him. He is
incredibly good-looking, but my attraction to him isn't just physical. I want to talk to him, listen to him. I
want to know everything about him.

I'm in deep, deep trouble… but right now I don't care.

"You want to come in for a while? I have decaf." I reach out and press my hand against his chest, slowly
sliding it down to rest on his stomach.

"Sure."

Inside, I kick my shoes off as I lay my purse and jacket on the counter. I take the package of decaf
coffee beans and two mugs from the cabinet before heading for my room. I hear him following behind
me, and he laughs when he sees what I'm doing.

"Your coffee pot is beside your bed? That's brilliant."

"I know," I agree, turning to grin at him after I turn it on. "It might be the best idea I've ever had."

"My bathroom has one of those built-in counters for a coffee pot. I've been thinking of moving mine back
there so I don't have to walk to the kitchen every morning," he comments.

"Do it. You won't be sorry," I laugh. "I'm kind of jealous. That would be even more perfect – to have the
coffee right there in the bathroom when you're getting ready. My bathroom's too small to keep the coffee
maker in there."

While the coffee brews, we stand next to the bed, talking and watching the carafe fill. I'm not sure if
Edward's aware of the down-comforter-covered elephant in the room, but I am. The bed is tempting…
and so is he. It would be so easy to pull him down and let myself get carried away. But when I sleep with
him – because I've concluded that it will happen – I want it to be purposeful, meaningful.

A few minutes later, we take our full mugs to the living room and sit down on the couch. We talk a little
about my trip next week and his schedule this weekend, and I'm disappointed when I realize we might not
see each other before I leave for L.A.

"You could come over Sunday night when I get back from San Francisco," he suggests, setting his
empty mug down on the coffee table. I do the same before turning to him.

"It'll be so late, and I have to get up so early Monday morning," I say, sighing.

"Just for an hour?"

"I could probably be talked into it," I laugh.

"Yeah? What do I have to say?"

"Say? Nothing," I answer, smiling as I crook my finger at him.

He leans forward, kissing me several times before he rears back to look at me. His bright green eyes
have darkened, and when he moves toward me again, I meet him halfway, lifting one hand to wrap
around his neck. He pulls my lower lip in between his for an instant, then lets go, sweeping his tongue
into my mouth. As we kiss, he digs a hand into my hair, sliding his fingers through the strands before
skimming them down my back.

Craving more contact, I try to scoot closer to him, but my legs are in the way. He breaks away, grasping
my waist with both hands and pulling me toward him. I let him guide me as I raise up and swing one leg
across to straddle his lap.

My lips are on his again before I'm settled, kissing him passionately. When his hands slide slowly up my
sides a few minutes later, a strong wave of desire courses through me, and I moan quietly into his
mouth. Although I realize that I'm quickly losing the grip I had on my self-control, it feels too good to stop.
And he's a great freaking kisser.

His right hand shifts to my ribcage, continuing its determined ascent. Breathless, I wrench my mouth
away as he finally covers my breast. He kisses down my neck as I arch it back to give him space,
gasping when he sucks on the skin below my right ear.

"God… Cullen," I whisper.

He lifts his left hand to my chest, too, squeezing gently, stroking his thumbs over my hardened nipples
repeatedly. The prickling pleasure flowing through my veins spikes, and I clutch his shoulders, rocking
my hips against his once. His warm breath fans my skin when he exhales in a gust into my neck.
Dropping one hand to my hip, he presses himself against me, holding me still even though I try to move,
too. Then, relenting, he loosens his grasp on me, and groans my name when I slide along his erection.
Even through our clothes, the sensation is amazing. It's been a while since I had sex. It's been even
longer since I've wanted to as much as I do right now.

We're both breathing hard when he pulls back a little, looking up at me as he reaches for the top button
of my shirt. I force my eyes to stay open, locked on his, even though I'm uncomfortable. Being physically
bare – at least partially – to him is scary, but it's the way he's studying me that really frightens me,
making me worry that my feelings for him are on full display.

Once my shirt is unbuttoned, he lifts his hand up to my face, tracing my cheek and along my jaw. Then,
moving so slowly that I'm practically squirming on his lap, his fingers ghost down my neck… my upper
chest… between my breasts… down my stomach. Burying my fingers in the longer hair on top of his

head, I let my eyes close, let myself savor his touch. Already, my body is attuned to his, shivering in
anticipation just before he finally raises his hands to cup my breasts.

His lips follow the same path his fingers did, skimming down my neck, and then side-to-side across my
collarbone. When he places kisses along the swell of my breasts, just above my bra, I inhale sharply. I
feel his tongue slip underneath the lace, leaving a wet trail behind as he licks toward the center of my
chest. By the time he repeats the action on the other side, I'm gripping his hair and rocking my hips
against his again.

Then suddenly, though the haze of arousal, I have a flash of panic.

"You can't come on the show again," I pant. My eyes pop open and I look down at the top of his head.

Although the motion of his mouth stops instantly, it takes a few seconds for him to pull away. "What?" he
asks, confused. He looks at me with a slight frown. "That's what you're thinking about?"

"Yes. I mean, no," I blurt out, trying not to sound as frantic as I feel. "I mean, I can't seem to think about
anything when you're around… except you. And that freaks me the hell out. And now there's going to be
this, too. There's no way I can talk normally to you on the radio after you've seen me naked."

"I'm going to see you naked?"

Of course, that's the part of my breakdown that he heard.

"Not tonight, but I think inevitably, yes," I sigh, "which means I'm going to have to start working out more."

"You're stunning, Swan. I liked you from the first time I heard you on the radio, anyway. Your
intelligence. Your sense of humor. Your nerve. It's just a bonus for me that you're beautiful on the
outside, too."

"I'm still not sleeping with you tonight."

"Who said anything about sleeping?" he says mischievously. His hands are still on my breasts, and he
uses his thumbs to circle my nipples.

"You're not playing fair," I exhale, resting my forehead against his.

"I didn't know the rules of the game," he replies. He moves his hands though, sliding them up to cup my
neck. "Baby, relax. I won't come on the show anymore if you don't want me to, okay?"

"Okay. Fortunately, Emmett was such a jackwagon yesterday that you have an excuse to turn us down,"
I remark.

"Jackwagon," he chuckles. "Your dad uses that word all the time."

"Duh, Cullen. Where do you think I learned it?" I tease, smiling. "Know what else he says?"

"What?"

"Pucker up, buttercup."

"Hasn't used that one on me yet," he replies drolly as I kiss him. "Maybe he will when he finds out we're
dating."

"Um, about that," I begin hesitantly, scrunching up the left side of my face. I know he'll guess what I'm
going to say when he sees my expression.

"You're still determined to keep this quiet? Because of our jobs?" He looks kind of hurt, so I rush to
explain.

"Our jobs and my dad's job. If things don't work out with us, it would be, at the very least, an
uncomfortable situation for both of you. I don't want to put either of you in that position."

"Why do you think we won't work out?"

"I didn't say that, Edward," I insist, sliding my hands to the nape of his neck. I rub my fingers lightly along
his skin. "But when's the last time you had a relationship that lasted more than a couple of months?" I
pause, not continuing until he shrugs. "Ha. It's been a while, right? For me, too."

"But it wasn't like this. I think we should quit hiding."

"We're not hiding. We've been out. We're just not advertising it… or telling my dad."

"Or any of our friends."

"I don't want to be a distraction for you. Do you really want to answer questions every week about the
girl who called your ass mediocre on the radio? You're just beginning your career," I explain, hoping he
understands. "I also don't want anyone trying to get to you through me… or thinking I'm dating you to
get something from you – an interview, money, exposure. Whatever."

"You're worried about what people will think?" he asks, still looking unhappy about my request.

"Yeah, I guess I am a little worried about what it could mean for my professional reputation. I want to be
taken seriously, not dismissed as yet another commentator who dates a pro player," I confess. "But I
want to have time just for us, too… without any outside interference or pressure.

"At the end of the season, though, we tell?"

"Absolutely. And any attention we get will have months to die down before training camp starts up
again," I point out.

"All right. But I'd still rather be open about it now."

"You just want to win," I smile.

"Relationships are a team sport, Bella," he responds. "Either we both win or we both lose."

Leaning forward, I rest my head on his shoulder as he wraps his arms tightly around my back.

"I like to win," I mumble against his shirt.

"Me, too, baby," he says, turning to kiss the side of my head. "And I think that gives us a pretty good
shot."

Even though I can't admit it out loud – even though the idea terrifies me – I have to agree.

*Chapter 8*: Forward Progress

A/N: Well, it's the end of another NFL season, which means I'll be in mourning a little. :) I don't
have a favorite team for the big game, but it should be a good one.

The new year is off to a bit of a rocky start. Year-end at work has meant some extra hours had
to be put in. Traveling husband and busy kids keep me hopping the rest of the time. Our
beloved, perfectly round, mini Dachshund, affectionately known as Fat M ax, passed away. He
went to live with Grandma about three years ago when I went back to work full-time, and lived
happily ever after, eating pancakes and fried eggs most mornings because he just didn't
seem to like the dog food (according to Grandma). RIP, Fat M ax. We love you.

Big thanks to my great friend Littlecat358 for doing double duty as a beta and therapist. :) She
knows how I feel about her. Also, thanks to two more great friends for prereading:
M ichelle0526 (xoxo) and Tennesseelamb (thanks for pointing out things I miss and
questioning me). Adore you both.

I truly appreciate the favorites and follows and reviews. They mean so much to me. And
thanks to the TLS girls for including me on the Fic of the Week poll. :)

Thanks for reading. Please review.

Sunday night, Edward sends me a text message soon after he returns from San Francisco, reminding
me that I said I'd come over. I reply that I didn't forget, and when I get to his building forty-five minutes
later, he's standing outside, waiting for me as promised. I park at the curb just up the block, glancing in
the side mirror to watch him walk toward my truck. He opens the passenger door as I pull the key from
the ignition.

"Hey."

"Hey, Cullen," I answer softly, scooting across the seat. I hate the sad look on his face. "You played
great today."

Shrugging one shoulder, he holds a hand toward me to help me out of the truck. "Still lost."

As soon as I'm standing on the sidewalk, I raise up on my tiptoes and wrap my arms around his neck. I'm
tempted to share the breakdown I've already done on his stats from this afternoon. Both his completion
percentage and total yards were higher than last week. I want to tell him how impressed I am that he
stayed calm in the pocket and spread the ball around, connecting with four different receivers despite
the constant pressure from the Niners' defense. I want him to know that I leapt up from my couch, yelling
and clapping, when he scrambled for twelve yards and a first down in the third quarter. But I don't think
any of that will make him feel better right now.

"I'm sorry," I whisper instead, kissing the side of his neck where my face is buried. "I brought you
chocolate pie."

I'm rewarded with a quiet chuckle as his arms tighten around my back. We stand still for another moment
before he sighs heavily and pulls away.

Upstairs, we sit on stools at the kitchen counter while he eats the enormous piece of pie, but his mood
doesn't really improve. I sip a glass of white wine and tell him funny stories. He doesn't laugh. I complain
about my upcoming trip to Los Angeles. He doesn't comment. I reach for him several times, rubbing his
back, squeezing his bicep, resting my hand on his thigh. He doesn't react… at all.

Quickly losing faith that I can pull him out of this depression, I finish my wine, and then take my glass and
Edward's plate to the sink. While I'm rinsing them and wondering if I should leave, he startles me by
sliding his arms around my waist from behind.

"Sorry, legs. I know I'm shitty company," he mutters against the top of my head. "I just can't stop thinking
about that last drive. Everything seemed to collapse in the fourth quarter."

"Edward, it wasn't you. You were playing well," I reply, shutting off the water. I pick up the towel laying
beside the sink and dry my hands, then turn around in his arms. "Thompson let the weak-side A gap
widen two downs in a row, so you had almost no time to let the play develop before you were forced to
throw. And, you know, you got sacked that second time when the pass rusher got past your protection."

"I have a vague recollection," he answers with a wry smile. I'm sure he remembers it vividly; it was a
pretty hard hit, resulting in Cullen lying flat on his back in the grass. "Thompson had trouble handling
that tackle all afternoon."

"Yeah, he did. You're probably lucky he kept the gap closed for the first three quarters."

"It's not any one player's fault, though. We missed a couple of other opportunities, too."

"I know that, Cullen," I agree, winding my arms around his neck. Before I can stop myself, I spit out a
couple of stats – wanting him to take pride in his progress. "I'm just pointing out that the offense showed
improvement over last week, regardless of the final score. Your completion percentage climbed above
sixty percent, and you were eleventh in the league today in total QBR."

"Still lost," he states morosely, echoing his earlier words.

"The Niners' D-Line dominated the second half and rushed you almost every play," I nod, realizing my
sympathetic pep talk isn't helping; he needs a dose of reality to snap out of it. "Whitlock couldn't get
open and your deep receivers couldn't outrun their corners. But you only lost by three points to a really
good team. You guys will learn from what happened today and figure out what adjustments to make. So
pull it together, get your head in the game that's coming up next week and quit whining about the game
that's already in the books."

He doesn't reply, but he's smiling softly despite the semi-sharp tone I just used to scold him. He lifts one
hand to push some of my hair behind my left ear and rests his fingers against my neck.

"What?" I huff, rolling my eyes. I let my hands slide down his chest and hang limply at my sides. "You're
not gonna say you're impressed that I can talk football, are you?"

"No," he frowns. "I knew you could talk football, Swan."

"That's a relief," I mutter with faux exasperation.

"I didn't know that you'd serve me consolation pie along with a swift ass-kicking when I needed it," he
continues. Under his intense gaze, it's becoming increasingly uncomfortable for me to stand here, but I
force myself to keep looking at him. "Only one other woman has ever understood me this way."

The jealousy that immediately floods my veins is unexpected. It's not an emotion that I've often been
affected by when it comes to men, but I recognize the clench of my stomach, the way my spine stiffens.
My voice stays even, though, not betraying me as I say the name of the girl Cullen dated all through
college. The last girl he had a serious relationship with, according to him. "Tanya?"

He shakes his head once. "No. My gran."

Quickly ducking under his raised arm, I twist away to lean against the kitchen island behind him,
surprised again at the mixture of emotions coursing through me. I'm relieved… and confused… and not
entirely flattered by what he said. "I remind you of your grandmother?"

"Yeah, in some ways." I cross my arms over my chest and raise one eyebrow at him when he turns
around to look at me. His face reddens a bit, which I know means he's embarrassed, but he always
expresses himself in spite of it. It's disarming. It's appealing. It's freaking hot. "She was tough and
independent. Smart. Funny as hell. And always called me on my shit." While he's talking, he takes two

slow, deliberate steps toward me, and then traps me between his arms by placing his palms on the
counter behind me. He leans down so we're face-to-face, his brilliant, green eyes moving side to side as
he searches mine. "She also had a heart of gold. I was wrapped around that woman's little finger. I would
have done anything to make her happy."

As I listen to his explanation, I feel my irritation – and my guard – slipping away. My heart flutters
anxiously, making my chest feel tight. My stomach drops, and I wrap one arm across my waist, trying to
calm the butterflies. Unable to meet his piercing stare any longer, I squeeze my eyes shut and wrinkle
my nose, hiding from him… hiding from myself, maybe, and wishing that I wasn't partially terrified by him
– by us.

I feel the puff of air on my face as Cullen chuckles. "You're adorable."

"Shut up," I demand quietly. When he repeats himself, I grit my teeth and do the same. "Shut up,
Cullen."

"Make me."

Before he's finished saying the taunting words, I've opened my eyes. I reach for him, lifting one hand to
the back of his head and curling the fingers of my other hand into the front of his t-shirt. He comes
willingly when I pull him forward, smirking slightly. And I can't help but return the smug smile, even as I
realize he purposely challenged me in a way he knows I can't resist.

His lips are soft and yielding at first, matching every movement of mine. After a moment, I slide my hand
to the top of his head, gripping the longer hair there between my fingers. The kiss rapidly turns urgent
then; our mouths colliding over and over until my knees are weak, but my desire for him is strong.

He breaks away as he moves his hands to span the sides of my waist, lifting me up to sit on the counter.
Again, I pull him toward me, making room for him to stand between my legs.

"Cullen," I whisper just before his lips capture mine again. He hmms into my mouth, digging one hand
into my hair. Although I know it's not smart, I hook my feet around his thighs and scoot to the edge of the
counter, pressing myself against him. It feels so good that I don't want to stop… so I don't.

When he starts to slide the hand on my waist upward, I come to my senses. During the drive here, I
promised myself that I wouldn't let things go even this far tonight, but I have an alarming lack of self-
control around him. I realize, though, that I can't keep having these heated make-out sessions and
expect to resist sleeping with him.

It is too soon to sleep with him, right? I've never been one of those girls who hops into bed with every
guy she's attracted to. Plus, I'm already overwhelmed by my feelings for Cullen and rattled by the way he
constantly lurks in the back of my mind, no matter what I'm doing. Adding sex to the mix this quickly
would only increase the probability of a complete freak out.

I'm suddenly glad that I'll be gone most of the week. I think I need a little space… a little perspective.

I put my hand on his forearm, pushing firmly enough that he understands. Instead of pulling away or
being angry, though, Cullen takes it in stride, shifting his arm and linking our fingers together. He never
stops kissing me, which, of course, only makes me want him more.

Eventually, though, the grip my other fingers still have on his hair loosens, and I let my hand drop gently
to his shoulder. He slows the movement of his lips, and then rests his forehead against mine, breathing
heavily.

"Stay a little while longer?"

"I shouldn't," I hedge, keeping my eyes closed. I won't be able to refuse if I have to look at him.

"We won't see each other again until Friday night," he reminds me. I can't decide if I'm more relieved or

unhappy about that fact right now, so I deflect.

"I'll be the one in the shitty mood then," I grumble, opening my eyes. "I can't believe I have to spend most
of the week dealing with Newton's jackwagon antics sixteen hours a day."

He chuckles, lifting our joined hands to his mouth to kiss my fingers. "Baby, you seem to handle Newton
just fine."

Leaning back, I meet his gaze, swallowing loudly as he brushes his lips across my knuckles again. My
willpower is no match for his charm. "I'll hang around a little longer, but I can't keep sitting… like this."

His quick grin tells me that he considers this a win, and he leans in to peck my lips tenderly as he picks
me up and sets me on my feet. We move to the living room and sit on the couch, talking for another
hour. He keeps his hands on me and leans in often to kiss my lips or forehead, but he never tries
anything else.

After I tell him for the third time that I have to go, we ride down in the elevator holding hands. When we
exit, the security guard looks up from the newspaper he's reading at his desk.

"Evening, Mr. Cullen," he greets. I've seen this guard before, but he's not the one who was here a
couple of hours ago when I arrived. "Miss."

"Chris, I want to introduce you to my friend, Miss Swan," Edward says. He lets go of my hand, and I
shake hands with Chris. "You can let her up to my apartment anytime."

"Of course, Mr. Cullen," he smiles.

"You're in trouble now," I tease while we walk up the sidewalk to my truck. "I can get into your place when
you're not even here." I would never invade Cullen's privacy that way and I think he knows that, but
joking around is the best diversion to avoid thinking about the next five days. I don't like the way my
heart suddenly aches at the thought of not seeing him for so long.

"I don't have anything to hide from you, Bella," he says quietly, standing behind me as I unlock the
passenger door of my truck. Crap. Closing my eyes, I let my shoulders slump, disappointed by my
reticence. I wish I had the courage to declare myself the way he does. I wish I could tell him that I don't
want to go… that I'll miss him. But I can't get myself to say the words.

"Well, have a good week." I cringe inwardly when I hear how inadequate my comment sounds after what
he just said.

"Text me when you get home."

"Okay," I mumble, aware that I'm responsible for the detachment in his voice. Guilty, I turn to him and
wrap my arms around his waist, but don't look at his face. Although he puts his arms around me, too,
neither of us clutches the other as tightly as we did upstairs just a few minutes ago. Closing my eyes, I
press my nose into his shirt, inhaling deeply before I let go and get inside the cab of the truck. "See ya."

When I hear him sigh, my already-shaky defense cracks a little more, stopping me from sliding further
across the bench seat. I know I constantly give him mixed signals – I'm hot for him, then I'm skittish. I
crave being close to him, but I'm unnerved by his presence and cut out. He must be frustrated as hell
with me. I'm frustrated as hell with me. Twisting my head to the right, I finally look at him, crooking my
finger until he bends down.

"Yeah?" he asks, eyebrows slightly raised.

"I'll call you Tuesday night from L.A. You'll be home then, right?"

"I'll be home," he nods. My favorite, crooked smile slowly appears on his face as he leans farther inside
the truck. "I'll be listening tomorrow morning. Don't go easy on me, Swan. Tell it like it is."

"I will." Reaching up, I place my palm against his cheek as I kiss him. And then kiss him again. "I will,
Cullen."

"Clothes. Shoes. Toothbrush. Makeup. What am I forgetting?" I mumble. I go through my mental
checklist one last time, and then turn off my bedroom light, rolling my suitcase along behind me as I walk
to the kitchen. I started the dishwasher several minutes ago. My laptop bag is packed. Jessica is going
to pick up my mail. I think I'm ready – and it's only 4:50 a.m.

"I'm gonna be early and freaking Newton will have to eat his freaking words," I mutter as soon as I'm
inside the descending elevator. Recalling what he said yesterday, snidely insinuating that I'd be late this
morning because "it takes girls forever to pack", I become incensed all over again.

When the doors open on the main floor, I stride quickly through the bright lobby, and then out the door
into the dark morning. Grateful that – for once – I paid attention to where I parked last night, I turn right
and head up the sidewalk. I'm so intent on reaching my truck that I take several steps before I notice that
someone is leaning against the bed of it. A big someone.

My heartbeat pounds in my ears as I come to a dead stop. Oh, God. Oh, shit. I'm not usually this stupid.
I'm careful and alert most mornings when I exit my building, knowing that the street is mostly deserted at
this hour. Without taking my eyes off the hat-wearing, shadowy figure, I try to remember how far I've
walked… can I make it back inside my building before the guy could get to me?

When he pushes off my truck and takes a step toward me, I start to back up.

"Legs, it's me."

Recognizing his voice, my relief is immediate. I smile widely while I blink several times, trying to see him
more clearly in the faint light. Walking forward again, my eyes finally adjust enough to see that he's
wearing my Mariners hat and a Northwestern sweatshirt. And he's holding a big cup of coffee.

"What are you doing here?" I ask incredulously.

"I wanted to tell you goodbye in person," he says, shrugging one shoulder. When I stop in front of him,
he holds the lidded cup toward me. "And I know from experience how shitty the coffee in your lounge is."

"Thanks, Cullen."

"You're welcome. I wasn't sure what you liked, so I asked the guy at Starbucks."

"You asked him what?" I lift the cup to my lips and blow through the little hole to cool it off.

"What most guys get for their girlfriends."

My eyes flit from the plastic lid of the coffee cup up to his face. Did he just imply that I'm his girlfriend?
Yeah, I think he did, but I push that thought aside for a second, distracted by his expression. His eyes
are downcast and I swear he's doing that cute, blushing thing again. Staring at his long eyelashes and
darkening cheeks, I feel my body react – racing heart, tingling spine. I want to kiss him, but I also want to
hear more about the G word, so I force myself to stand still.

"What was the answer?"

"He said his girlfriend's favorite is the vanilla latte." He swallows and raises his eyes to meet mine.

"So, what did you get me?" I smirk and tilt my head to the side slightly.

The left side of his lips curls upward before he speaks. "Vanilla latte."

"Is that right?" I take a sip of the drink without moving my eyes from his. "And is that supposed to be a
hint?"

"No," he replies. "The part where I got up at four o'clock in the morning to see you before you leave town
is the hint."

"Good hint," I nod. "Are you gonna kiss me goodbye or not?"

"Yeah," he laughs, leaning down to press his mouth to mine. He tastes of coffee, too, and I moan softly
as our tongues slide together. I wrap my free hand around his neck, scraping my nails lightly across his
skin. He brushes his fingers across my cheek, wrapping his other arm around my waist while our lips
meet over and over.

"Time?" I beg breathlessly, pulling away after a moment. He takes his phone from his pocket to look at it.

"Straight up five."

"Then I've got three minutes. Don't stop."

He pulls me closer as he kisses me again, dropping his hand to the top of my ass. Aroused, I press
myself against him, wishing we weren't standing on the sidewalk… wishing I didn't have to be at work in
twenty-five minutes… wishing I wasn't so freaking crazy that I'd stopped myself from sleeping with him
two nights ago.

"I gotta go," I murmur against his lips. He pulls his mouth away, hugging me and letting me burrow into
his chest.

"I know. Get in the truck. I'll get your bags," he replies. He holds me tighter for an instant before he
releases me, taking the strap of my laptop case from my shoulder as I step back. I start the truck as he
sets my laptop bag on the passenger side of the seat and my suitcase on the floorboard. "All set. See
you Friday. Call me when you can."

Nodding, I swallow the sudden lump in my throat and reach my hand toward him. "I'll call. Bye, Cullen."
He squeezes my fingers before pulling away and shutting the door.

Sighing, I walk into the lounge at the station, looking around in surprise as I realize I'm the first one in
here. After finishing my coffee during the drive, I'm not really thirsty, but I walk to the refrigerator and get
a bottle of water anyway.

Thinking about Cullen, I smile in spite of my melancholy mood. It's been an eventful day already and it's
not even light outside yet. The coffee, the kissing, the boyfriend. Boyfriend. What a strange label.
Almost as strange as the prickling sensation that zips up the back of my neck every time I think of it. I
didn't know I would like it this much… and I didn't know I would like vanilla lattes either.

"Morning, Swan," Emmett calls from behind me.

"Hey, Ehhhh–," I answer as I turn around. I burst out laughing, making it hard to speak. "What the hell
happened to you?"

"I got a spray tan," he replies defensively.

"Dude, you're orange, not tan," I say, trying ineffectually to control my giggles.

"I wanted to fit in down in SoCal," he pouts.

"Well, if we run into those kids from Jersey Shore or any Oompa Loompas, you'll be a perfect match."

"It's probably just the fluorescent lights in here," he grumbles, walking toward the mirror near the door. "It
will look better in the natural light."

"No type of light is going to make that color look natural," I tease, moving to stand beside him at the
mirror. Overcome with another fit of laughter, I cover my mouth with my hand as I watch him examine his

reflection.

"Bella, you'll have to watch that tendency you have to laugh directly into the microphone this week,"
Newton barks, coming into the lounge. "We won't have wind screens on any of the remote mics."

"I'll give it a shot," I sneer, turning to glare at him. "You'll have to watch that tendency you have to be a
jack–."

Emmett interrupts, simultaneously hooking his arm around my neck from behind to shut me up. "Bella
and I have both done out-of-town remotes before, Newton. Everything will run like clockwork."

"Good. We need to leave the station at noon to catch our flight," he says, motioning for us to sit down at
the table. Emmett whispers something to me about not instigating any new battles before he lets go.
Once we're seated, Newton hands us the rundown sheet for today's show, going over it quickly before
turning to the schedule for the rest of the week. "Tomorrow, you'll take batting practice with the
Mariners, and we have a good lineup of interviews with both Mariners and Angels players while we're in
L.A. Remember, the Mariners will have to win two out of three this week to maintain the top spot in the
AL West."

Rolling my eyes at Newton's tendency to repeatedly tell us things we already know, I hide my expression
by looking down at the paper he gave us. He continues yammering, but I'm only half-listening. Cullen
has invaded my thoughts again. Although I'm pleased that he came to see me this morning, I'm also
uneasy about the way I reacted to leaving him.

Frowning, I rest my elbow on the table and prop my chin in my hand. I pick up the pen laying on the table
with my other hand and doodle stars across the top of my paper as I try to tune back in to Newton's
speech. He's talking about the Mariners games now. Yes, we know the game schedule this week: Night
games Wednesday and Thursday; afternoon game Friday. Yes, we know we'll have to be in the
broadcast booth for a portion of each game.

Bored by his recap, I can't help but let my mind drift back to what happened when I got into my truck this
morning and looked at Cullen standing on the sidewalk. I felt like I was going to cry.

I've never really been a crier. I don't get teary-eyed over sappy commercials or sad movies or touching
news stories. In fact, I don't remember crying since I helped my dad and Sue clean out Grandma Swan's
house after she died. That was a little over three years ago. The last time I got weepy over a guy was… I
think Brett O'Leary during junior year of high school. I wonder what that says about the guys I've dated
since then. I wonder what it says about me.

And what the hell does it say about my feelings for Cullen?

Emmett nudges me with his elbow to get my attention. "Yo, Bella. We're on in six minutes. You ready to
head into the studio?"

"Yeah," I reply, grateful he interrupted my train of thought before I had to answer that last question.
Turning toward him, I'm unable to stop the quiet chuckle that escapes when I look at his tinted face. He
grins back at me. "Ready."

Soon after the show is over, I walk to Kate's office to discuss the contract I was offered two weeks ago.
She and Charlotte listen to my concerns and share some of their own. Eventually, we agree to change
the non-compete clause from a one-year to an eight-month period. They also promise to waive the
clause if I'm laid-off from the station, but are more resistant on the subject of termination.

"Bella, I'm sure you remember the issue we had a couple of years ago with an employee who tried to get
himself fired in order to nullify a non-compete clause," Kate advises. "I'm not willing to completely remove
the involuntary portion of the one in your contract. In fact, our father has insisted that it be in all new
contracts we enter into with on-air talent."

Figures. One jackwagon – in this case, a guy who wanted to accept a job at KSEA – ruins it for everyone
else. He was successful, engaging in such horrible workplace behavior that KSST had to let him go. He
had his own morning show on the air for our biggest competitor within a week.

"But you have my word that we'll be fair in our dealings with you, Bella, even if it involves termination,"
she continues. "Neither Charlotte nor I would hold you to terms that would impede your career without
cause."

I believe her, but I'd prefer to have it in writing. Since it doesn't sound like they're willing to go that far, I
have to decide what I can live with.

"I'll accept the terms we've agreed on today," I concede after a moment. Kate's assistant makes the
changes to the contract language and I sign the contract, pleased for the most part with my new deal.

I spend the rest of the morning in Riley's office brushing up on baseball stats. I interrupt him several
times to whine about Newton. In return, he bitches about Wyatt, the guy who's filling in for me in the
afternoons.

"Bella, he has no personality. It's like I'm doing the show alone," he whispers across his desk. Honestly,
that's been my opinion when I've listened to them, but I assumed I was judging Wyatt too harshly
because I've never really liked him… plus, he's sitting in my co-host seat. "I think we now know why he's
been on overnights for two years."

"I'm sorry. I feel like I've abandoned our show," I lament. "How are the Arbitron numbers?"

"They're good. We haven't had much fall off."

"That's because of you," I nod sincerely. Riley's knowledge is unsurpassed and he seems to have a
sixth sense about what listeners like to hear.

"Yeah, well, just don't get too comfortable on the ass-crack shift," he teases. "You are coming back to
afternoons eventually, aren't you?

"Far as I know," I shrug.

Emmett knocks on the open door and steps inside the small office. "Newton offered us press passes for
the Seahawks game Sunday. You guys in?" he asks. As I listen to the two of them debate what changes
Coach Erickson should make, I breathe deeply, trying to slow my racing heart.

When Emmett presses me for an answer, I nod and shrug nonchalantly, pretending to be engrossed in
what I'm reading on my phone. Actually, I'm not pretending… Cullen just sent me a text asking me to
come over Friday night when I get back from Los Angeles. And then another asking how my meeting
with Charlotte and Kate went. I'm impressed he remembers – I mentioned the meeting the other night,
but we haven't spoken of it since. "Uh, whatever. I'll go if you guys are going."

"Cool. I'll get them," he responds. "Hey, Bella, we're leaving in ten minutes."

"Okay," I nod. I take another deep breath and exhale quietly as I reply to Cullen, feeling that lump form in
my throat again. "Okay."

Surprisingly, the trip to L.A. goes off without a hitch. Well, without a hitch for the show. Newton still
irritates the crap out of me. Emmett and I have a good time, though; batting with the Mariners, taking
short trips to Disneyland and the beach. We also attend the games, watching the Mariners lose
Wednesday, but win Thursday. Friday afternoon's game is a nail-biter. Emmett and I both spring to our
feet when the Mariners' young, star pitcher strikes out the last Angels batter. Mariners win.

Two hours later, our plane takes off for Seattle. Happy to be heading back to Seattle, I'm smiling as I
watch the palm trees get smaller and smaller.

Emmett leans across me to look out the window, sighing. "Wish we could stay in L.A. for the weekend."

I don't. But since I don't want to explain why, I answer noncommittally. "Hmm."

"I want to see how the Seahawks play Sunday, though," he continues, settling back in his seat and
reclining. "It seemed like Cullen was about to turn a corner last week until the fourth quarter."

"Hmm."

I agree with his evaluation, but I've tried to be more subtle this week about my admiration for Cullen. I
was even a little bit critical of him last Monday morning as Emmett and I dissected the Seahawks loss.
Cullen still said I was too easy on him, though.

"I think it might actually work out with him," he comments, not waiting for me to reply before he goes on.
"But were you paying attention to the sound bites I played this morning? Did you hear what he said
yesterday after practice?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Do you know what he meant when he said he was looking forward to today?"

"Nope."

"Don't you think that was a strange response? When the reporter asked if he was looking forward to
Sunday and he said, 'I'm looking forward to tomorrow'?" he continues. Finally glancing away from the
window, I turn to look at him. His eyes are closed, his brows knit together on his odd-colored face. "Do
you think he was trying to be funny? Or is he some sort of carpe diem, take-nothing-in-life-for-granted
wacko? Or are they having a short practice today or something?"

"Not sure," I answer honestly, somewhat amused by Emmett's fierce pursuit of the meaning behind
Cullen's words. I don't know for certain why he said he was looking forward to today, but I hope it had
something to do with me.

"Maybe Newton can get him on the show next week."

I fake a laugh even though I panic at his suggestion. "Why? So you can hijack the interview with a bunch
of crankypants questions like you did last week?"

"No," he says sullenly, dragging the syllable out. "I'll apologize for the way I acted before."

"What if he doesn't forgive you?"

"Swan, no one, male or female, can resist this," he brags, opening his eyes and smiling at me. His
dimples make deep depressions in his cheeks as he waves his hand up and down his body. "Two
hundred pounds of twisted steel and sex appeal."

My laughter is so loud that Newton peeks over the top of his seat in front of us to see what the
commotion is about. He gives me a stern look and hisses my name, which makes it even more difficult to
get myself under control. Eventually, however, I manage to keep it quiet, and Emmett falls asleep.

I grab his copy of Sports Illustrated from the seat pocket in front of him, immediately flipping to the small
blurb on Cullen's performance last week. I don't even really read it; I just trace my finger across his
name again and again, thinking of him. We talked on the phone for over an hour every night this week. I
rest my head against the back of the seat and close my eyes as I remember part of our conversation
last night.

"I've been thinking about what you said last Friday," he began.

"You mean when I said I couldn't talk to you on the air after you see me naked?" I joked.

"No," he chuckled. "The part where you worried what your peers will think about us."

"Why were you thinking about that?"

"I heard Emmett giving you shit on the air, accusing you of flirting with the Mariners pitcher at batting
practice."

"I wasn't flirting," I said insistently, ready to defend myself. "Emmett was just mad because I got a hit off
the pitcher and he didn't."

"I believe you, Swan. But I get what you meant now. They do treat you differently because you're a
woman. Emmett never would have said those things about a male colleague," he replied, sounding a
little pissed off on my behalf. "I understand why you want to wait to go public with our relationship. I won't
pressure you about it anymore. We'll wait until the season's over."

Blowing out a deep breath, I smiled into the phone. "Team sport?"

"Team sport." He let the words hang in the silence for a beat before he spoke again. "Bella?"

"Yeah?"

"Now I'm thinking about the part where I get to see you naked."

I don't open my eyes as I clutch the magazine to my chest. I doze off still thinking about him… and still
smiling.

As soon as we land in Seattle, I power on my phone, planning to text Cullen. I groan quietly when I see
the red battery in the top right corner – three percent. Crap. I hurriedly begin to type the message I'm
supposed to send him, letting him know I'll be at his apartment in about an hour. I dismiss two incoming
texts from my mom and hear my email alert tone as the phone downloads new messages.

Quickly scanning the words I typed, my finger hovers over the "Send" button. Before I can press it,
though, my home screen appears for a millisecond, followed by that spinning, white circle of death.

"Son of a buck," I mutter as the screen goes black.

"Want to use mine?" Emmett offers as he stands to deplane. I start to reach for it, but then realize I can't
use his phone to text a player that he doesn't know I'm having a sort-of-secret relationship with.

"No, thanks. I'll just wait."

I'm jittery as we wait for our bags, get a cab back to the studio, and get in our separate cars. Newton
manages to compliment Emmett and me on a good week of remote shows before he leaves. Emmett
promises to text me tomorrow about meeting for breakfast before the Seahawks game Sunday, and I try
not to act like I'm in a huge rush as I answer him over my shoulder while climbing into my truck… but I'm
in a huge rush.

During the drive to Cullen's building, I chew almost constantly on my lip. Is this too impulsive? Did I think
it through enough? Is it normal to abandon every principle of behavior I set for myself? Is Cullen really
worth all this?

In my head, I ignore every question except the last. Yeah. I think he might be.

His street is packed with cars, and I have to park almost a block away from his building. I walk briskly up
the sidewalk, my footsteps matching the pounding beat of my heart. By the time I open the door into the
lobby, I can hardly breathe.

"Good evening, Miss Swan." Chris is sitting at the guard desk, smiling at me as I approach.

"Hi. Can you call upstairs for me? My cell phone battery ran down."

"Mr. Cullen said I could let you in anytime, remember? I'll call him once you're on your way." He comes
out from behind the desk, pulling keys from his pocket.

"Thanks, Chris," I say softly, smiling at him as he inserts the key to light up the penthouse floor button.
He steps off the elevator with a wave.

"Have a nice night."

As the elevator ascends, I nervously unwrap a stick of gum and chew it, releasing the cinnamon flavor.
Realizing that I didn't even check my reflection in the visor mirror before I got out of the truck, I run my
fingers through my hair, hoping it doesn't look awful. I pull a tube of lip gloss from my purse, but decide
against applying it and put it away again.

When I reach the top floor, I press both hands to my stomach to calm my nerves, walking into the outer
hallway, and then immediately through the open double doors of the apartment. Just inside the doorway,
I pause to lay my purse on the entryway table while I kick off my flats under the chair beside it.

"Legs? Why didn't you text me when you got back? Or call me?"

Swallowing my gum, I turn toward his voice. He's coming around the corner from the kitchen, wearing
jeans and a red t-shirt, smiling crookedly. He looks happy to see me… and he looks beautiful.
Immediately, I feel relief, happiness, desire wash over me. And I know I'm making the right decision.

"Phone's dead," I breathe, rushing toward him like I haven't seen him for three months instead of three
days. "Chris let me upstairs."

"I know. He called me," he teases as my face breaks into a smile.

After three more steps, I reach him and lift my hands to frame his face. He leans down to me, and I have
a fleeting thought that he must have shaved this afternoon after practice – his jaw is smooth beneath my
fingers. But as soon as our lips meet, I'm only aware of his mouth moving with mine, his tongue sliding
along mine. I don't know how many minutes tick by while we stand in his foyer kissing… enough to make
me even more eager for him.

Letting my hands slide slowly down his neck and chest, I feel his abs contract as I trace my fingers lightly
over them. I twist my mouth away and step back slightly, reaching for the bottom of his shirt. He helps
pull it off, and I take another tiny step backward, staring, open-mouthed, at his bare torso. Although I
knew he was hiding a chiseled body under his clothes, I wasn't prepared for exactly how perfect it is.

"Oh, crap, Cullen. That's ridiculous," I mumble, shaking my head distractedly. Slowly, my eyes roam up
until they reach his face again. "Why do you ever wear a shirt?"

I expect him to laugh; he doesn't. Instead, he closes the distance between us and grasps the sides of my
t-shirt, bunching the material in his hands as he quickly lifts it over my head. He keeps his eyes glued to
mine until my shirt hits the floor, and then lowers this gaze to my chest.

"Why do you ever wear a shirt?" he asks, his voice low and hoarse. "You're gorgeous."

He bends down, but I back away, grabbing his hands to pull him with me into the dark hallway leading to
the bedrooms. He speeds up, catching me around the waist and crashing his lips to mine. We compete
for arm position, each of us exploring the other's bare skin while we kiss. When I begin to walk backward
again, he follows for several steps before stopping our progress and breaking away.

"Swan, I'm only going to ask once if you're sure," he says, his chest heaving.

"Cullen, I'm only going to answer once that I am." My voice is soft and breathless, but confident. "I want
this… want you."

"I missed you," he murmurs, putting his mouth on mine once more. His hands skim down my back and
ass, and then curl around my upper thighs as he lifts me. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I moan
into his mouth as he pulls my legs around his waist and walks forward.

I feel him shift his hands, using one to hold me in place while the other trails up my back to unhook my
bra. Once it's loose, I pull my arms free one at a time, and then drop the lacy scrap of material to the
floor as I press my bare chest to his.

Inside the door of his bedroom, he stops, bracing me against the wall while he flips the light switch.
Wrenching my mouth away, I open my eyes, letting my head drop back slightly so I can look up. The
lights he turned on are dim and hidden between the levels of the stepped ceiling, giving the room a soft,
candlelight-like glow.

I try to look around his room, but my eyes slide closed as he kisses down my neck. "Oh, God, Cullen."

I'm aware that he carries me across the room, and I feel him reach down, hear the rustle of the covers
as he yanks them down.

"Hang on to me," he orders, climbing onto the bed while I clutch him. He tips me backward gently, settling
between my legs as I lie down. I open my eyes, focusing first on his chest, and then letting my gaze slide
up to meet his. His fingers graze my cheek as he stares intently at me. "I'm crazy about you, Swan."

His words cause an immediate physical and emotional reaction, but since I'm nowhere near ready to
make my own verbal declaration, I stretch up to kiss him, pulling him down with me when I lie back on the
pillow. He rocks his hips against me several times, and then moves his lips down my neck to my chest.
His mouth covers my breast, and he uses his tongue to circle my nipple until I arch my back, needing
more. Whimpering softly, I buck underneath him when he finally sucks strongly. He switches to the other
side after a moment, reaching between my legs at the same time.

Watching him through half-closed eyes, I try to memorize everything – the cool, smooth sheet against
my back, his hot breath on my skin, the insistent pressure of his fingers as they tease me through the
material of my khaki shorts. Over and over, he scrapes my nipple lightly with his teeth, then soothes with
his tongue before pulling forcefully on my flesh.

"Ahhhh," I sigh, turning my head to the side. I study the muscles of the arm he's leaning on. Wrapping
my hand around his forearm, I twist sideways to press my lips against his skin.

"Bella," he exhales, kissing the spot between my breasts.

Pleasure and desperation race through me as I look down to find him staring back at me. Quickly, he
scoots up to kiss me, and I reach for the button of his jeans, too impatient to wait any longer. After a
minute of frantic fumbling, his pants and boxers, along with my shorts and underwear, have been tossed
off the bed and he's positioned right where I want him.

"Birth control?" he asks. His normally-bright green eyes are dark with desire.

"Pill. And I'm tested," I pant.

"I'm tested, too," he answers.

He lowers his lips to mine as he pushes inside, taking his time. I feel my body adjusting as he presses all
the way in and holds still. We breathe heavily into each other's mouths, still kissing, neither of us moving
until I tilt my hips up slightly. With a quiet groan, he slowly pulls almost all the way out, then slides back
inside.

Inhaling sharply, I drag my lips away. "Oh, my God, Cullen. Do that again."

He does – twice – while nipping along my jaw. Skimming my nails down his back, I urge him forward each
time.

"Baby," he says, lifting up to look at me. "I don't think I can go that slow anymore."

"Good," I whisper, shifting one hand to cradle his face. He smiles softly and I smile back before our lips
meet again.

We move together then, and soon I feel the pressure building. Placing his palms beside my head, he
pushes up, thrusting more forcefully. My knees dig into his ribcage as he speeds up. Wanting something
to hold on to, I try to slide my hands under his on the bed. Without slowing at all, he drops to his elbows,
lacing his fingers with mine. He drives into me, kissing me until I pull away.

"Cullen… Cullen," I whisper, gripping his hands tightly. My mouth falls open as I come, pleasure radiating
through me in waves. He buries his face in my neck, pushing our hands above my head as he moves
faster, and then I feel him release, too.

He presses soft kisses against my neck while we lie in silence, catching our breath. We're still holding
hands above my head, and even though my shoulders are starting to ache a little, I'm too content to
care.

"Am I crushing you?" he murmurs.

"No. Don't move yet."

He hums into my skin, tickling me. When I shiver, he does it again, chuckling softly when I react the same
way. After a minute, he shifts to lie on his side, facing me, and I roll to my side, too. He pulls the sheet
over us and we scoot together to lie intertwined, smiling at each other.

"That certainly helps make up for not seeing you since Tuesday," he remarks, his eyes shining with
laughter.

"Maybe I should go out of town again," I tease.

"No," he groans, holding me tightly against his chest. We both chuckle, and then lie silently for another
moment before he speaks. "Are you hungry? I was planning on feeding you when you got here."

"Feeding me?" I ask, tipping my head back and lifting one eyebrow at him.

"I didn't figure you'd get dinner on the plane."

"I didn't," I confirm. "But I was at the ballpark with Emmett all day. And when you're at the ballpark with
Emmett, you eat. A lot."

"What did you eat?" he asks, amused.

"I'm too ashamed to say," I claim. After a minute of prodding, I finally give in. "A hot dog. Nachos. One of
those frozen chocolate malts that comes with a wooden spoon. Peanuts – in the shell."

"That's not much."

"I wasn't done," I smirk. "Kettle corn. Cotton Candy. A churro. Sunflower seeds. A slice of pepperoni, but
I really only ate the crust. Oh, and I had a beer."

By the time I'm finished, he's laughing heartily. "No wonder you're not hungry. Doesn't that make your
stomach hurt?"

"Nope. When you eat with Emmett, you really only get about two bites of everything," I smile. "Except the
kettle corn. I ate the whole bag of that. I never share it, for future reference."

"Noted. You're cute as hell, Swan."

"Oh, God. Don't say stuff like that," I complain, pulling the sheet over my face to hide my

embarrassment.

"Are you thirsty?" he asks. Still under the covers, I nod, smiling when he pulls them away enough to
peek at my face. He presses his lips against my forehead. "Be right back."

Cautiously, I fold the sheet down when I feel him scoot away. He's sitting on the side of the bed, leaning
forward to pull on his boxers. Propping my head on my bent arm, I study the muscles of his back, and
then smirk when he stands and I briefly see the bare ass that created this whole damn whirlwind I'm
living in. With a silent sigh, I watch him walk out of the room. I could stare at him all night… all day.

After he's gone, I sit up to look around, clutching the sheet to my chest. Reaching my left hand down, I
slide it across the warm spot where he was just lying as I glance through the doorway on that side of the
room. That must be the bathroom – I can't really see inside since the light isn't on, but the floor changes
from dark wood to dark tile at the threshold.

Turning my head, I scan the rest of the room – the art on the walls, the flat screen hanging on the wall
opposite the bed, the floor-to-ceiling curtains covering most of the wall on my right. My eyes are drawn
to the framed photos on top of his dresser, but I can't tell who's in them from this far away. Absently, I
take my silver dangly earrings off and turn to drop them on top of the nightstand next to me. A small
remote is laying there, and, curious, I pick it up.

It's smaller than a normal television remote, and instead of number and function keys, there are only
four arrow buttons. Fancy, fancy. Pointing it toward the flat screen, I press an arrow, but nothing
happens. I try another one, and then twist my head to the right when the curtains covering the wall begin
to slide open.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" I hiss, looking down at the remote and desperately pushing the opposite arrow button.
Despite my attempts, the motor continues to hum quietly, pulling the curtains back. Glancing up, I gasp.
"Oh, my God."

"Pretty good view, huh?" Edward asks softly, reentering the room.

"Incredible," I whisper, staring out at the Seattle skyline, brilliantly lit up across the water. Blindly, I set the
remote back on the nightstand. "I feel like I've already used all the superlative adjectives in my
vocabulary describing this apartment, Cullen. But that view is unbelievably fantastic."

"Agreed," he remarks, coming around to the side of the bed where I am and sitting down on the edge to
face me.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been messing with your stuff," I say sheepishly, finally looking at him as I
accept the bottle of water he opens for me.

"It's no big deal, Swan. Mess with my stuff all you want," he shrugs. "It doesn't bother me."

I'm a bit bothered by the ease with which he lets me all the way into his personal space, but I can't think
of anything witty to say to relieve my discomfort. We're both quiet for a few seconds as we drink from our
water bottles. Looking at the top of his dresser once more, I use the bottle to point that way. "Family
photos?"

"Yeah, some of them are," he answers, twisting his body to look at them, too. "You want to see?"

I answer yes, and Cullen sets his water on the nightstand before he gets up to grab the pictures. I set
mine down, too, sitting cross-legged and tucking the sheet under my armpits to hold it in place across
my chest.

Cullen sits facing me again, holding two frames. He holds one toward me and I rest it on my leg as I
study the pictures on both sides of the double frame. The photos seem to be of the same couple, but
one is clearly from a long-gone era. They're young; both dressed nicely in clothes that I would guess are
from the 1940's or 1950's. The second photo is current. They're much older, of course, but their wide

smiles are the same.

"Your grandparents?"

"Yes. Edward and Liz. This one was taken around 1955. They were already married, but my mom wasn't
born yet. The other is on their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Gran got sick a few months later, and went
downhill fast. They didn't make it to fifty-one."

Overcome by sadness, I touch her face in the older photo while my eyes flit back and forth between
both. "They look so happy."

"They always seemed to be," he agrees with a sigh. "They met when he was playing at a jazz club in
Chicago and spent the next three days together. Over the five months that followed, they saw each
other nine more days. And then they got married."

"After twelve days together? That was a leap of faith," I laugh, looking up at him again.

"He was traveling around with different acts back then. They courted by mail," he chuckles. "It seems
crazy, though, doesn't it? But it worked for them. I guess when it's the right time, you know it."

We stare at each other for several awkward seconds before he clears his throat and picks the picture
up. He leans past me to prop it on the nightstand, and then lays the second frame on my lap.

This one was taken on a football field. Cullen is in the center of the photo, wearing a purple
Northwestern jersey, so it must have been a home game. I trace my finger across the white seven
covering his chest as I bend closer. Eye black covers his upper cheeks in two perfect rectangles, and
he's surrounded by people who I assume are his family.

"Look at all your hair," I remark, entertained by the holy mess of tangles on top of his head.

"It was a little out of control," he concedes, laughing. I point to a blonde in the photo. "Sister," he says,
answering my unspoken question. He points to a tiny brunette. "Other sister."

"Which one is which?"

"Alice. Oldest. Bitchy one," he says before moving his finger to the blonde. "Rosalie. Middle child. Nice
one."

"And these are your parents? Was it senior day?" I ask, noting the bouquet of flowers his mom is
holding.

"Yes and yes," he answers. "It was the only game they came to that year."

"What?" I feel my mouth fall open as my eyebrows shoot upward. I look up at him disbelievingly. "Your
parents only came to one game your senior year?"

He nods tightly, dropping his eyes to the photo again. "Probably wouldn't have come to that one if my
granddad hadn't pointed out that it would be televised on the Big Ten Network. They haven't been to
any of my games since I was drafted either. Participation in their kids' lives has never been a priority for
Carlisle and Esme."

Shocked, my heart aches when I imagine how badly that must hurt him. I lean forward, hooking one arm
around his neck to hug him. He swallows loudly. "Cullen, I'm so sorry."

"I'm used to it," he says.

"That doesn't make it okay," I whisper, resting my cheek against his. Pulling away after another minute, I
look at the photo again. "Your granddad was there, too."

"Uh huh. He never missed a home game. Gran didn't either, until my senior year. She died the summer

before."

I reach for his hand, squeezing gently in sympathy. It sounds like our grandmothers died within a few
months of each other. With my other hand, I touch the final face in the picture. I'm pretty sure I know who
she is, but I ask anyway. "And this is…?"

"Tanya."

"She's beautiful," I remark, studying her. Everything about her is the opposite of me. She looks tall;
Edward doesn't tower over her the way he does me. Her platinum hair shines in the sun. She looks good
standing beside him. Right beside him. "And she's still close with your family?"

"Yes. My mom loves her, mostly because she's in med school, I think. She and Rosalie are roommates. I
saw her when I was in Chicago last spring." I nod, still eyeing the picture. I don't want to look at Cullen…
afraid he'll see the look of jealous distaste on my face. And afraid of the look I might see on his. "She's a
great girl. You'll like her."

"I'm meeting her?" I ask, glancing up involuntarily. My stomach flops nervously at the idea of being in the
same room with his statuesque former girlfriend.

"Well, yeah, sooner or later. If I can convince you to stick around, I mean." He speaks hesitantly,
watching me as if he's scared I'm going to run away like I have several times before. While I'm staring
back at him, his cheeks redden, and in spite of my lingering anxiety, I can't resist leaning forward to
brush my lips softly against his. "Are you coming to the game Sunday?"

His voice is quiet and hopeful, reminding me that he's been disappointed by people not showing up for
him in the past. Pushing my own worries aside for the moment, I sit back to smile at him and lift one hand
to his face, stroking my thumb across his lower lip.

"I wouldn't miss it."

His face relaxes, but his gaze is serious, staying locked with mine as he grasps my forearm lightly.
"Stay?"

When he asks, I'm not sure if he means tonight… or longer. And when I answer, I'm not sure which I
mean either.

"Yeah, Cullen. I'll stay."

*Chapter 9*: Calling an Audible

A/N: After a crazy couple of weeks, things are settling down a bit for me. Hopefully, they'll stay
that way. And I won't mention (much) how the Jayhawks won the Big 12 Tournament yesterday
and got a #1 seed in the NCAA Tourney today. M arch M adness is here!

It's also St. Paddy's Day, which in my younger days meant drinking an obscene amount of
green beer. Who ever thought that was a good idea? It's all fun and games until someone
can't get out of bed the next day. I think it's the food coloring. ;)

Big thanks to Littlecat358 for all her help, especially pointing out a couple of areas to tweak.
And also to M ichelle0526 for prereading. I love you both and so appreciate all the help you
give! xoxo

Thanks to the wonderful admins at The Lemonade Stand for the rec's, and to kymbersmith90
for writing a sweet review.

Thanks so much for the follows, favorites and reviews. I love reading what you think!

Before my eyes are open, I hear raindrops pelting the windows. It's not unusual for me to wake up to that
sound. It is unusual for me to wake up in a bed that's not mine and open my eyes to look out windows
that aren't mine. Pinned to the bed by the heavy arm draped over my waist, I blink slowly at the Seattle
skyline across the water. It was so brightly lit a few hours ago, but now it's barely visible in the gloomy,
overcast morning.

We were too distracted last night to close the curtains over Cullen's windows again. Smiling, I reach for
his hand, sliding my fingers between his as flashes of last night rush through my memory. The urgency
of our first time. The slow, sweet exploration of our second. His hands. His mouth. His body. It was late
when we fell into exhausted sleep, wound around each other.

The room is light enough that I can tell the sun is up, but I have no idea what time it is – I'm not wearing
a watch and my cell phone is dead, laying at the bottom of my purse. Twisting my neck slightly, I look
toward the nightstand, hoping to see a clock. No such luck. Instead, I spot the photos Cullen showed me
last night, immediately focusing on the picture from his senior day at Northwestern. For student athletes,
it's one of the most special days of their college careers, standing at mid-field while the entire stadium
applauds their accomplishments. He looks happy, smiling crookedly in the picture. I'm so glad that he
had the experience, even if it was somewhat marred by the relationship he has – or doesn't have – with
his parents.

Smirking, I study the younger Cullen more closely. Once I get past the mop of unruly hair, I realize how
much skinnier he was three years ago – thin face, lanky arms, long legs covered by tight, white pants.
He was beautiful then, but I think he's even better looking now that his face and body have filled out
some. As I shift my eyes to the right, I notice that although his mom is standing close to his left side,
they're not touching. Edward's arm hangs at his side and Esme – I think that's her name – is using both
hands to hold her flowers.

She's pretty – and she passed some of her best features to her son. They have the same nose, same
eye shape, same smile. She's wearing black pants and a purple sweater that matches the color of his
jersey, dressing the part of the devoted mom and fan. Cullen's dad is on her other side. He's also tall
and good-looking. Also smiling for the camera. Also treats his son like crap.

How can they appear so normal in the photo, seeming to stand proudly next to their football star son,
and yet be so disinterested in his life, both then and now? How can they not support him? I don't think I
like either of them. Jackwagons.

With a silent sigh, I let my gaze scan the other faces in the frame, landing for a few seconds on Cullen's
granddad, the bitchy sister, the nice sister. And then, finally, Tanya. Despite the fact that I'm the one

lying in bed with him now, I can't help the twinge of jealousy I feel as I scrutinize her. His right arm is
wrapped around her shoulders, holding her close. She's tall, gorgeous and curvy in all the right spots –
all things I wish Cullen's ex-girlfriend wasn't. And she's in medical school, so she's probably freaking
brilliant, too.

He hasn't said what happened between them to end their romantic relationship, but he isn't bitter or
hateful toward her. That probably means it was his decision, right? Or it means that he forgives just as
well as he seems to do everything else.

Regardless of their continued friendship, the thought of being in the same room with her someday ties
my stomach in nervous knots. And, although it will remain unspoken, I have a three-word reply to
Cullen's optimistic, yet misguided, assertion that I'll actually like her: Fat fucking chance.

Suddenly, the radio on the other nightstand comes on and he pulls away from me to turn it off, but not
before I recognize the voice of the person speaking. It's Cory Evans, the host of KSST's Saturday
morning show. My heart flutters in my chest as I remember Cullen saying he wakes up listening to me
every morning, and I have no trouble tearing my eyes away from Tanya to roll toward him. He's lying on
his back, but turns his head to look at me.

"Morning, legs," he mutters, smiling sleepily.

"Hi," I answer quietly as my eyes wander from his bright, green eyes to the dark stubble covering his jaw
and back again. When he reaches toward me, I boost myself up to kiss him, pressing my lips to his
several times before I lie down on my stomach, resting my head on his outstretched arm. I put my hand
over his heart and brush my fingers slowly back and forth. We lie in silence for long enough that I
wonder if he went back to sleep, but I'm too content to open my eyes and check. Finally, I feel his chest
vibrate under my fingertips as he speaks.

"You want to sneak into the team hotel tonight?"

"No!" I exclaim as he chuckles. I know he's joking, but my heart still pounds with fear at the thought of
attempting it. "The Chief caught me sneaking out my window once when I was seventeen. I got grounded
for the rest of my life."

"Which was two weeks, right?"

Pleased that he remembers that detail from our conversation on the morning we met, I push myself up
on my elbow to grin at him. "Yeah. I'm not taking any chances. He could make both of our lives miserable
now."

"Good point," he laughs, stroking his hand up and down my back. "Come back tomorrow night?"

"Yeah, I'll be here after the game if you want. I'm not staying over, though."

"Why not?" He frowns slightly.

"I have to get up at four o'clock Monday morning for work," I remind him.

"So? I have an alarm clock. I'll make sure you wake up." As usual, his persuasive tone holds just enough
challenge to make an already enticing plan almost impossible for me to refuse. "I'll even move the
coffeemaker back here."

I narrow my eyes at him, struggling to keep a straight face as I look into his shining eyes. "That's a low
blow, Cullen, sweetening the deal that way."

He bites the inside of his cheek to keep his smile in check, too. "I play to win, Swan."

He would have won without the coffee… and it's not the convenience of having it in the bathroom that's
causing warm tingles to creep up my spine right now; it's the fact that he's willing to rearrange his space

for me.

"All right. All right," I sigh, shaking my head at him teasingly. "You win."

When his lips begin to curve upward, I can't resist lowering my mouth to his. He holds me close as we
kiss, slowly moving our lips and tongues together until I can't breathe. Gasping, I turn my head slightly.

"Wanna shower with me?" he murmurs, shifting his lips to my jaw.

"Yes," I whisper, arching my neck to give him more room. "But it's not a good idea. You have to leave
soon."

"Not for almost an hour," he argues. "That's long enough for me."

I pull back, lifting one eyebrow as I look at him. "It's not long enough for me."

Groaning, he reaches for my head, tugging me down again. This kiss is urgent and quickly becomes
heated. When his hands wander toward my ass, I wrench my mouth away, dragging my fingers across
his chest before I roll away to lie flat on my back.

Panting, I stare at the ceiling and pull the sheet up to cover my chest. "I think we'd better get dressed or
I really will make you late for the team meeting."

"Okay," he agrees, chuckling quietly. He reaches over to squeeze my hand. "I'm going to go take a very
cold shower. Don't leave."

I wait until he goes into the bathroom and closes the sliding door before I get out of bed. I find my
underwear and shorts on the floor, pausing to put them on before I head up the hall. I pick up my bra
and t-shirt, stop to grab a ponytail holder out of my purse and go into the small bathroom near the
kitchen.

Once I'm fully clothed and have pulled my messy hair up, I walk into the kitchen. I start the coffee, and
then dig around in Cullen's refrigerator, trying to find something to cook him for breakfast. While the
eggs and turkey bacon are sizzling on his fancy stove, I sip hot coffee, remembering my dad telling me
he would load up on carbs the day before a game. I don't know if Cullen does that or not, but as soon as
I put the eggs and bacon on a plate for him, I decide to look for oatmeal.

I open and close three cabinets without finding any, but when I open the fourth door, my mouth drops
open in surprise.

"What the hell, Cullen?" I mutter under my breath.

"It smells great out here," he calls from down the hallway. I grab the incriminating object from the shelf,
hiding it behind my back and turning toward the doorway to face him. "You didn't have to fix me
anything."

His hair is still wet when he walks into the kitchen. Thinking of him in the shower almost makes me lose
my train of thought, but I force myself to refocus. "Don't get used to it. I'm not very domestic."

He chuckles, and then notices that I'm holding something. "What do you have back there?"

"Evidence."

"Evidence of what?"

"Your duplicity."

"What are you talking about?" He's confused… and amused.

"You, Cullen, who gave me shit for having a bunch of junk food in my grocery cart only three short

weeks ago, have this in your cabinet," I declare dramatically, producing the box of Frosted Flakes from
behind my back with a flourish worthy of a television courtroom. "Would you care to explain the presence
of Tony the Tiger alongside the Kashi and Shredded Wheat?"

"It's not mine," he claims, holding his hands up innocently.

"Oh, Cullen, come on," I huff. Frowning, I try to look disappointed, but it's difficult because he's really
freaking cute. "I expected a more creative excuse from you."

"I'm telling the truth! Look at the box. It's never been opened," he insists, moving to stand right in front of
me. Glancing down, I see that he's right; the top is still sealed. When I look back up, his cheeks are
flushed. "I got it for you."

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Huh?"

"I bought it that night I saw you at the grocery store," he replies, looking sheepishly at me.

That answer certainly steals my gotcha thunder… and my breath. "Why?" I whisper.

He shrugs slightly and lowers his eyes before he answers. "Because after I saw you that night, I decided
I wouldn't give up until I convinced you to give me a shot." He pauses to swallow. "I'd never wanted to
know someone so much before I met you. And I thought… I hoped… that since you knocked down an
entire display of food trying to run away, maybe you were affected by me, too."

I was, but I'm not about to deal with the intensity of those feelings right now. Following my usual pattern, I
divert.

"So, you planned to lure me here with sugary cereal?" I grin, even though he's not looking at me – and
even though I'm still not breathing quite right. "Nice tactic. Simple yet effective. Brilliant yet, given how
awful I looked that night, seriously misguided."

"Bella, you're beautiful," he says, his voice low as he lifts his gaze to meet mine again, "whether you're
dressed up, dressed down or not dressed at all."

As I fight not to let my knees buckle, I set the cereal box down on my right without looking, hearing it tip
over on the counter.

"What are you trying to do to me?" I mumble, reaching for him. I wrap my arms around his waist as he
steps forward.

He bends down to me, raising his hands to cup the sides of my neck as he settles his lips against mine.
I'm briefly aware that he smells really good and tastes like toothpaste, but that thought is quickly
overtaken by lust. We kiss feverishly for a couple of minutes, lips and tongues moving together eagerly,
before I twist out of his arms, stumbling backward a couple of steps.

"Jesus, Cullen. Take your plate and step away."

He does as I ask, sitting down at the kitchen counter with his food. Just before he takes his first bite, he
looks up at me with a smirk.

"For the record, Swan, I think not dressed at all is my favorite."

I can't help the chuckle that escapes my lips, and I pick up my mug of coffee, leaning back against the
stove as I take a drink. Although I won't say it out loud, I think not dressed at all is my favorite, too.

By the time I get in the press box the next day, Emmett and Riley are already sitting down in the front
row. Even though we arrived at the stadium together, I stopped in the ladies room on the way upstairs. I
set my bag down in the empty chair between them, and then notice the big plate of food in front of

Emmett.

"Emmett McCarty, how can you be hungry?" I ask. He mumbles something unintelligible as he chews.
"We just had brunch an hour ago."

He tilts his head back a little, trying to talk normally even though he hasn't swallowed everything in his
mouth yet. "It's free food, Swan," he says… I think.

"Gross. Trade me," I say, motioning Riley to scoot over next to Emmett. I sit down on his other side.

"You've been quiet about your weekend, Bella," Riley remarks as I begin setting out my laptop, paper
and pens as usual. "What did you do yesterday?"

"Laundry." I shrug nonchalantly. "Watched some college football. Watched a little baseball."

I don't add that I did all those things while wearing Cullen's Northwestern sweatshirt. When we left the
penthouse yesterday morning, he said I was dressed for L.A. and refused to let me go home in the chilly
rain wearing only shorts and a t-shirt. He also drove me to my truck and warmed it up for me while I sat
in the heated-seat comfort of his SUV. I kept the sweatshirt on all day, even re-dressing in it after I
showered.

Without thinking, I lean forward and look down at the field, smiling when I see number seven among the
crowd of Seahawks players warming up. Once I'm aware of what I've done, I immediately sit back,
glancing to my right to see if Riley and Emmett noticed, but they're embroiled in a heated debate about
which Mariners pitcher should start the first playoff game. Neither of them is paying any attention to me.

Still, I try to be more discreet as I organize my work space, sneaking peeks at Cullen while he throws a
couple of short passes, and then swings his arm in wide circles to loosen up his shoulder. Pulling my
eyes away at last, I power up my laptop and put my two cents in about the Mariners' pitching rotation. By
the time I look down at the field again, the players have gone to the locker room for final game
preparations.

To pass the minutes until game time, I open up the stat spreadsheet I prepared. Beside me, Emmett and
Riley have switched topics and are discussing which defensive scheme the Seahawks should use
against the Jags today. Engrossed in what I'm reading on my screen, I'm only half-listening to them…
until I hear the most horrible sound: Newton's voice.

"As long as the line holds, our hometown boys won't have a problem," he declares, pulling out the chair
next to me and dropping into it. "Jacksonville doesn't have much of a deep threat."

Although his statement is accurate, I'm so annoyed by his presence that I have a hard time not rolling
my eyes. If I'd known he was coming to the game, I would have stayed seated in the chair between
Emmett and Riley. Instead, I'll be stuck sitting beside him for the next three hours. Perfect. But I force
myself to speak civilly, unwilling to give him the pleasure of knowing he gets to me.

Once the game starts, I completely tune out Newton's chatter. The Seahawks have the ball first and put
together a solid drive, methodically moving down the field. I bite my lip almost continuously to keep from
smiling and take excessively detailed notes to keep my itchy hands from applauding. When Cullen
throws a twelve-yard touchdown pass, I roll my chair backward reflexively, ready to stand up and cheer
with the crowd outside the press box windows. Suddenly aware of my near-misstep, and realizing that all
three of my co-workers are looking at me, I cover by hopping up and offering to get drinks for everyone
from the buffet at the back of the room.

For the rest of the game, I hold my emotions in check, not reacting at all even though Cullen is having
his best start yet. The Seahawks are relentless, scoring more points than they have in any other game
this season while holding Jacksonville to four field goals. They win the game easily and I watch proudly
as Cullen shakes hands with several opposing players before leaving the field.

As I'm packing up my laptop, I listen to Riley and Emmett discuss him, willing my tongue to stay still.

"Did you see the arc on that deep pass? Shit, it was beautiful," Riley praises. "Cullen's proving that he's
got an arm."

"Yeah, there's not much to criticize about the kid's performance today," Emmett adds.

"Let's not anoint him Seattle's golden boy quite yet," Newton interjects. "It was one game."

"Actually, Michael, it's now a four-game stretch of steady improvement," I snap. Son of a buck! So much
for my restraint.

I feel his eyes on me before he speaks. "What's got you so riled up, Bella?" he asks.

"Besides your glaring inability to recognize the evolution of raw talent into a precisely-controlled skill?" I
retort, spinning my chair around to stare at him. I tap my index finger against my chin, pretending to
think about it. "Oh, I don't know. Lots of things. Never-ending road construction on I-5. The continued
suppression of female rights more than thirty years after women's lib began. The lack of instant replay in
Major League Baseball even thought it's both plausible and practical. And don't even get me started on
the curse commonly known as PMS."

While Newton sputters, his face reddening with anger or embarrassment – or both – Emmett chimes in
with his opinion, too.

"Dude, her dad is one of Cullen's coaches. It's no wonder she's pissed off by your skepticism," he
reasons, assuming I'm defending my father instead of my boyfriend. "Plus, she's right. Cullen has been
better every week since that last preseason game."

"I agree. It seems like Cullen's making that turn that all good QBs make," Riley remarks, further backing
me. It's three against one. Newton will definitely make us pay for this later.

The skin around Newton's mouth draws tight and the muscles at the sides of his jaw pulse. "We'll see. It
may not last."

"Or maybe it will," Riley counters.

Clearly agitated, Newton makes an excuse for his hasty exit and leaves, but not before ordering Emmett
and me to be more than passive observers at the post-game presser. He wants a decent sound bite for
tomorrow's show.

Riley tags along as we make our way downstairs and find seats near the back of the media room. While
we wait for the press con to begin, I weasel a deal out of Emmett: I'll ask a question of Coach Erickson if
he'll do the honors with Cullen. Eager to redeem himself for the way he behaved the last time Cullen was
on the air with us, Emmett agrees.

As usual, Coach Erickson holds his conference first. Not surprisingly, he's in a great mood, although
he's as gracious in victory as he has been in defeat. He heaps praise on several players, but
concentrates on Cullen since most of the questions are about him. I ask about the two turnovers forced
by the Seahawks defense, eliciting a decent response from Coach.

Cullen emerges about twenty minutes later, freshly showered and wearing a suit. Our eyes meet for a
split second as he takes the podium, but he doesn't outwardly react like he did two weeks ago when he
was surprised to see me here.

"Hey, Swan. You want to make a quick buck?" Emmett whispers, leaning over toward me. I shrug, not
answering out loud. "I'll give you fifty if you ask a question about his ass."

I chuckle quietly as I turn toward him. "Fifty? Uh uh. You'll have to flash more cash to get me to humiliate
myself that way again."

"I don't want you to do it to humiliate yourself. I want you to do it to piss Newton off."

That's actually tempting, but I wouldn't willingly embarrass Cullen now. I tilt my head, pretending to think
about it before I decline. "Nah. My dad would kick my ass if I derailed the presser that way."

When Cullen starts to answer questions, I watch him intently – the squinting left eye, the thoughtful
answers, the easy way he commands the room without being conceited or obnoxious. It's so obvious that
he's intelligent and a great leader.

Shaking my head slightly, I look down and blow out a deep breath. It's also obvious that I have no hope
of forming an unbiased opinion about him. I don't think I stood a chance of that after the first time I
looked into his green eyes.

From the corner of my eye, I see Emmett stand, and then hear Edward call on him.

"Nice game, Edward," Emmett begins. "Can you talk a little bit about that last scoring drive? Specifically,
will you address whether that deep touchdown pass was an audible?"

"Sure, Emmett. We felt like we had a pretty good rhythm going by that point in the game," he responds.
"The Chief and I worked extensively last week on improving my ability to read the defense. Coach
Erickson told me before the drive that if I saw the opportunity for a long score to take it, and when we
lined up for that play, I thought we'd be successful."

"And you were," Emmett adds with a laugh.

"It's hard to beat a good skinny post route," Cullen says, "especially if you've got a receiver who's fast
and can get open."

Smirking, I slowly raise my head. I wonder if he's talking to me – that's the route I ran the day he dared
me to prove I could catch. His eyes are on Emmett, but I swear they dart my way for an instant.

"Who's your favorite receiver?" Emmett continues teasingly. He knows Cullen won't answer that.

"Man, what is it with you and your co-host? You guys are always on my ass," he jokes. Laughter echoes
through the room as people catch the double meaning of his words. I'm chuckling, too, although I'm sure
my face is reddening. "We have a great set of offensive weapons with our corps of wide receivers, tight
ends and running backs. It would be impossible to choose just one. It's a team sport."

I think that comment is for me, too, but I force myself to look at Emmett as he says thank you and sits
down again, afraid my face will give me away if I keep looking at Edward.

"We got the sound bite Newton wanted. And it sounds like I'm forgiven," Emmett crows, leaning close as
Edward calls on another reporter. "I guess Cullen got a little payback for all your comments about his
ass, too."

"Yeah," I agree, struggling to keep my face and voice inexpressive. "I guess he did."

When the elevator doors open, Cullen is leaning against the wall in the hallway outside the penthouse,
hands hanging casually from the front pockets of his jeans.

"Took you long enough to get here, Swan," he remarks, smiling crookedly at me.

"Sorry, Cullen," I apologize, walking toward him. "Got stuck in the Chief's office."

"Were you in trouble?"

"Nope. I hadn't called him since before I went to L.A. He wanted to know about the trip and about my new
contract," I answer. Reaching him, I raise up on my tiptoes to wrap my arms around his shoulders.
"Congratulations on the win. You were great. Everyone in the press box was impressed."

"I'm sure that's an exaggeration, but thanks," he chuckles. "It felt pretty good."

Pulling back a little, I press my lips to his. "What do I smell?"

"Mrs. Berty brought fried chicken," he replies between kisses. "I'm starving."

"Then let's eat."

"I want to move your truck inside the parking garage first," he says, explaining further when I raise one
eyebrow at him. "I don't think it's a good idea for you to walk to your truck alone in the morning on a dark
street."

"Newsflash: I do it every day, Cullen," I point out.

"Not here. It'll make me feel better, okay? And I have four assigned spots." He holds his hand out for my
keys, and I reluctantly hand them over. "Be right back."

"I don't usually let people drive my truck," I call, staring at his ass while he walks away. He steps onto the
elevator and turns around to look at me. I shift my eyes upward just in time.

"I'll be gentle, baby," he responds with a wink.

Feeling the familiar rush of warmth spread through me, I grin foolishly back at him until the doors slide
closed. Slightly dazed, I walk inside, listening to my heart hammer in my ears. How long will he continue
to have this effect on me?

In the entryway, I kick off my shoes, and then pause, wondering what I should do with my overnight bag.
Leave it here? Take it to his room? Still unsure, I carry it down the hall to the bedroom. After I turn on
the bathroom light, I stand uncomfortably in the doorway and glance back and forth between the sinks
situated on opposite walls. I know which one is Edward's. Is it too presumptuous to put my stuff on the
other one?

As I gnaw indecisively on my lower lip, I notice that the small morning kitchen area next to the sink now
holds a new coffeepot and two stainless steel travel cups. I make my way toward it, unceremoniously
letting my bag and purse drop to the floor in front of the extra sink. This coffeepot is just like the
expensive one I have at home – and it's already loaded with beans and set to come on at four a.m.

Nervous butterflies erupt and flit wildly around my stomach. Placing both palms on the granite counter to
support myself, I try to breathe through the rising panic.

Oh, fuck. I am in a real fucking relationship. I mean, I knew that, but I try not to think about it. It's hard to
ignore at the moment, though. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

If the Chief could hear my language, I'd be grounded for the rest of my life. And then I wouldn't be
standing in my boyfriend's bathroom freaking out about planned overnight stays and trucks parked in
underground garages and coffeepot timers.

Being grounded doesn't sound so bad right now.

When I hear Edward walk into the room, I try to swallow my fear.

"You all right?" he asks, sliding one arm around my waist from behind. Reaching down, I grip his forearm
and hold tightly, determined not to flee like I've done in the past.

"Yeah," I whisper. "I just feel weird – like I'm intruding. Changing your space."

"Bella, you've changed everything," he answers quietly.

How does he do that? With one simple statement, he soothes me, making me think I may actually like
being in a real fucking relationship.

Looking down, I loosen my grasp and slide my fingers along his arm slowly. Under the light coating of

hair, I feel the muscles flex and contract. I've never been obsessed with someone's forearm before, but I
find myself staring at Cullen's a lot.

He uses his free hand to push my hair out of his way, and then kisses up the side of my neck, stopping
to suck on the spot just under my ear. Sighing, I tilt my head to the side and lean back against him.

"Cullen," I breathe quietly when he cups my breast. "I thought you were starving."

"Decided I'm not in the mood for chicken," he answers. "I'd rather have–."

"Oh, God," I interrupt with a groan. "Are you going to make some really bad fowl reference to my name?"

"No," he answers defiantly, but I feel his lips curl against my neck, so I know I was right.

Spinning around in his arms, I nibble at his lips until he holds my head still and slides his tongue into my
mouth. After a moment, he wraps one arm around my waist, lifting me, and then turning to walk into the
bedroom. He sets me on the side of the bed, breaking away long enough to pull off my shirt and his own.
As we kiss again, he presses me backward until I'm lying flat and he's bent over me. Wanting his weight,
I tug at his shoulders, but he resists.

"Legs, yesterday you said an hour wasn't long enough," he remarks quietly, pushing himself up to look
at me. He leans on one arm and slowly traces his other hand down the center of my chest. "Today
you're trying to rush me. Be patient."

When I arch my back, he reaches underneath me to unhook my bra, tossing it to the side after I pull my
arms loose. Keeping his gaze locked on mine, he slides his hand up my ribcage to cover my breast. My
physiological reaction is immediate when his fingers skim across my nipple, but it's the look in his eyes
that has me whimpering quietly as I push myself further into his touch.

"Cullen," I mumble, lifting my palm to rest against the side of his face. Although I normally try desperately
to conceal my feelings, in this moment I want him to understand how much being here with him means to
me. After a few seconds, though, I lose my nerve and let my eyes slide shut, shielding me from his vivid
stare.

His lips briefly graze mine before they move down my neck. My mouth falls open as his closes over one
breast, pulling fiercely on me until I'm wriggling under him. He switches sides, tracing his fingers across
my ribs and down the side of my leg.

Then, suddenly, his mouth, his touch, disappear. I open my eyes to see him shedding the rest of his
clothes, and I reach for the button on my jeans. His fingers nudge mine out of the way, and he peels my
jeans and underwear off a moment later, dropping to his knees beside the bed.

"Wait," I plead when he wedges himself between my knees, unsure if I want him to do what he's planning.
Undeterred, he reaches for my hips and pulls me to the edge of the mattress.

"Baby, I'll be gentle," he promises.

"Isn't that what you said about my truck?" I wonder offhandedly, but when he puts his mouth on me, I
can't really remember… can't really think.

Lips. Tongue. Hands. As he drives me closer and closer to climax, I don't worry which of those capable,
erotic weapons he's using on me. I don't worry about the gaspy, noisy breaths I'm taking. I don't try to
control the jerky movements of my hips. And as pleasure ripples through my body in waves, curling my
shoulders up off the bed, I don't stay quiet, crying out loudly.

Once I'm lying flat again, I feel him shift between my legs, standing up and starting to push inside me.
Reaching forward, I place my hand against his abs, pressing him back.

"Be patient," I smile. I scoot toward the middle of the bed and hold my hand out for him to take. "It's my

turn."

He allows me to pull him onto the bed and roll on top of him. Burying one hand in his hair, I kiss him
passionately, and then move my lips across his cheek to his ear, biting the lobe gently.

"Bella," he groans quietly, bucking underneath me. "I didn't make you wait."

"But you did imply that you'd treat me the same as my truck," I comment half-jokingly, rocking against
him.

"It's important to you," he agrees, breathing hard and gripping my hips. "And you're important to me."

I stop moving and sit up, resting my hands on top of his. "Do you say these things on purpose or does it
come naturally?"

"I'm just being honest."

"Oh, God, that's even worse," I mutter, but I smile as I lean forward to kiss him. "Now I'll have to give you
what you want."

"I want you."

"I want you, too." My response is sincere, the truth bubbling out of me before I can silence it. And the
truth is that I want more from him – with him – than immediate sexual gratification. And that truth terrifies
me.

His hands slide up my back, keeping me close as he lifts his head to skim his lips along my jaw. Moaning
quietly, I quit trying to think rationally and give in to what we both want. When I lift up slightly, he guides
himself into me, thrusting upward while he pulls me down.

Moving slowly on him, I put my lips against his, trying to kiss him, but in reality, all we do is pant into each
other's mouths. His hands roam my back and legs, and then slide between us to cup my breasts,
squeezing lightly. I keep my measured pace, watching him, until he propels himself more forcefully into
me.

"Baby," he groans, pushing gently on my chest.

Realizing what he needs, I sit up, gripping his arms while his hands settle on my hips, urging me to go
faster. Although I want to close my eyes, savor the pleasure, I don't want to stop looking at him. I try to
memorize everything about his face – the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, the way he licks his lips
before letting them fall open, the look in his darkened eyes as they slide shut.

When I know he's close, I lean forward, placing my palms on the bed beside his shoulders. Speeding up
a little more, I feel him explode inside me with a groan, digging his fingers into my skin to hold me still.

"Cullen," I gasp, bowing my head as my orgasm spreads through me.

Fatigued, my shaky arms threaten to give out and I lower my chest to his, trying to catch my breath. With
my cheek pressed against his damp skin, I listen as his racing heart slows, and then shudder when he
scrapes his fingernails lightly up my back.

"Well, it only took me a month," I mumble.

"Only took you a month to do what, legs?" he answers hoarsely.

"To find one of your flaws," I reply. "You, Edward Cullen, are impatient."

He chuckles at my announcement, hugging me more tightly for a moment. "That's true, I suppose, at
least some of the time. But I never considered it a flaw," he defends.

"Come to think of it," I respond, smiling as I scoot up to kiss him, "neither do I."

Eighteen days later, I stand at the bedroom window, leaning my forehead against the cool glass and
looking down at the ferry crossing the dark water below. Behind me, Edward is lying in bed, watching the
Thursday night NFL game. The Packers are winning by twenty-seven points, so I'm not paying close
attention. Our show tomorrow morning will be focused on this Sunday's Seahawks game anyway.

Sighing quietly, I watch a small area of foggy condensation appear on the window. "What time do you
leave for Chicago?" I ask.

"Charter's taking off about noon tomorrow," he answers.

"It's weird that you're leaving a day early."

"We need a day to get used to the time difference. It's too hard to travel West to East and play the early
game the next afternoon," he explains.

He's already told me all this information. I'm not even sure why I brought it up again. Well, yes, I am. It's
because I don't like the fact that he will be gone two nights this week instead of just one. I'm not
confessing that out loud, though.

"I know," I say instead.

"Are you coming back to bed?"

"In a minute."

"Are you taking my t-shirt off and having your way with me again when you do?"

I can tell by the tone of his voice that he's smiling, but I don't look at him. I glimpse my reflection in the
window – unruly hair, Cullen's baggy t-shirt hanging loosely around my thighs, a smirk pulling at the
corners of my mouth. "Maybe," I shrug, then chuckle when he growls my name.

On the television, the announcers are talking about Aaron Rodgers dropping back to throw it deep, and
I know I'll lose Cullen's attention, at least for a minute.

Still watching the lights of the ferry below, I let my mind drift back over the last three weeks. I've seen
Edward every day; I've slept in his bed more than my own. We've been back to the jazz club, and also to
a few art shops and several out-of-the-way diners. He's been recognized a couple of times, but the fans
don't pay much attention to me unless they want a picture with him and ask me to do the honors.

Most evenings, though, we sit side-by-side on his couch. Sometimes we watch television or talk. Other
nights, I do research and make topic lists for the show while Cullen watches film or studies the playbook
for the next game. Occasionally, he tries to sidetrack me with his hands or lips; he's usually successful.

"Legs, you gotta watch this replay," he says, pulling me out of my musing.

I turn around to see him lying propped on three pillows, the sheet laying low across his abs. He's looking
at the TV, but I keep my eyes on him, watching him drink from the bottle of water I brought him several
minutes ago.

When he notices I'm looking, he sets the water down on the nightstand and curls his fingers at me,
beckoning unnecessarily; I'm already walking toward him. I can't help it. Anytime we're in the same room,
I eventually gravitate toward him. Putting a knee on the bed, I crawl across it, dropping two kisses on the
spot over his heart. With a happy sigh, I settle sideways with my feet dangling off the side of the bed and
my head resting on his stomach.

"He's got such a nice spiral," he comments as we watch the slow motion version of Rodgers' TD pass

when the game goes to commercial.

"So do you," I argue.

"You've already admitted you're not impartial about me." While he's talking, he pulls his fingers lazily
through my hair, spreading it across his chest.

"I'm getting better at being objective," I answer defensively.

That's true, and it's also true that his play has continued to progress over the last two games, despite
the fact that they were both Seahawks losses. Deep down, Cullen knows that; he's never outwardly
arrogant about his abilities, but no one can play at the pro level without having a healthy amount of self-
confidence. He knows exactly how good his stats have been. He's always humble, though. I, on the other
hand, like to boast once in a while… especially when I kick Peter the prick's ass in fantasy ball three
weeks in a row.

"And I have a good eye for talent anyway," I continue. "I've clawed my way up to sixth place in my fantasy
league, you know."

"I know, baby. You told me last night, and then you bragged about it this morning on your show. All
morning," he teases.

"Two segments! I only talked about it for two segments!" I exclaim, laughing with him.

He's right, though. I overdid it a little. Newton threw a fit the likes of which I haven't heard since the
morning of the infamous ass conversation. At the post-show meeting, he even accused me of being a
braggadocio. I accused him of trying to use the dictionary dot com word of the day in a complete
sentence. We were probably both right. I declared it a draw.

When the game comes back on TV, we both quiet down. Cullen rubs light circles down my back, and
then I feel him bunching the fabric of the t-shirt in his fist, exposing my ass and lower back. His hand
rests at the base of my spine, fingers slipping just under the waistband of my lacy underwear. Soothed
by the touch of his thumb sliding gently, repetitively across my skin, I close my eyes and go back to
thinking about how great the last three weeks have been.

Honestly, I realize he's the reason this relationship is going so well. He's sweet and attentive, funny and
affectionate. He asks questions and listens with interest to the answers. He seems to value my opinion –
value me. When he looks at me with shining eyes and that crooked smile, my heart clenches so tightly
that it's almost painful.

I'm feeling pretty smug about my personal development, too, though. My freak outs have been less
frequent than before, and I'm learning how to handle them better… or maybe Cullen is learning how to
handle me better. Despite the fact that I've diligently tried to hide the worst parts of my nature, he seems
to have me figured out in a lot of ways. He has definitely learned not to push me too far – he knows I'll
panic and bolt.

"Bella?"

"Hmm?" I murmur without opening my eyes. Turning my head slightly, I press my lips against the warm
skin of his stomach.

"Look at me," he pleads.

The urgency in his voice immediately puts me on edge; my heart pounds slow and hard in my ears.
Reluctantly, I lift my head and turn to face him, using one hand to sweep my hair out of my face. When I
see his nervous expression, the heavy weight of dread settles in my chest. He reaches one hand down
to cup my upturned cheek.

"I love you."

Oh, crap, Cullen. What the hell are you doing?

Thanks for reading. Please review.

*Chapter 10*: Running a Reverse

A/N: I can't say thank you enough for the favorites, follows and reviews. :) I truly appreciate
them, even though I really totally suck at review replies lately.

I owe an enormous thank you to my great friend, Littlecat358. Her beta and plot progression
skills are unmatched. Another great friend, M ichelle0526, preread the chapter...and I think
has an anniversary coming up tomorrow. ;) Thanks so much for all the help!

Random rambles below... feel free to skip.

The last month has been even crazier than usual around here as we prepared for my oldest
children's (twins) graduation. There were more activities and parties surrounding their eighth
grade graduation than my high school or college graduation! Things have changed. LOL It
was all fun and fantastic, though, despite the amount of whining I did about having every
single weekend in M ay completely consumed by their festivities.

Yesterday, someone at work told me I should have my own reality show. I'm not sure if that
was a compliment or a slam...

I found a pair of women's shoes under my bed a few days ago. They weren't mine. They were,
however, old lady shoes. I called my husband and told him if he's going to screw around, he
should be more careful... about who he does it with. ;) That's just sick. Luckily for him, his
mother (who is an old lady) claimed she left them here when she stayed with our kids several
weeks ago while we were both out of town for work. Likely story. Guess I'll let it slide this
time, though.

M y mother, who normally scolds me for drinking when we go out to dinner, scolded me for
not drinking when we went out for my sister's birthday last week. It's possible she's gone
crackers... and I like her that way.

I'm going to have to work part of this holiday weekend and spend the rest of it with my
husband's family. I'm trying not to constantly complain about that. It's not working.

On that note, I'll zip it before I say anything incriminating. :)

Thanks for reading.

I love you… I love you… I love you.

Cullen's softly spoken words echo in my ears, drowning out the noise coming from the television across
the room. As my shock fades, joy and fear simultaneously erupt. My delighted heart flutters wildly, but
my chest constricts so tightly that I have to force myself to inhale and exhale several times. I blink slowly,
finding it difficult to keep my gaze matched with his – yet impossible to look away. All the while, we play
this unconventional game of chicken, each of us waiting for the other to break the silence.

As competitive as I am, this isn't necessarily a game I want to win. I'm terrified of what he'll say next. Will
he repeat his tender declaration or retract it? At the moment, I'm not sure which of those options I'd
prefer.

Although my mind is racing, I can't formulate a coherent response; the defense mechanisms I usually
rely on to help me navigate situations like this have abandoned me. No humorous remark flies out of my
mouth. No sarcastic comment pops into my head. No smooth segue to a safer topic will save me this
time.

Instead, a tiny whisper in my head, growing louder by the second, urges me to admit my feelings to him
– to myself. My lips part slightly, the words poised to roll off my tongue, until my internal tête-à-tête is

interrupted by the booming voice of reason, warning me that heartbreak and devastation are what await
me at the end of this rainbow. That unwelcome reminder is enough to silence the romantic notions of
happily ever after rushing through my brain.

Deciding to stall for a moment, I try to say his name, but nothing comes out. At the same time, I hear him
gulp, and my stomach drops as I realize I'm about to become the victor of the quiet game.

"Bella, I mean it," he insists, his cheeks reddening. Clearly, we have each overestimated the other. While
I was confident he knew me well enough not to push too hard, he's seemingly under the impression that
I'm past my freak-out phase. Until a few minutes ago, I might have agreed with him, but now I'm not sure I
can deal with whatever he's going to say. Squeezing my eyes shut, I turn my head away, not bothering
to brush back the hair covering my face. "I love you."

Oh, crap. Although the words spark another flash of pleasure, it's immediately drowned by the wave of
nausea that rolls through me. I try to calm myself, but no amount of deep breathing will curtail my
reaction this time. I feel the panic grow in the pit of my stomach, coldly creeping outward until every
muscle in my body is tense… on call… ready to run. Desperate, I try to think of a gracious way to get out
of here, but I'm not patient enough to let manners kick in.

I sit up, staying turned away from him and pushing the hair out of my face.

"Um, I don't have clothes here for tomorrow, you know, since I came straight from dinner with Sue," I
mumble, relieved that my voice works at last, even though I'm not thrilled with the words I speak. "So,
you know, I need to go home."

Scooting off the side of the bed, I stand up and walk toward the bathroom, stopping along the way to
pick my clothes up from the floor where they landed two hours ago. Fragmented bits of the evening whiz
through my memory – our laughter as he pulled me toward the bedroom, gentle kisses that quickly
turned frantic, the way he looked at me when he was buried deep inside me.

By the time I get into the bathroom and slide the door closed, I think I'm going to throw up. Leaning over
the sink where I've gotten ready for work almost every morning of the last three weeks, I cup my hands
under the faucet and splash cool water on my face. It doesn't help much, so I press my hands against
my stomach for an instant before I take off Cullen's t-shirt and get dressed. Pathetically, I can't stop
myself from inhaling his scent from the t-shirt after I fold it, but I force myself to set it down. Then I finally
look in the mirror, shaking my head at my reflection.

"You're so stupid and selfish," I whisper, angry with myself and disappointed in my behavior. Tears sting
my eyes, but I quickly fan them away, puffing my cheeks as I blow out a big breath.

Truthfully, I knew that the vow I made weeks ago to keep my eyes open and heart guarded was never
going to work, but I deluded myself into thinking that I wouldn't have to face reality until the end of the
season. Instead of working past my inability to commit, I've chosen to recklessly ignore both it and my
rapidly growing feelings for Edward. While he's been honest and straightforward, I've joked around,
lashed out and dodged the emotional intimacy he craves. And now my irrational fear is likely going to
cost me someone I don't want to lose.

On the other hand, this relationship was never going to last long-term, right? Athletes with his talent and
charm eventually end up on the wish lists of both high-profile advertisers and high-profile women. The
scenario I imagine if I confess my feelings to him is one where my happiness is short-lived. The
excitement of infatuation will subside. This intense passion will surely burn out. Then Cullen will get a
better offer and move on… and I'll never recover.

The sharp pain that slices through my chest at that thought confirms my decision. My sense of self-
preservation, which has been dormant for the last few weeks, is suddenly returning with a vengeance.
I'm convinced it will hurt less to get out now while I still have a small amount of dignity intact… and before
he has the chance to break my heart. I have no choice: I have to go.

As I slide the bathroom door open and walk through, I keep my eyes downcast, going quickly toward the

end of the bed where my shoes are. I slide my flats on, and then peek at him. He hasn't moved since I
got up, and he eyes me warily as I take two steps backward – toward the door.

"I'll call you tomorrow," I say, but I don't think I mean it.

"Yeah," he replies flatly, shifting his gaze to the television.

When I turn to walk away, my gaze is drawn to the anniversary photo of Cullen's grandparents displayed
on his dresser.

That won't be us.

Grief grips my chest, stealing my breath. The fact that I've looked at this picture countless times over the
last few weeks and foolishly allowed a secret fantasy to blossom in my head – my heart – is further proof
of just how far I let my shield lapse. Why would I ever think that the devotion evident in their eyes is
something that Cullen and I could share?

I can't dwell on that right now. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I concentrate on putting one foot in front
of the other, fighting the urge to flee at a dead run. In the foyer, I pause to scoop my purse and jacket
from the chair near the door, and then rush to the elevator and push the call button repeatedly.

"Please. Please." My whispered words are frantic, begging the elevator to hurry.

"You're not coming back, are you?" he asks from behind me. Surprised, I gasp, raising one hand to my
chest. I didn't hear him approach.

"Um, not tonight," I answer without turning around. I can hear how artificially high-pitched my voice is.
He'll see right through me. "It's late. I'll just stay at my own place."

"Don't bullshit me! I saw the panic in your eyes. You're cutting out." His voice is harsh and accusatory –
he's never spoken to me in this tone before. Involuntarily, my shoulders curl inward as if to protect
myself from the force of his words. "You're such a chickenshit, Swan. Why are you so afraid of my
feelings for you? Or is it the way you feel that scares you?"

It's both. It's everything. I'm scared of everything, including telling him what I'm scared of. Shaking my
head, I mumble, "I'm sorry, Edward."

"Don't be sorry; just don't be such a coward," he demands angrily. "You're walking away from something
great here – why? Because you're afraid of being vulnerable? Being hurt? Well, I'm fucking scared, too.
I'm scared out of my mind by how strong my feelings are for you." It sounds like he's moved a little
closer, but I don't look. "But you know what else? It also feels fucking great, Bella. To feel this way about
someone and know that person feels the same – because I know you do, even if you won't admit it – it
feels fucking fantastic."

Tears fill my eyes again, threatening to spill over. He's right. I know he's right. But I can't make myself
give in. Behind me, he sighs heavily.

"Jesus, Bella. Don't go….please," he pleads softly. Oh, my God. Where is the goddamn elevator? I feel
like I'm being slowly ripped apart. "Don't run away from me."

At last, the elevator bell dings. As soon as the doors open, I step on and finally turn to face him. He's
standing with his hands on his hips, wearing athletic shorts, but no shirt. I watch his chest rise and fall
rapidly twice before lifting my gaze – and then I wish I hadn't. The pained look on his face destroys me;
lips drawn into a grim line, green eyes red-rimmed and lifeless. After staring at each other for several
seconds, he shakes his head and closes his eyes.

"I'm sorry," I croak, tears sliding down my face. I know my repetitious apology is inadequate, but there's
nothing else to say. Without opening his eyes, he turns and walks back into the penthouse while I raise
my hands to press against my mouth. Once the doors slide shut, I slump to the floor, resting my head on

my knees as the elevator descends.

The blaring of my phone alarm yanks me from my dreamless sleep, and I sit upright in bed, looking
around… disoriented when I realize that I'm in my room instead of Cullen's. Squinting against the
throbbing in my temples, I cringe as I recall everything that happened last night, from his sweet, but ill-
timed words to my gutless retreat. I don't have to glance down to confirm that I'm wearing his
Northwestern sweatshirt – the one I wore home the morning after we first slept together. I remember
pulling it on last night before I curled up in my bed and cried until I felt empty.

Blindly, I pat my hand around on the comforter and silence my noisy phone with my thumb. Turning my
head the other way, I look at the empty coffeepot on my nightstand, wishing I had loaded it last night.
With a sigh, I get up and unplug it, carrying it with me to the kitchen.

While I get ready for work, I try to block out all thoughts of Cullen, but the gnawing knot in the pit of my
stomach won't go away. I arrive at the station partly depressed, partly pissed off and completely
miserable. Heading straight for the coffee machine in the lounge, I walk past the table where Emmett's
reading the sports page without acknowledging him.

"Good morning, sunshine," he bellows, causing the pounding in my head to intensify. I grunt in reply,
annoyed when he chuckles. "Swan, it's Friday. Why the hell are you so grouchy?"

"I'm not," I retort, filling a cardboard cup, and then setting the carafe down roughly. "This is my regular
personality. I just haven't had much caffeine yet."

"I'll text Seth and ask him to stop at Starbucks on his way," Emmett remarks with a laugh. "What is it
you've been drinking lately? Vanilla latte?"

"No," I snap as my heart clenches painfully again. Realizing how brusque my answer was, I soften my
tone and turn to look at him as I continue. "I'll just have a regular coffee today."

He replies, but doesn't glance my way as he types the text. When I sit down at the table, he pushes the
newspaper toward me, probably understanding that I'm not in the mood to talk yet. I attempt to skim an
article on college football, but the letters all run together in a string of nonsensical phonetics. In my
head, I keep hearing Edward's harsh words, challenging me to trust him… trust myself.

Newton comes into the lounge, and I pretend to pay attention while he runs through the show schedule
for this morning. I smile at Seth when he hands me the plain coffee I ordered. I overreact to Emmett's
needling as we sit down in the studio, trying to act normal. But every second, my mind – and my heart –
remain consumed by Cullen. The anger in his voice. The look on his face. The pain in my chest.

Listening to the show's lead-in music, I take a deep breath, vowing to ignore my personal feelings for the
next three hours. It's not easy, especially since much of the discussion centers around the upcoming
Seahawks and Bears game. My heart thuds rapidly every time we play a cut from the comments Cullen
made after practice yesterday, but I hold it together on the air. Breaks, however, are a different story. I
spend them giving in to my many nervous habits… and bickering almost nonstop with Newton. By seven-
thirty, I've swallowed an entire pack of gum and chewed my left thumbnail down so far that it's bleeding.

During the long, bottom of the hour break, Emmett pulls the IFB from his ear and heads to the lounge.
As I reorganize the papers on the desk in front of me, Newton speaks sharply in my ear.

"Bella, when you do the advertising read, try not to breathe," he barks. "It's distracting."

"You don't want me to breathe?" I ask incredulously, not bothering to turn around and look at him
through the control room window. "I think it will be more distracting for our listeners when I pass out due
to oxygen deprivation."

"Don't be obtuse," he orders. "You know I mean don't breathe loudly. You're gasping into the mic every
time you read the script."

"That's because the jackwagon who wrote the script didn't test the length," I reply through gritted teeth.
"It's a forty-two second read that I only have thirty seconds to say."

"I wrote and tested it myself," he insists, repeating information I already know, as usual. "You should be
able to do it with a little extra effort."

"And a little less breathing," I retort.

"Precisely," he agrees smugly. Biting my tongue, I go back to making sure all my papers are in order for
the next segment. "Your commentary has been flat this morning, too. Try to be more enthusiastic for the
rest of the show."

Bristling even though he's right about that, I move my mouth so close to the mic that my lips brush the
wind screen. "Yes, sir," I snarl.

Emmett returns just in time to hear my comment. As he hands me a bottled water, he raises his
eyebrows questioningly, but I'm not willing to give Newton the satisfaction of watching me tattle on him.
Shaking my head, I laugh it off, betting that will piss Newton off even more.

At four minutes until nine, Seth finally says the words I've been waiting for. "We're clear. Good show,
guys."

Newton chimes in next. "I have an appointment, so we won't do a post-show meeting today. See you
Monday at five-thirty. Bella, be on time."

Swiveling my chair around, I glare at him through the window as I yank my IFB out roughly. In the seven
weeks I've been co-hosting this show, I have been late exactly once – arriving at five thirty-three on the
morning after my first date with Cullen.

Cullen.

Now that we're off the air, the emotions I've kept at bay for the last three hours rush back all at once,
draining the fight right out of me. I don't react to Newton's arrogant grin before lowering my gaze and
turning around again. I stand to unhook my battery pack, mumbling a thank you when Seth appears at
my side to collect my equipment.

Eager to shut myself in my office, I pick up my laptop bag and hurry into the hallway, avoiding Emmett's
curious stare. I hear him calling after me, but I don't stop.

"Bella Swan!" he says more forcefully. "Quit running away!"

The unintended double meaning of that phrase makes me falter, wrapping one arm across my churning
stomach as I stop in the middle of the hallway. But coming unglued in front of Emmett is unacceptable to
me, so I feign annoyance as I turn around and roll my eyes. "What?" I huff.

"What's wrong with you today?" he asks. He stops right in front of me, lowering his voice. "You're acting
weird."

Exhaling, I close my eyes for an instant to pull myself together before looking up at him again. "I'm sorry.
I know I didn't carry my weight on the show today."

"You were fine on-air, but your eyes are all droopy and sad," he says, frowning at me. "What's going
on?"

"I just didn't get much sleep last night," I hedge, forcing myself to smile. "I'm okay."

His eyes burn into mine, and I'm afraid that he sees the feelings I'm working so hard to conceal. Finally,
though, he relents, flashing his irresistible dimples at me. "All right," he grins. He slings his arm around
my shoulders as we resume walking up the hall toward our office space. "Want to grab lunch later?"

I agree, grateful that he let the subject drop without further interrogation, and then duck into my tiny
office. For the next two hours, I stare at the NFL stats displayed on my computer screen without really
absorbing anything. I wonder what Cullen's doing… I wonder what I'm doing. This isn't the first time I've
made a mess of my personal life; it's just the first time that I've immediately regretted it. But I'm not sure
that I can fix it. Besides having to deal with my own issues, I know I hurt him… and that's what I regret
most of all.

By the time Emmett knocks on my office door to see if I'm ready to go, I welcome the distraction. Twenty
minutes later, we settle on opposite sides of a booth at his favorite downtown sports bar. Despite my
lingering nausea, I eat half a burger while he entertains me with stories about his personal life. As I finish
my second beer, my guard is down – and I don't realize a sneak attack is coming until it's too late.

"Who is he, Bella?" Emmett leans forward, speaking quietly.

"Who is who?" I play dumb, but my pulse begins to race, making me feel lightheaded.

"The guy." His eyes dart back and forth between mine as I desperately try to concoct a believable cover
story. "In the past five years, I've seen you upset about work, about sports, even about your family. But
you've never acted like this. So it has to be a guy."

Recognizing that he's not going to drop the subject this time, I decide that being sort of honest is the
quickest way to defuse his curiosity.

"Yeah, it's a guy," I admit reluctantly, clamming up when the waitress comes to clear away our plates.
Emmett lifts his empty glass, and then points to mine, too, ordering us another round.

"Who is he?" he asks again when she walks away.

"I really don't want to talk about it," I sigh, lowering my eyes. I swallow the rising lump in my throat. "It just
didn't work out."

"That means it's someone I know," he presumes. Looking up, I force a chuckle and shake my head as
he sits back in the booth, tilting his head up toward the ceiling and mumbling under his breath. "Riley?
Nah. He'd never be able to keep it quiet. Seth's too young. Sam?"

He glances at me for confirmation or denial. "It's not Sam," I frown. "It's not–."

"Didn't think so. He's practically married to that chick he lives with," he interrupts. Amused, I watch him
pull out his phone, his lips moving as he reads through his contact list. When the waitress sets two full
glasses of beer on the table, I pick mine up and take a sip. Suddenly, Emmett's head snaps up. His eyes
are wide. His mouth hangs open for a second before his face scrunches up in disgust. "Jesus, Bella. It's
not fucking Newton, is it?"

"Newton? Newton? You think I would… with that jack... what the?" I sputter in horror, setting my glass
down loudly on the wooden table. In my peripheral vision, I see that people sitting at the tables near us
turn to look at me, but I don't care – and I don't lower my voice much as I continue. "No! No, no, no! How
could you even suggest that?"

"I don't know," he defends testily. "You two are always fighting and sometimes that kind of passion
bleeds over into another kind of passion."

"Give me a little credit, Emmett. Gross ." I shudder involuntarily at the thought of having a naked Newton
in my bed. Across the table, Emmett chugs half his beer.

"I know," he agrees, pulling the glass away and wiping his mouth. "I almost puked my whole lunch when I
thought it might be him."

"That's more information than I needed," I gripe, wrinkling my nose.

Taking another drink of my beer, I listen as Emmett switches topics, talking about what an ass Newton
was this morning, but my gaze drifts upward to the television hanging from the ceiling in the corner. It's
tuned to one of the local midday newscasts, and I watch dejectedly as they show footage of the
Seahawks boarding the charter plane to Chicago. The camera zooms in on Cullen and Whitlock, who
are walking side-by-side across the tarmac. Despite the dreary day outside, they're both wearing
sunglasses. I search the screen, looking for the "Live" designation, but when I realize that it's past
twelve-thirty, I assume this video was shot earlier. Cullen said they were leaving about noon.

"Don't you think?"

"Huh?" I ask, moving my eyes back to Emmett.

"Doesn't it suck that Newton is a pretty decent producer? Other than being a total douche in the
personality department, I mean. I don't think Kate and Charlotte would fire him just for being a dick."

"Oh, yeah. Totally sucks." Lifting my beer again, I drink it down, wishing it would cure the deep ache in
my chest. I never even called or texted Cullen before he left to tell him good luck. He told me he was
nervous to play in front of his hometown crowd, but anxious to see his granddad and Rosalie. I wonder if
he'll see Tanya this weekend, too.

Now I feel like puking my whole lunch.

"Bella," Emmett says softly, reaching across the table to grasp my arm, "if he was stupid enough to walk
away, then he's not worth it. You deserve better."

Dangerously close to tears, I have to close my eyes against the onslaught of emotion. I'm the stupid one
who walked away. I'm the one who's not worth it. And Cullen most definitely deserves better.

"I just need a couple of days to regroup. Then I'll be fine," I mumble, trying to convince both of us.

"You know what I think?" he asks, not answering until I open my eyes and shake my head. "I think we
should get so smashed that you don't even remember his name."

Since I don't have a better idea, since being numb sounds better than being heartbroken, I agree.

"Bella. Bella." I crack one eye open enough to see Emmett standing in my bedroom doorway, wrapping a
towel around his waist. "Wake up, sunshine."

"Oh, my God. Oh, God, God, God," I moan, rolling over in my bed. "Mother trucker."

Emmett chuckles quietly. "I had a feeling that last shot of tequila was gonna do this to you."

"There was tequila?" I mumble into my pillow. "I don't remember any tequila."

"We had tequila. And Monster bombs. And something called a purple hooter."

"Please shut up," I whine, causing him to chuckle again.

"I even taught you some of my best pickup lines. Have you forgotten those, too?" he asks, moving to sit
on the edge of my bed. I don't reply, but the answer is yes. I don't remember a lot of yesterday afternoon
or evening. I have a hazy memory of riding here in a cab with Emmett and telling him to sleep on my
couch instead of paying cab fare to his apartment several miles north of downtown. "I'm not drunk; I'm
just intoxicated by you. Are you from Tennessee? Because you're the only ten I see. Are your legs tired
from running through my dreams all night?"

"Ugh. Those are awful," I groan, laying my head sideways on the pillow so I can look at him.

"Then there's my favorite. My love for you is like diarrhea. I just can't hold it in," he laughs.

Despite my misery, I chuckle, too, until my head reminds me it's about to explode. "Holy crap. How come
you don't feel like this?"

"I outweigh you by seventy-five pounds, babe," he explains. "And I wasn't drowning my sorrows quite as
hard as you were, pining away for your mystery lover." Before I can stop it, a mournful groan escapes
my lips as the heartache grips my chest again. "Sorry, Swan. Guess I shouldn't have mentioned him."

"'S okay," I mutter, shutting my eyes against the pain. "Are you leaving?"

"Yep. Hot lunch date in an hour. Want to share a cab back to our cars?"

I say yes and drag my ass out of bed, walking to the closet to get clean clothes.

"When did you go to Chicago?" he questions. Whirling around to look at him, I see that he's taken
Cullen's Cubs hat from the doorknob and is studying it.

"During high school. With my dad," I answer. That's the truth; I just didn't get the hat then. That's not
what he asked, though. As I scoot past him on the way to the bathroom, I can't help noticing that his
towel has slipped dangerously low. "I'll be ready in five minutes. Please cover that up before I get back."

I hear him laughing behind me as I shut the door and lean back against it. Clutching my clean clothes, I
press my hands against my unsettled stomach.

"Cullen," I whisper, closing my eyes. "Cullen."

When I return from picking up my truck, I guzzle two glasses of water, and then flop down on the couch
to wallow in my hangover and heartbreak. Turning the television on to ESPN, I listen to college football
while I stare at the ceiling, moaning quietly. Eventually, I fall asleep and spend the next few hours dozing
off and on, but it's no great escape today. Each time I drift off, my dreams are more vivid… more
absurd… more full of Cullen.

At Cullen's favorite jazz club, we listen to a singer who looks like his mom. My dad and Sue are there,
too. The Chief is angry with us for not telling him that we ate all the apple pie. I start to say that we
didn't, but then notice that Edward smells like cinnamon and apples… and I have crumbs around my
mouth.

Rolling to face the back of the couch, I fleetingly muse that I must be hungry. I haven't eaten yet today.
Apple pie does kind of sound good. Warm apple pie. With vanilla ice cream on top. Sighing, I let my eyes
slide closed again.

I line up next to Edward on the field and take off running when the ball is snapped. I weave my way
through the defense untouched, and then turn to look for the ball, expecting to see it sailing through the
air. It's not. Stopping, I turn to look at Cullen, but the field behind me is empty.

Waking with a start, my heart pounds hard and fast in my chest. It doesn't take a genius to read between
the subliminal lines of that dream. My pulse doesn't return to normal for several minutes, and every time
I shut my eyes, I see the empty field, feel my stomach drop when I realize Cullen's gone.

Afraid of what I'll dream next, I keep my eyes open as long as I can, watching the end of the USC game.
But before long, the announcer's monotone voice soothes me back to sleep.

Sitting on Cullen's rooftop terrace, we face each other on the couch like we did on my birthday. The
conversation feels like an interview. I think I'm asking the questions, but the voice doesn't sound like
mine. Cullen's voice as he answers is smooth and perfect, as always.

He talks about his granddad as piano music plays in the background. He reminisces about college life
at Northwestern. He admits it was challenging to pack up and move from Phoenix to Seattle in two days
when he was unexpectedly traded.

"… it's been an incredible seven weeks, though."

Suddenly, my eyes pop open. I sit up straight and stare at Cullen on the television screen, surprised to
see that he's being interviewed on SportsCenter. He didn't mention it earlier in the week. Crap, he looks
good. Black, open-neck shirt. Unshaven jaw. Beautiful green eyes and long eyelashes.

That is what I walked – no, ran – away from. What kind of idiot does something like that?

Me, I answer, even though that was a rhetorical question. I'm the idiot… the idiot who's more scared of
being hurt than alone. More willing to push someone I care about away than let him in. I should have
worked on correcting that character flaw long before now.

Groaning, I lie down on my stomach and bury my face in the cushion. As I listen to him break down some
of his most pivotal plays so far this season, I hear the excitement in his voice. I can't bear to watch,
though; can't stand to see his face light up the way it does when he talks X's and O's. Not now. Not
knowing that I may never get to see it in person again.

When the reporter asks a series of questions about his weekly study routine and the amount of free time
he has, I have a feeling I know where he's headed. Cullen, the Communications major, likely does, too.

"Edward, earlier today, we asked viewers to submit questions for you on our website. A significant
portion of the responders wondered the same thing," he chuckles. "Are you single?"

Pushing myself up on my elbows, I turn my head toward the TV, bracing myself for his reply. Edward's
lips curl slightly into a crooked smirk, confirming that he realized he would be asked about his private
life. Even under the heavy makeup he's wearing for the high-definition camera, I see his cheeks darken.
Biting my lip, I breathe rapidly, waiting for his answer.

"Well… I'm not married."

Okay. That wasn't terrible. Honest yet vague. Cullen's been paying attention during media training.
Breathing easier, I sit up, propping my feet on the coffee table.

The interviewer sounds amused when he replies. "Your sister is laughing off-camera. Maybe she has
inside information."

"She probably thinks she does," Edward chuckles, pausing to look to his right.

The video cuts to a different camera, shooting Edward from his left side. From this angle, Rosalie is
visible, standing a few feet away and smiling widely. But she's not the one who captures my attention;
Tanya is standing beside her.

"What the hell?" I whisper, exhaling in a gust. Open-mouthed and frowning, I stare at her until the
camera angle switches and I'm looking at Edward from the front again. Stunned, I don't listen carefully to
the next question he's asked, but Cullen nods as he answers.

"Yeah, I've been looking forward to this week. I love Chicago. It's great to see my family, and I'm catching
up with a lot of old friends, too."

Obviously.

The pain that bursts in my chest pushes a few sobs out to accompany the tears that fill my eyes and spill
over. Pulling my knees to my chest, I wrap my arms around them and wipe my wet cheeks on the
scratchy denim of my jeans.

I wish I hadn't left the television on. I wish I hadn't seen the interview. I wish I had realized before this
instant that there's something I fear more than being hurt by Cullen: Losing him.

My catatonic stare remains locked on the screen as the interview wraps up. Smiling, Cullen says
something to the reporter as they shake hands. I don't hear a word of it. The SportsCenter host moves

on to the next story. I don't pay attention to it.

Instead, I stay frozen in place on the couch while my own private nightmare plays over and over again in
my head, ending the same way each time. I keep pushing Cullen away. He falls in love with someone
else. He kisses her. Wraps his arms around her. Smiles his crooked smile at her.

"I don't want it to be her," I choke, swallowing the lump in my throat. "I want it to be me."

Eager to talk to him, I want to call him… but I don't know what to say. I don't even know if he wants to
hear from me. He hasn't contacted me since I left the penthouse Thursday night. Sniffling, I pick up my
phone from the coffee table and send a text message to test the waters.

*Saw the interview. You were great. –B

Although I try not to get my hopes up, after several minutes pass with no incoming text, I worry that
communicating with him before the game was a bad idea. Maybe he's not ready to talk. Maybe he thinks
I'm screwing with his head. Maybe he's out with his family… or friends.

To torture myself, I watch Cullen's interview when it airs on SportsCenter again the next hour. He's a
natural in front of the camera, coming across as confident yet humble. That combination is as appealing
to me now as it was on the day I met him. For the second time tonight, I wait breathlessly when he's
asked about a relationship, and then endure the sight of Tanya standing nearby. This time, I pay
attention to the end of the interview, listening as he says his sister and her friend are taking him to meet
a large group of their old, college friends. I don't know exactly why that makes me feel better, but it does.

Once the interview is over, I turn off the TV and get my laptop, hoping to be productive. I spend some
time looking up college football scores and stats from the day, making notes for Monday's show. I clean
out my refrigerator. I order in Chinese food for dinner. I listen to the CD of jazz music Cullen made for me
a couple of weeks ago.

And I check my phone for messages every two minutes.

As the hours pass, I'm increasingly restless. I can't focus on work any longer. Nothing on TV holds my
attention. In my head, memories of Cullen mingle with visions of what will happen when he gets home.
My devoted heart has already decided what it wants, rapidly objecting to any scenario where I can't
repair the damage I've done. My rational brain, however, still doubts my ability to fully surrender to my
feelings.

Sue has played the part of counselor many times for me, but I don't want to consult her on this one. I
would feel sneaky asking her for advice about a relationship that my dad doesn't know exists. Picking up
my phone, I call the only other woman I trust to be completely truthful: my mom.

She's surprised to receive a call from me on a Saturday night, especially since we talked four days ago. I
can tell from her voice that she's immediately on alert, but she lets me ramble on about unimportant
subjects for a while before she gently pries the truth from me.

Once I begin talking about Edward, the whole story comes pouring out in a mostly-chronological
account. I don't tell her who he is – I don't want her to know that Dad knows him – but I tell her he's not
like anyone I've dated before. I relay my initial refusals, the dates and dinners and talking that followed
once I gave in. Then, finally, his declaration of love and my ensuing freak out.

When I finish, I hear her sigh into the phone, but she remains otherwise quiet for longer than I expect.

"Mom," I whine when she doesn't offer advice. "What should I do?"

"That depends. How do you feel about him?"

"I… um, I," I stammer, pausing to clear my throat. Since Thursday, I've thought it again and again, but I
haven't said it out loud. "I… love him."

"Honey, that's wonderful."

"No, Mom. You don't understand," I continue, unable to stop the verbal stream of emotions now that I've
cracked. "I'm completely undone by him. He's so perfect. There's literally not one thing wrong with him.
He's chivalrous and old-fashioned in some ways, but also supportive of my career. He's sure of himself
and his feelings. He's sweet… smart… gorgeous. His bottom teeth are even straight! How am I
supposed to resist him?"

"You're not supposed to," she answers with a quiet chuckle. "You're supposed to do the same thing
everyone else does when they fall in love: Give him your heart and damn the consequences."

"It's too scary. Too fast. It's been such a whirlwind."

"It always is when you fall in love."

"But what if it doesn't work out?"

"What if it does?" she snaps back. "What if you two spend the rest of your lives making each other
happy?"

"I'm scared of that, too!" I confess. When my mom laughs, I can't help joining in. I know I sound
ridiculous. As our laughter dies down, I whisper the questions I most want answered. "Do you regret
falling for Dad? Regret following him from place to place for his playing and coaching career?"

"Not for a single moment," she answers firmly. "How could I? We got you."

"But it didn't last."

"True. All relationships hit rough patches, and your dad and I weren't very good at fighting our way
through them." Her voice is quiet, and she pauses for several seconds, letting her words sink in. When
she continues, her tone is firmer, her voice stronger. "You can't use us as your excuse forever, though.
For years, I've watched you try to avoid being hurt by keeping people at arm's length or running away
completely. But if you love this man enough to stay and fight when things get shitty, then I think it's time
for you to run toward something instead."

"I want to, Mom," I insist, sniffling as tears gather in my eyes for the four hundredth time in the last two
days. I'm so annoyed by all the crying, but I can't seem to control it. "It could be too late, though. He
might not love me anymore."

"You think he loved you two days ago but not now?" she quizzes. Although she tries to cover with a
cough, I hear her chuckle. "Have a little faith in him, Bella. And in yourself."

"I'm working on it."

"Good. Now, tell me when I'm going to meet this young man."

We stay on the phone for another half hour while I tell her more about him. She continues to encourage
me, urging me to take a chance. Phil gets on the line to talk sports and make me laugh. By the time we
hang up, my head and heart are in complete agreement. I know what I want, and I know what I'm willing
to do to get it.

Unfortunately, I still haven't heard from Cullen. Tired of worrying about it, I head for the shower,
surrounding myself with hot water and steam until my fingers are wrinkly and my pale skin is bright red.
As I'm stepping out onto the bath mat, I hear a faint noise from the other room – the sound I've been
hoping to hear for the last five hours: Cullen's text chime.

"Oh, my God. Oh, my God," I mutter, not bothering to dry off before I race into the living room, dripping
water all over the hardwood floor in my wake. Grabbing my phone, I hold it in one hand while holding my
towel together with the other.

*Hey. I wasn't sure you'd watch. –E

Relieved, I collapse onto the couch and type a response with shaking hands.

*I did. Twice. How's Chicago? –B

*Rainy and chilly. Like Seattle. –E

*It was warm and sunny today. –B

*Figures. Soon as I'm gone, it's nice there. –E

*We were just waiting for you to leave town. Haha. –B

When a couple of minutes go by without an answer, I assume he's done for tonight. Just as I'm setting
my phone down, it chimes again in my hand.

*Sorry. I was kicking Whitlock out of my room. But I gotta get to bed. –E

*Okay. Good luck tomorrow. –B

*Thanks. Goodnight. –E

*Night. –B

Feeling strangely buoyed by our insignificant text conversation, I stare at my phone screen until it dims,
and then turns black. By the time I fall asleep an hour later, I'm smiling. I not only have hope… I also
have a plan.

Sunday afternoon, I watch the game alone in my apartment. It's still raining in Chicago, which contributes
to the sloppy first half play of the Seahawks offense. Players are sliding and falling on the muddy field
and several of them have trouble hanging on to the wet, slippery ball. Edward is obviously pissed off on
the sidelines when the Seahawks trail by ten points in the third quarter. The camera zooms in several
times on his beautiful, angry face as he studies the photos of the previous drive.

The Seahawks defense scores on a pick six and the point-after is good, but we're still down by three with
less than five minutes to go. On the final drive of the game, Edward scrambles for two first downs,
determined to keep the ball moving toward the end zone. With under a minute left, he connects with
Whitlock for the go-ahead touchdown. The Bears aren't able to score on their final opportunity, and I
breathe a sigh of relief when I see Edward smiling on the sidelines as time runs out.

As the afternoon drags on, I call Emmett and Newton and tell them I'm taking tomorrow off. Emmett
quizzes me to make sure I'm not depressed, but he ends our conversation by telling me to enjoy my day,
so I guess I passed his mental evaluation. Newton isn't so nice, accusing me of leaving him in the lurch
by only giving him fourteen hours to find a fill-in host. Whatever. I tell him to kiss my ass, and then hang
up. Well, I tell him I'll be there Tuesday and hang up, but the kiss my ass was definitely implied.

Next, I call Sue to check in. While we're talking, I fish around enough to get a pretty good idea what time
the Seahawks charter is due to land. As the clock approaches that time, I drive to Edward's building and
let myself into the underground parking garage. I pull into a spot across the aisle from his, so when he
parks in his assigned space, he'll be facing the back of my truck. I get out and walk around the bed,
lowering the tailgate and boosting myself up to sit on it, staring at his empty space.

Then I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Ninety minutes later, I'm lying flat in the bed of my truck, playing a game on my rapidly dying phone. I
don't have any service down here, so I can't text or call anyone to make sure the plane got back on time.
Sighing, I set my phone down beside me and stare at the fluorescent light above my head until I see
spots. I close my eyes, watching brilliant colors erupt behind my eyelids and wondering where Cullen is.

Since the Seahawks have a bye next weekend, the players will have the next five days off. Cullen could
have gone out for drinks with some teammates. Whitlock is his best friend on the team, and he's no
stranger to the Seattle club circuit. Or Cullen could have decided to stay in Chicago for a couple of
days.

Discouraged by that idea, I contemplate giving up for the night and heading home. When I hear the
squeak of turning tires on the smooth concrete floor mere seconds later, I quickly sit up and look
around. The nervous anticipation that slowly diminished while I was waiting returns at once when I see
his gray SUV approaching. Taking a deep breath, I hop down from my tailgate and move a few steps
forward, lifting one hand to shield my eyes from his headlights as he parks in front of me. Immediately,
he kills the lights and turns off the engine.

Stuffing my hands in my front pockets, I bite my lower lip, but quickly let it go, trying to look braver than I
feel. He never takes his eyes off me as he gets out and shuts the door.

"Hey," I say, smiling slightly at him.

"Hey."

He walks forward to the front fender of his car, and then stops to lean against it, leaving about ten feet
of empty space between us. Unable to read the expression on his face, I swallow uncomfortably as he
crosses his arms over his chest. Terrified, but this time afraid that he'll be the one running away, I
struggle to breathe normally. My heart pounds so loudly in my ears that it almost drowns out my voice
when I speak again.

"Can I talk to you?"

Watching him closely, I see the slight, amused frown that momentarily draws his brows together, and
then his face relaxes as his lips curve into my favorite, crooked smile. When he replies, he mimics the
answer I gave to the same question on the night we first had dinner together, right down to the teasing
tone. And he delivers the line with perfect, comedic timing.

"I don't know, Swan. Can you?"

My relieved laughter mixes with his quiet chuckle, echoing through the garage. He pushes off his car
and takes one step forward, which I hope is an invitation because I'm already running toward him… and
it's easier than I ever imagined.

A/N: Thanks for reading! Please review.

*Chapter 11*: Undefended Receiver

A/N: I feel like a broken record. Long wait for update. Blah blah blah. I feel really bad. Blah
blah blah. I never think it will take this long. Blah blah blah. It's true, though. I have no excuse
except that my job is completely bananas and I can't seem to shake the stress when I actually
have time to write. I'm hoping and praying - after almost crying at work yesterday, which
scared the bejeezus out of my boss because I am soooo not a crier - that the pressure will
lessen soon. And I threatened to turn in my bar tab as a medically necessary health insurance
expense. I think he got my point.

Big thanks to my great friend Littlecat358 for doing double duty as beta and therapist. And to
M ichelle0526 for prereading and making me laugh... and inspiring a little of this chap with a
story she told me long, long ago. Love you both!

I truly appreciate anyone who's stuck around to read - thank you! Please review.

Racing toward Cullen, I watch as he takes two more steps forward, and then I'm there… in his arms,
against his chest, off the ground.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," I breathe, wrapping my arms tightly around his shoulders as he lifts me up.

"For hitting me like a linebacker?"

"No, I did that on purpose," I say, smiling as laughter vibrates through his chest.

"Then I'm lucky you didn't have enough room to build up speed, legs. You'd have knocked me on my
unimpressive ass."

None of that last sentence is true: Despite my assertion on the radio seven weeks ago, he has a great
ass, and he didn't even stumble backward when I launched myself at him. At the moment, though, I don't
really want to debate either of those facts. Clinging to him, I sigh contentedly.

"I thought you'd never get here."

His arms tighten around my waist, his fingers pressing lightly into my flesh. When he speaks, his voice is
low, his breath warm against my ear. "I've been sitting in the hall outside your apartment for an hour."

"You have?" I gasp, arching back to look at him. "What were you doing?"

"Waiting for you," he replies. Setting me down gently, he lifts his hands to cup the sides of my neck. "I
owe you an apology. I shouldn't have yelled at you Thursday night. It's okay if you're not at the same
place that I am in this relationship."

"You were right, though. About everything," I interject. Reaching up to grip his forearms, I keep my gaze
locked with his; for once hoping that he'll be able to easily read the emotion in my eyes. "When you
said… what you said, I freaked out."

"I knew you would." At my puzzled look, he smiles slightly. "Bella, do you think I'd say I'm in love with you
and not know you that well? But in my defense, I assumed you'd make a smartass remark or change the
subject, not bolt from the apartment like it was on fire."

Although my stomach lurches when he uses the L-word again, it only takes a second to push aside the
fear – it only takes remembering the hurt look on his face when I left… the pain of the last two days
spent without him. Yesterday, I swore that I would stop being so wrapped up in my own worries and start
giving him what he needs. And right now I think he needs to hear the stuff I've been too terrified to say.

"I promise I'll get better at this, Cullen."

He lowers his mouth to mine, barely letting me finish my sentence. The rest of my speech is forgotten as
I kiss him back eagerly, moving my lips with his… against his. After a minute, I pull away to look at him,
breathing shallowly.

"What's wrong?" he asks, frowning.

"I'm not done talking."

"You can finish later."

The ironic humor of this role reversal isn't lost on me, but those thoughts are pushed aside as he shifts
one hand to the back of my head, holding me in place as he presses his lips to mine once more. Desire
blooms in my blood when his tongue sweeps into my mouth, gliding smoothly along mine. Humming my
satisfaction, I raise up on my tiptoes, pushing myself closer to him and curling my fingers around the
nape of his neck.

When another car approaches, we break apart to glance toward it, and then move out of the way. The
older couple inside looks curiously at us as they drive past, parking in a space at the far end of the
aisle. Once we're standing beside Edward's SUV, he hugs me tightly, bending down to bury his face in
the crook of my neck.

"Come upstairs with me?" he murmurs, his lips tickling my skin. "You have to get up for work in six
hours."

"Huh uh," I answer, rushing to explain when I feel his body stiffen. "I mean, I took tomorrow off. I can
sleep in."

He lifts his head slowly, his vivid, green gaze holding mine. "Here?"

"If you'll have me," I reply quietly. Still afraid to believe I'm forgiven, I don't think about the way I said it
until he arches one eyebrow and grins crookedly. Slightly embarrassed, I roll my eyes. "I didn't mean it
that way."

"Don't back down now, Swan. I'll accept your condition," he teases.

We're both smiling as we kiss again, and then he pulls me with him to the back of the car, opening the lift
gate to get his bags. After slinging a backpack over his shoulder, he sets his wheeled suitcase on the
ground and asks me to pull it while he carries a large, cardboard box. We ride the elevator upstairs with
the couple whose arrival interrupted our brightly-lit, underground garage make out session, trapping us
in a somewhat uncomfortable silence until they exit on the floor below Edward's.

"What's in the box?" I ask once we're moving up again.

"My childhood," he cracks, smirking at me. When the elevator doors open again, I step into the marble
hallway outside the penthouse and lead the way through the open double doors. "Granddad packed up
the stuff I never took from my parents' house. I don't really know what it is – probably just junk."

Inside, I flip the lights on and stop beside the entry table to set my keys down and pull my vibrating
phone from my pocket. Several text messages and missed calls from Cullen have popped up on the
screen now that I'm above-ground. While I'm reading them, he walks by, turning toward the kitchen.

"I wasn't ignoring you," I call, answering his final text out loud. I put the phone down and follow him to the
other room. "I didn't have cell service in the garage."

"I figured. After sitting outside your door for an hour, I deduced you were either avoiding me or you were
over here," he replies as I reach the kitchen. The box is on the table and Cullen is trying to use his car
key to slice through the layers of tape sealing the top. Muttering under his breath, he drops the keys to
the table in defeat when they won't cut through.

I veer toward the counter, grabbing a knife from the block and a beer from the fridge. He smiles as I
hand him the knife, and I return the gesture while I twist the top off the beer. Once the box is open, he
drinks part of the beer before handing the bottle back to me. I watch with interest while he pulls items
from the box, setting each one carefully on the table. Little League participation medals are first, then a
sports scrapbook he says his grandmother made, followed by several trophies – fifth grade science fair
runner-up, first place team in the Pee Wee football league.

"You bowled competitively?" I pick up one of the gold figure-topped awards.

"It was something to do during the offseason in high school," he shrugs, turning to look at me. "Plus, it
was a good way to meet girls."

"I can't imagine that was difficult for you," I remark sardonically, shaking my head.

"I was a skinny kid who talked about football and listened to classic jazz," he explains as his face
reddens. "I wasn't exactly fighting girls off."

"Well, the tide's turned on that, Cullen," I observe, nudging him with my elbow. "You heard how all those
women wanted to know if you're available."

"I'm not." He leans down to kiss me, but pulls back just before our lips meet. "Right?"

"Right," I laugh, kissing him twice. He goes back to digging through the box and I sit down, sipping the
beer and watching the pile of items on the table grow: a signed football; his framed high school diploma;
a stack of photos he flips through and then sets down. "Congratulations on the win today. You played
great. The network commentators named your fourth quarter performance the best QB work of the day."

Although I expect him to be pleased by the compliment, he isn't. I'm surprised to see a frown settle on his
face, his clenched jaw betraying how upset he is. Afraid he's angry at me, I reach for his arm and
squeeze the tensed muscles. He doesn't shrug me off, but he doesn't protest when I let my hand fall
away either. He pulls a white football jersey from the box, holds it up long enough for me to see the word
"Knights" printed across the front, and tosses it to the side.

"I really didn't want to fucking lose today," he says tersely as he turns the box on its side. A gray blanket
tumbles out, leaving the box empty. Taking the beer from me, he drinks the rest of it before he speaks. "I
had dinner at my parents' house last night."

"How did that go?" Judging by his demeanor, I can probably guess the answer, but I hope that telling me
about it will help him deal with what's bothering him.

Chuckling humorlessly, he sets the bottle down, then grips the back of the chair next to me and bows his
head. "It went the same way everything with Carlisle and Esme goes. They talked about themselves for
the most part, but managed to work in a few insults regarding my choice of career. Just a typical Cullen
family dinner."

"Edward, I'm so sorry." I struggle not to say what I really think of his crappy parents as I cover one of his
hands with mine. Sighing, he turns his over, lacing our fingers together.

"I always want to win, but today I felt like I had something to prove to them." The dejection in his voice
makes my heart ache and I rub my thumb along his, encouraging him to keep talking. "They came to the
game, and as stupid as it sounds, I wanted them to see – to have to admit – that I'm good at my job."

"You are good at your job," I whisper around the lump forming in my throat.

He shrugs, feigning indifference, but he grips my hand tightly. "I didn't even see them today. They didn't
come down after the game with Granddad and Rosalie. It's like they have nothing to say to me."

"Baby," I croak, standing up to wrap my arms around him. The hurt in his voice makes me want to cry,
but I control my emotions, concentrating on him. I rub his back soothingly and press kisses against his

shoulder while we stand in place for a few minutes. When he finally loosens his hold and starts to pull
away, I place my hand against his face, but he doesn't look me in the eye.

"Bella, I just… I need a minute, okay?" His voice is gruff and he doesn't say anything else after I agree
and let him go. He lifts the gray blanket from the table, tucking it under his arm as he walks toward the
darkened living room.

Once he's gone, I decide to straighten up while I wait. I flatten the box and put it and the empty beer
bottle in the recycling bin. After putting the knife he used in the sink, I move back to the table and thumb
through the stack of pictures. Although I make a snotty face when I see Tanya in one of the photos,
looking at her doesn't incite the surge of jealousy it did just yesterday.

I pick up the trophies one by one and use the hem of my t-shirt to polish them. Then I flip through
Cullen's scrapbook, reading most of the pages and smiling at the handwritten stats his grandmother
kept of his high school games. Tracing my index finger over the words and numbers written neatly on
notebook paper, I smile sadly, wishing I could have met her… and loving her for loving him so deeply.

Teary-eyed, I close the book and walk to the doorway into the living room, hoping I've given him enough
time. I'm determined to tell him how I feel, and now I think I need to say it as badly as he needs to hear it.
The room is still dim, the only light spilling in from the kitchen and entryway. Edward is sitting on the
couch with his eyes closed.

"Cullen?"

"Hmm." His answer is hardly more than a grunt.

"I have things to say to you," I declare quietly, differentiating myself from his parents. Although my
stomach somersaults nervously, I keep talking. "Things I should have said before tonight."

"Okay."

His reply isn't enthusiastic, but I'm undeterred now that I've gathered my courage. I decide to begin with
something that I think will amuse him.

"The reason my fantasy team sucks this year is because our draft was held during the last preseason
game – your first game as a Seahawk. I wasn't paying attention to the draft; I was staring at the big
screen… watching you." I see a smile pull at the corners of his mouth, but he doesn't move in any other
way. "And I didn't choose any players based on how they look in the tight, white pants."

His chuckle is muted and short-lived, but it's enough to spur me on. I walk into the room, stopping behind
the chair next to the couch.

"Every time you get out of bed during the night, I switch our pillows," I confess.

"I know," he responds. Turning his head my way, he opens his eyes. "My pillow always smells like you
when I get back."

"That's why I take yours – so I can smell you." Under his heated gaze, my pulse picks up speed; my
hands itch to touch him. Moving around the chair, I walk toward him. "Everything you've said during the
last few weeks is true for me, too."

Eyeing me curiously as I approach, he shoves the gray blanket off of his lap. When he holds a hand out
to me, I take it, placing my other hand on his opposite shoulder to steady myself as I sit down, straddling
him.

"I've never wanted to know anyone as much as I want to know you."

"You do know me," he insists.

"Shhh. I'm not done," I order, pressing two fingers against his mouth to hush him. I smile when he briefly

puckers his lips under my touch. "You're important to me. You've changed my life – changed the way I
see everything."

"You've changed the way I see everything, too," he says, pulling my hand away from his lips.

"Cullen, are you going to keep interrupting?" I huff, teasing… mostly. "It's not easy for me to talk about
my feelings, you know."

"And I can't shut up about mine," he retorts.

"I know. We're quite a team," I quip, rolling my eyes.

"I still think we're a good team," he declares softly, squeezing my hands.

"I do, too." When he grins crookedly at me, I smile back immediately, my heart fluttering in my chest.
Clutching his hands, I pull them with mine to rest against the top of the couch on either side of his head.
"I missed you."

Leaning forward, I press my lips to the middle of his forehead, and then slide the tip of my nose along
the bridge of his. He tilts his head back, aiming for my mouth, and I really want to kiss him… but I know
where that will lead. I have things to say to him first.

"I'm crazy about you," I murmur against the corner of his mouth. I let my lips linger teasingly there just
until he starts to turn toward them, and then dip my head to kiss along his jaw.

"Back atcha, legs," he mumbles, groaning as I shift my mouth to his neck and suck lightly. He shifts our
joined hands higher, but he doesn't try to pull away, seemingly content to let me hold him immobile for
now.

"You're the best thing that ever walked ass-first into my life."

"Newton made me," he reveals with a chuckle. "He said it would be funnier."

"Son of a buck. The idiot finally had a good idea," I mutter, smiling when he laughs again. Skimming my
mouth upward, I bite his earlobe gently. "To be clear, even among those who have walked face-first into
my life, you're still the best."

"So, it's an absolute value?"

"Absolutely." Sitting up partway, I tighten my grip on his hands and look him in the eyes. He's still
grinning slightly, a leftover from his laughter, and I'm so sure about what I'm going to say that I'm not
feeling queasy at all anymore. "It's hard for me to trust people. But I trust you, Edward… I trust this."

Resting my face against his, I use my lips to pluck lightly at his. "I love you."

He moves so quickly, pulling his hands away from mine and lifting me off him, that I don't have a chance
to react. In an instant, I'm flat on my back with Cullen hovering above me, propping his weight on one
arm. He raises his other hand to my neck, sliding his thumb across my cheek.

"Are you only saying it because I did?" he asks.

"No," I whisper, shifting my legs farther apart so he can settle between them.

"Are you saying it just to make me feel better?"

"Huh uh." I shake my head slightly.

"Are you going to freak out if I say it back?"

"I don't know," I answer honestly. "I can't promise that I won't… but I promise that I won't run."

Slowly, he closes the distance between us, letting some of his weight rest on me. In the seconds before
our lips meet, I can hardly breathe. My senses are heightened – I hear the crinkle of the leather
underneath me as we adjust positions. His eyes are serious but shining, and they never move from
mine. Needing to touch his warm skin, I wrap my arms around his waist and pull his dress shirt and
undershirt from the waistband of his pants, and then slide my hands inside to explore his lower back.
The scent that is him fills me, and when he finally kisses me, his mouth moving slowly, the taste of him is
the same… but everything is different.

Although it's illogical since he's lying on top of me, my chest feels lighter. Now that I've told him how I
feel, I can also admit to myself that the warmth rushing through my veins isn't only lust. And as his lips
change, becoming harder and more demanding, I feel connected to him on an emotional level that I
haven't been before.

My eyes pop open when he pulls his mouth away, but slide closed again in pleasure when he traces his
tongue all the way down my neck.

"Bella?"

"What?" I pant, tilting my head to give him more space.

"I love you," he murmurs. Working his way down a little further, he pulls aside the neck of my t-shirt to
kiss along my collarbone. "Are you freaking out?"

"I can't really think right now," I breathe.

"Good. Then my plan's working," he brags, pushing up to look at me. Trying to catch my breath, I blink
slowly at him. "From now on, when I tell you something that I think will make you panic, I'm gonna distract
you first."

I narrow my eyes at him, intending to look annoyed. But he's smirking – and he's so cute and so happy
that I can't pull it off. Letting my lips curl into a smile, I nod at him. "Yeah. That's probably going to work."

When he presses his lips to mine again, the kiss intensifies immediately. As our lips and tongues move
together, I scratch my nails lightly across his back, pleased when he groans into my mouth. Angling his
hips downward, he pushes against me, rocking gently.

"God, Cullen," I gasp, wrenching my mouth away.

He moves down… down… lifting my shirt out of the way to close his mouth over my breast. His tongue
scrapes across my nipple, wetting the lace of my bra, and I arch my back, wanting more. Wanting him.
He obliges, sucking rhythmically, and I buck underneath him, crying out softly in pleasure – then hissing
in pain.

"Ouch," I whisper, jerking my right foot free of the spot where Cullen's leg suddenly pins it against the
back of the couch.

With nowhere to put my foot except on him, I bend my knees, raising both legs as I flex my toes
repeatedly, trying to wiggle out of my flats. Finally, I succeed in kicking them off, and they drop to the
couch. I hear a quiet thump as one bounces onto the floor.

"Ouch," he echoes, mumbling against my chest. "What are you doing, Swan?"

"Sorry. Tried to miss you," I lie, wrapping my legs around him. Lifting his head, he meets my gaze and
quirks a disbelieving eyebrow at me. "Okay, I didn't. But I couldn't do this with shoes on."

I plant my feet on the backs of his thighs and tilt my hips up toward his. Inhaling sharply, he leans down
to kiss me as we move together. After several moments, he stops the motion of his lower body and
reaches between us to unbutton his shirt. Breathing hard, I open my eyes to find him staring at me,
desire evident in his gaze. When he sits back on his knees, I follow him, pushing the material of his t-

shirt up and kissing across his chest while he tosses both of his shirts to the floor.

"Bella. Jesus," he says hoarsely, digging one hand into my hair.

I let my mouth linger over his pounding heart. I told him I love him, but I want him to feel it… in the way
my lips glide along his skin, the way my fingers gently trace the muscular ridges of his back. Before long,
though, he peels my shirt and bra off, and then stands, sweeping the gray blanket and my forgotten
second shoe to the floor. Lying down, I frantically strip my jeans off, finishing just as Cullen steps out of
his pants.

Reaching for him, I sigh as he stretches out between my legs and we're skin-to-skin, but my relief is
short-lived. His hands and lips tease and retreat, driving me close to the edge twice, and then slowing to
draw me back until I'm desperate for release.

"Cullen." My quiet entreaty is half whisper, half moan when he pushes into me.

Against my lips, he mumbles my name. He moves unhurriedly, providing the sweet torture he knows I
like. I try to keep my eyes open, my gaze locked with his, but as the tension builds, I close them, turning
my face away to breathe cooler air… and pleading with him to speed up. He gives in, plunging into me
forcefully until I cry out, arching my back as pleasure bursts through me in waves. Without giving me a
chance to recover, he moves even faster, sliding his arms under my shoulders and exhaling into my
neck. After several more thrusts, he groans and presses all the way inside me, holding still as he comes.

He lifts his head to kiss me, and then lies down again, resting his weight on me. My arms feel so weak
that I'm tempted to let them fall to the couch, but I can't bear to let go of him. So I keep my arms wound
around his neck, trailing my fingertips along his damp skin. I smile when he shivers, but neither of us
speaks as we lie in place, letting our heartbeats slow and our skin cool. Eventually, we shift to lie on our
sides, facing each other. Sliding his foot up my calf, he tangles his leg with mine.

"Are you cold?" he asks, noticing the goose bumps covering my leg.

"A little," I answer. Leaning over me, he grabs the gray blanket from the floor and shakes it to unfold it. I
help spread the blanket over us, and then brush my hand across the embroidery in the center of it.
Raising up to glance at it, I chuckle when I realize what it is.

"Our sex blankie is a Cubs blankie?"

"This is my lucky Cubs blanket," he explains, frowning slightly at me when I lie down again. "I took it to
the home opener every spring for ten years, hoping it would bring the boys good luck."

"And did it?"

"Thirty percent of the time, yes," he insists, laughing with me. Placing my palm against his face, I stroke
my thumb lightly across his cheek. "What do you want to do tomorrow?"

"I want to sleep late and stay in bed with my boyfriend," I sigh. "Do you realize we've never been able to
stay in bed past eight o'clock?"

"Well, if you didn't have that crack of dawn job," he teases.

"And if you didn't have that weekend job," I counter, scooting closer to kiss him.

"Legs… do you have to go back to work this week?"

Pulling back a little, I look at him to see if he's serious; he is. "I guess not. Why?"

"Let's get out of town for a few days," he says.

"Really?" I grin, starting to get excited.

"Really."

Knowing this will be our only opportunity for uninterrupted time off together until the football season is
over, I quickly agree. Oh, who am I kidding? I would have agreed under any circumstances. After a quick
discussion about when and where, we agree to leave Tuesday afternoon – he has a meeting with Coach
Erickson that morning – and head for somewhere quiet, near the beach. Still lying intertwined under the
blanket, we search for places on his phone and find a small town a little over a hundred miles from
Seattle. Reluctantly, he agrees we should make the reservation under my name, and soon our three-
night stay in a seaside cottage is booked.

"Where are you going?" he asks when I sit up.

"Bathroom and bed," I answer, pulling his t-shirt on before I stand up. "Are you coming?"

"Yeah. I'll be there in a minute."

As I walk away, I pause and turn to look back at him. He's smiling, resting his head on his bent arm. His
gaze drops from my face, scanning down my body, and I allow mine to do the same. I study the hair
scattered across his chest and stomach, the outline of his hips and long legs beneath his ridiculous
Cubs blanket, and the bare foot sticking out the bottom. Biting my lip, I focus on his torso again as I feel
my heart speed up, hear myself breathing rapidly. When he clears his throat, I snap my eyes to his face
to find him smirking, clearly aware of the effect he has on me.

Well, two can play at that game. Lifting one eyebrow at him, I take three steps backward before I turn,
heading for the hallway.

"Bring the lucky sex blankie with you."

"It's a lucky Cubs blanket," he calls.

"Cullen, if you're under it with me, the odds that you'll get lucky are a lot higher than thirty percent."

Immediately, I hear the rustle of fabric, followed by the sound of his footsteps on the hardwood floor. "In
that case, I'm officially renaming the blanket," he announces as I laugh. "And you'd better hurry, legs. I'm
right behind you."

"Bella, you need more coffee?" Seth's voice in my earpiece interrupts me mid-yawn during the first
bottom of the hour break Tuesday morning. Swiveling my chair around, I nod at him through the control
room window. He smiles and disappears through the door.

Cullen and I aren't leaving for the shore until noon today, so I decided to work, feeling guilty for taking a
whole week off. But it's a decision I've regretted for the last two and a half hours, ever since the alarm
went off at four – three hours after Cullen and I finally went to sleep.

When I turn around again, Emmett is shoving the last bite of a donut into his mouth.

"I gotta say, Swan, you look better than I thought you would," he remarks as he chews. Because I'm
used to listening to Emmett talk with his mouth full during breaks, I don't have trouble understanding him,
even though every word he said was unintelligible. "I mean, compared to Saturday, you don't look nearly
as shitty today."

"Was there a compliment somewhere in that garbled speech?" I ask, covering my mouth as I yawn for at
least the twentieth time this morning.

He nods as he swallows. "Yep," he confirms. "I'm glad you're bouncing back. I expected you to be sad
and shit after what you said Friday… about him, I mean."

"What did I say?" Frowning, I try to recall what he could be referring to, but my memory of our drunken

afternoon and evening is only a hazy blur. I'm not nervous, though; if I had even whispered Cullen's
name as part of my monologue, Emmett would have been all over my ass with questions long before
now.

Dimples on full-grin display, he rolls his chair over beside me, rests his head on my shoulder and
whimpers quietly. "Emmett," he whines in what, annoyingly, is a pretty good imitation of me, "I don't know
how to get over him. He wasn't just a guy. He was the guy."

"Well, you know I'm melodramatic when I drink too much," I chuckle, shoving his chair away. I've never
been more grateful that my statement is actually true – and that Emmett has witnessed it before.
"Thanks for taking care of me."

"No big deal." Glancing at my monitor, I check the break countdown clock. We're on again in ninety
seconds. "I think the days off this week will be good for you. You look beat."

On cue, I yawn again. "Didn't sleep much last night."

"That sucks. I hate lying in bed, just staring at the ceiling."

"Me, too," I agree, speaking honestly again… but that's not what I was doing when I wasn't sleeping last
night. I was staring up at Cullen, down at Cullen – and once, over my shoulder at Cullen. Reaching up, I
scrub my hands across my face to hide my burgeoning smile.

"Bella, since you won't be here for the rest of the week, please attempt to participate in the show today,"
Newton barks. "Your contribution so far this morning has consisted of unimaginative commentary and
agreeing with Emmett about everything."

Any danger of looking too happy was wiped out the second his nasal voice sounded in my ear through
the IFB. Dropping my hands, I twist around to stare icily at him. Typically, he doesn't have the guts to
meet my gaze, keeping his eyes on the sound board, and then leaving the control room as he mumbles
to himself.

"Ignore him. He's just irritated that we had almost as many calls yesterday wondering where you were as
we did about the Seahawks' win," Emmett whispers.

"No, he's just a douchebag." Seth opens the studio door and walks in, handing me a fresh cup of coffee.
Bowing my head, I blow on the hot liquid. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," he replies, patting my shoulder. I expect him to leave, but he hovers in place until I
look up at him. "I'm glad you're okay, Bella. I heard what happened with the break–."

"Whoa, dude!" Emmett interjects. "That was supposed to be on the down low."

"Thanks, Seth. I'm fine," I assure him before leveling my glare at Emmett. "Who else did you blab to, big
mouth?"

"Just Newton. And Riley," he admits sheepishly. "And I mentioned it to Kate."

"You told Newton?" I hiss, wide-eyed. Wisely, Seth backs out of the room the way he came.

"Newton was banging on you for not being here yesterday. I had to defend you," he shrugs as if that
excuses his behavior… and maybe it does, at least a little. "Riley was filling in for you, so he heard…
and so did Seth. I told Kate because Newton kept saying you were unreliable and I was worried he'd go
talk to her about you."

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, and then move closer to Emmett, holding my hand in front of his
mic.

"One, never – ever – use the words 'Newton', 'banging' and 'you' in the same sentence. Two, Kate
knows I'm a dependable employee. I haven't taken a day off since May," I whisper harshly. I soften my

tone a little when I continue. "Three… thanks for sticking up for me, but keep your trap shut about my
personal life from now on."

"Okay," he concedes, grinning at me again as I scoot back to my spot. "We're on in fifteen seconds. Still
friends?"

Sipping my hot, bitter coffee, I bump my fist against the one Emmett holds toward me. "Still friends," I
answer, nodding at him.

"Good. You are leaving me during the worst week, though," he complains. "With the Mariners out of the
playoffs and the Seahawks off for the bye, I have no idea what I'm gonna talk about all week."

"You'll be fine. You've got college football and the World Series," I observe, listening to the music as we
come back from break. "And if you really get desperate, just make fun of Newton's wardrobe."

Emmett's laughing too hard to read the lead-in, so I do it, giving him an extra ten seconds to get himself
together. Once he chimes in to do the recap of last night's Monday Night Football game, I turn around to
peek at Newton, internally rejoicing when I see the scowl on his face. I knew he'd hear what I said, and
he can probably guess what Emmett and I were whispering about earlier, too.

Good. I want him to realize that I know what he's up to. If he wants me off his morning show, he's going to
have to do more than just tattle to Kate about me taking a few days off.

Game on, jackwagon.

"Cullen, it's perfect," I proclaim as we enter the cottage several hours later.

"It's tiny," he says, looking around. He drops our bags at the bottom of the narrow stairs leading to the
loft and grabs me, pulling me close. "And perfect."

I kiss him, but bat his roaming hands away. "Oh, no," I laugh. "I need a break and we need groceries."

We unpack first, and then walk the two blocks to the market, following the directions the innkeeper gave
us when we checked in.

"Should we split up?" he asks as we walk through the automatic doors. "I could take half the list."

"Okay." Smiling at him, I tear off part of the list we made during the drive from Seattle and hand it to him,
then push my cart toward the produce section.

"Try not to knock down any food displays today, legs," he jokes, bumping my cart with his.

I feel my face heat. "I only did that because I was trying to get away from you."

"Baby, you know you can't get away." He winks before heading to the other side of the store, and I sigh,
watching him… knowing it's true.

Shaking my head at myself, I make my way through the store, gathering the items on the list – and a few
extra things. As I turn into the chip aisle, I burst out laughing when I see Cullen at the other end of it,
facing away from me just like the last time I saw him in a grocery store.

"There's nothing to run in to at the end of this aisle," I say, approaching him. "If you're trying to set me
up, you lose."

"Swan, haven't you figured out that I always win?"

He turns around, holding a box of Frosted Flakes in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other.
Immediately, my heart clenches almost painfully in my chest. My stomach flips. My knees start to buckle.

"Oh, crap," I mumble, looking first at him, and then at the flowers. Although they're beautiful, I don't stare
at them long, preferring to raise my gaze back to the bright, green eyes that have been my undoing
since the first time I looked into them. "You cheater."

I take the flowers with one hand, using the other to grasp the front of his shirt and pull him down to me.
He hasn't said the words again since Sunday night. Neither have I. But for both of us, it's been evident in
every gesture, every look. It's obvious now in the way he rests his forehead against mine, wrapping his
arm around my shoulders and not caring that we're in the middle of a grocery aisle.

"How is this cheating?"

"You're purposely doing things to derail my good intentions," I reply. "We were going to walk on the
beach, cook a nice dinner, and sit in front of the outdoor fireplace."

"We're not going to do those things?" he asks. I shake my head minutely. "What are we going to do
instead?"

"See how sturdy the bed is," I whisper. I brush my lips against his, and then move away. I hear him groan
quietly and feel pretty smug as I grab his favorite chips from the shelf.

"Now who's cheating?" he grumbles, but he sounds amused. "Can we check out? We have enough
food."

I agree, and fifteen minutes later, we open the door to the cottage. He stands beside the open
refrigerator while I toss him perishable food to put away, and he shuts the door soundly when I tell him
that's all the cold stuff.

"Leave it," he murmurs as I begin unloading the rest of the grocery bags.

Standing behind me, he slides his arms around my waist and lowers his mouth to the side of my neck.
This time I don't stop him when his hands move up, and then down. He walks backward out of the
kitchen, pulling me toward the stairs. Swinging around, I reach for his jaw, raising up to kiss him… and
doubting that we'll make it all the way up to the bed in the loft.

I'm right; we don't.

But the table is sturdy as hell.

Sitting on what is now officially the sex blankie, I watch the waves crest and flatten against the sand one
after another. It's our last night here – and the first night the sun has been visible at sunset. Cullen sent
me outside with the blanket several minutes ago, promising to get the wine and be right out. Sighing, I
pull my knees to my chest and close my eyes, listening to the ocean… and thinking about him.

The last few days with him have been incredibly good. Although we stayed inside the cottage on
Tuesday after returning from the market, yesterday we spent the whole day out. We walked leisurely
through the town in the morning, wandering through the quiet souvenir shops that are probably crowded
with people during the summer months. After an afternoon of playing catch on the sand, we had dinner
at a local tavern, and then stayed to have a couple of beers. Smiling, I remember how hard we laughed
as we tried to play shuffleboard on the wobbly-legged table in the tavern's back room.

This morning, I slept late and woke up alone to an empty cottage. But Cullen returned with a vanilla latte
and pastries soon after. He also looked anxious, prompting me to ask if everything was okay. He said
yes, and he seemed to enjoy the rest of the day – walking on the beach, sitting outside in the
unseasonable warmth. I even helped him study the binder full of intel Coach Erickson gave him for next
week's game.

Surprised that he's not out here yet, I open my eyes and glance over my shoulder toward the cottage,
but there's still no sign of him. Turning, I stare out at the deep, blue water again, suddenly remembering

that it was one week ago tonight that Cullen first said he loved me… and I flipped out.

We've come so far since then. After weeks of intense fear which led to erratic behavior, I finally feel like
I'm standing on solid ground. Oddly, I think it was letting go of the last bit of resistance that helped me
feel secure about my feelings for him… and about his for me. I'm vulnerable to him in ways that I've
never allowed myself to be with anyone else, and although it still scares me, I feel confident that the next
time I freak out, I'll hang on to him instead of running away.

"Hey," Cullen says quietly.

"Hey. I was afraid you were going to miss the sunset," I reply, turning to smile at him as he scoots up
behind me, surrounding me with his arms and legs.

I lean back against him while we watch the glowing sun slide toward the horizon, telling funny stories
from our childhoods and sharing a big, plastic cup of white wine. Looking up at him while he talks, I'm
flooded with emotion and twist sideways to get my arms around him.

"There it goes, baby. You'd better watch," he remarks, kissing the top of my head.

We're silent as the sun gets smaller and smaller, and when it completely disappears, I feel Cullen set
something on my leg.

"What's this?" I ask, glancing at him as I pick up the thin, square box.

"It's just… I just…," he stammers, blushing. Turning my back to the ocean, I sit cross-legged between
Cullen's legs, facing him. "It's nothing big, but I wanted to give you something."

"When did you get it?" I untie the ribbon and take the lid off. Inside is a long, silver chain that I lift out
immediately, using my other hand to catch the kaleidoscope pendant hanging from the end.

"While you were being a lazy ass this morning," he responds. "But then I was too nervous to give it to
you."

"It's beautiful, Cullen," I murmur, holding the small cylinder to my right eye as if it was full sized. As I turn
it, the shapes and colors inside change, making me gasp. "It even works!"

"I saw it in one of the shops yesterday. It reminded me of the other night when you said I've changed the
way you see everything."

I put the necklace on, staring down at the charm as tears sting my eyes. I try to keep my suddenly-husky
voice from cracking when I speak, but I'm not quite successful. "You have. Thank you… for that and for
this."

"You've done the same for me, legs."

Reaching for his hand, I slide my palm into his, curl my fingers around his. And then I look up at him,
somehow more in love with him than I was two days ago.

"Cullen, I think I'm not gonna freak out if you say it," I whisper. He lifts a hand to my face, pushing my
hair behind my ear.

"I love you, Swan."

Like last week, his words cause my stomach to drop and my pulse to pound loudly in my ears – but not
out of fear this time. Staring at him, at the hopeful expression on his face, I smile. I want him to see my
feelings written on my face the same way I see his.

"I love you, too."

Stretching up, I kiss him gently, sweetly. It's not a kiss full of desire and passion, although I feel that.

Instead, it's an agreement… a promise. After several moments, I pull back, shifting to rest my back
against his chest again. We sit in place until it's almost dark, and then walk back to the tiny cottage one
last time, hand in hand.

"Edward, I'm coming to the penthouse as soon as I get clothes for the weekend," I remind him while he
parks at the curb in front of my apartment building the next afternoon. "You don't have to walk me up."

"I want to," he shrugs.

He carries my bag inside, and snoops around my apartment while I unpack. He asks permission to look
through a photo album he finds on my bookshelf, lying down on my bed with it when I assent.

"Holy shit! Look at the Chief," he laughs. "He's 'stache-less."

Flopping down on my stomach beside him, I tell him about the summer my dad first grew his now-
signature facial hair. Then I show him pictures of Sue, my gran, my mom and Phil. I watch him while he
examines the pictures, often pointing out similarities between my parents and me.

"Cullen, I've been thinking," I say, rolling to my side. "I know my reluctance to tell people about our
relationship has bothered you. If you still want to stop hiding, it's fine with me."

"I don't know," he hedges, glancing at me. "I'm pretty happy with the way things are. The season will
intensify from here out, and I can't afford any distractions."

"I'm a distraction?" I ask, taken aback.

Chuckling, he rolls to his side to face me and reaches for my hand, squeezing it lightly. "Definitely, Swan.
But that's not what I meant," he explains. "If we tell now, I don't think I'll be hounded about the
relationship… but I think you will. And that will distract me. I don't want you to be harassed, although you
may get some of that no matter when we tell because of your job."

"I can take the heat."

"I know, baby," he soothes. "But I'll be worried about you when I should be concentrating on my job. And
I think you're right about the Chief, too. It might make things weird if we spring this on him and then I
have to work on offensive strategy with him the next day."

"Cullen, you don't have to convince me," I declare. "I'm happy with the way things are, too."

"Let's just keep doing what we've been doing then, okay? Like you said, we're doing what we want, but
not advertising it. And if we get busted, we'll deal with the fallout together."

"Together," I agree, leaning over to kiss him. I hop up again to finish packing, chattering at Cullen, but I
can tell he's bored after a few minutes of watching me. "You can go. I'll be five minutes behind you."

After kissing him goodbye at the door, I pause to look through the mail I tossed on the counter when we
arrived. I'm startled when someone knocks a few seconds later, but recover quickly and walk back
toward it, smirking.

"You just left. Miss me already?" I call, flipping the lock. I yank the door open… but it's not Cullen
standing in the hall. "Dad! What are you doing here?"

"Checking on you," he informs me harshly, coming inside without being asked. Panicked, I peek into the
hallway, relieved to see that it's empty. My dad couldn't have missed Cullen by more than fifteen
seconds. "Where in Hades have you been all week?"

"I went out of town for a couple of days. I meant to call you and Sue," I answer nervously, closing the
door.

"Bullhockey," he mutters under his breath, making his way into the living room to sit down. I trail behind
him, my heart still in my throat. "You've ignored us – and your mother – all week."

"You called Mom?" I groan, standing in front of him.

"Yes, Bells. I'm a dad. I worry when I can't find my kid," he states, leveling his dark eyes at me. "And
when I do find my kid, she ought to be grounded for the rest of her life."

I roll my eyes at his statement. My dad has never let the fact that I'm a grown woman stop him from trying
to intimidate me with threats of punishment. But he doesn't scare me… much.

"Dad, I'm sorry you worried, but you can see I'm fine."

Nodding slowly, he scrutinizes me. "You look different. Happy."

Tilting my head, I raise one eyebrow and cross my arms over my chest. "I don't usually look happy?"

"No. You usually look like that," he retorts, wagging a finger in my direction. We both chuckle as the
tension dissipates. "You gonna offer me anything to drink?"

"Dad, would you like a beer?" I ask with false exuberance, making him laugh again.

Realizing I'm not going to be able to make a quick getaway when he answers yes, I get one for each of
us, and then sit down beside him on the couch. We spend half an hour nursing our drinks and catching
up… both of us cautiously avoiding the subject of my personal life. My phone vibrates often in my
pocket, and I know it's Cullen, wondering where I am. There's no way I can answer right now, though.

Finally, the Chief stands up and walks to the door. As we hug goodbye, I promise to have dinner with
him and Sue soon.

"It sounds like someone else is trying very hard to get in touch with you," he remarks wryly,
acknowledging the repeated buzzing of my phone. "And judging from your pained expression, you want
to reply to her… or him."

"Dad, stop," I whine, covering my face with my hands.

"All right. All right," he says, holding his palms up in surrender. "I don't want to be the last one to meet
him, though, okay?"

My stomach tightens and I feel a little sick, but I force myself to smile at him and kiss his cheek as I
respond. "Okay."

Blowing out a relieved-yet-guilty breath, I close the door behind him and lean back against it. After
sending Cullen a text to let him know what happened, I close my eyes and let my head thump dully
against the door. Once. Twice. Three times. Son of a buck. The Chief still knows how to get a partial
confession out of me.

I just hope this is one time he lets the case go cold.

xoxo 'til next time :)

*Chapter 12*: Home Field Advantage

A/N: We have to stop meeting like this - months later than we should. :) M y guilt is enormous
and I know I'm pretty pathetic as an updater. However, I am a sort of nice person, despite my
rampant cynicism. But I certainly understand people who flounce a story that updates so
irregularly.

I have two kids in high school now, which scares the bejesus out of me. Luckily, they're so
unpleasant at times that when I pay that bejesus-scaring forward, I don't feel bad. They're not
all that scared of me, though... until I threaten to take the phones. That gets compliance
almost every time. M y baby (who's not a baby, but almost a teen) just had a birthday, and has
morphed into a child who's easy to get along with... or else the teens are just so difficult to
get along with that my perception is skewed. Either way, it's sort of a win.

M y work life continues to be challenging, in both good and bad ways. By the way, leaving a
conference where it's 85 degrees outside and returning to 17-degree weather is cruel and
unusual punishment. I think I was supposed to live somewhere warmer...but I had a great
time in sunny Florida, and the work part of the trip went smoothly (thank goodness, since I
planned the darn thing).

Speaking of work, I'm gonna be late for it if I don't shut up and get going.

Big thanks to my friend Littlecat358 for her beta help... and her life help. As long as we keep
the schedule of only one of us being crazy at a time, we should be fine. xxoo

Thanks to those who read, rec and review. Take care.

"Legs." His voice is raspy, the guttural word muffled. Facing away from him in the shadowy room, I
grimace. He's a light sleeper, but I tried not to move the bed too much as I carefully scooted out from
under his arm and got up. "Where're you going?"

"Kitchen," I answer softly, feeling guilty for waking him before eight on Sunday morning.

"Why're you whispering? I'm already awake."

With a chuckle, I peek over my shoulder to look at him… which is a mistake. He's spread across most of
the bed, lying on his stomach and looking at me with one piercing, green eye. Even with half of his face
hidden by the pillow, he's beautiful, too tempting to resist. My culinary intentions are all but destroyed.

"It's our last day off. I'm going to bring you breakfast in bed," I announce quietly as I turn around. Putting
my knee on the bed, I push myself over to kiss his cheek. I'm not surprised – or sorry – when he wraps
an arm around me, pulling me down as he moves, too.

"I don't care about breakfast in bed," he murmurs, rolling me to my back and burying his face in my
neck. "I want you in bed."

"Cullen, during the last week, you've had me in bed, on the couch, on a table–."

"Don't forget the rooftop."

I'm not sure if it's his husky voice or the steamy memory of what we did on his terrace a few hours ago
that causes the tingling sensation to spread from my neck down my spine. Winding my arms around his
bare shoulders, I sigh happily as images flash behind my closed eyelids. The third glass of wine at the
restaurant that left me feeling tipsy and uninhibited. The clear, unusually warm October night that
begged us to take advantage of his private outdoor space – and of each other. Staying tangled together
under the sex blankie long after our desire was sated. Talking and laughing until after midnight… until
the temperature dropped so low that our noses were cold.

"I wouldn't forget that," I sigh, and then chuckle lightly. "We were noisy."

"You were noisy," he corrects, his lips hovering at my ear. "And handsy. From the minute we got home."

Home. When I hear the word, my eyes pop open, even though I know he means his home. Staring
blankly at the bedroom ceiling, I ignore the butterflies flitting around my stomach; I attribute the heavy
thumping of my heart to the fact that he's pushing my t-shirt up to uncover my chest and shifting to lie
between my legs. He raises up to look at me, drawing me out of my daze. I trail my fingers along the
nape of his neck and smirk at him.

"You didn't enjoy my enthusiasm?"

"Swan, I've enjoyed everything this week."

"Me, too. It went so fast," I remark wistfully, mourning the end of his bye week. I slide one hand to his jaw,
scraping my fingers against his prickly stubble. "I wish we had one more day."

"We have today, and we'll have other vacations." Shutting his eyes, he rests his forehead lightly against
mine and swallows. When he speaks again, he doesn't camouflage the eagerness in his voice. "I want to
take you to Chicago after the season. I want you to meet my granddad… want him to meet you."

My unguarded heart has no defense against him – no way to combat his sweet charm, his effortless
romanticism. As my chest swells from the inside and tears sting the back of my eyes, my fingers tighten
on his jaw, pushing gently into the skin of his cheek.

"I'd love that, Cullen," I declare throatily. "I'd love that."

His lips are on mine as soon as I finish my statement, nipping lightly. When I lick across his lower lip, he
groans quietly and deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue into my mouth. I let myself be swept away by the
swift spike of arousal that races through me, and then the spreading heat of need… want. With our bare
chests pressed together, I can feel his heart pounding. I pull my knees up to push against his ribs as he
rocks his hips against mine.

After a few moments, he rolls to his back, taking me with him. Straddling his thighs, I sit up and pull my t-
shirt over my head. We smile at each other as I fling it to the side, and then I lean down over him,
propping myself on my arms. The kaleidoscope pendant he gave me three days ago hangs from my
neck, swinging back and forth just above his chest. He reaches for it, catching it between his fingers.

"I'll miss you tomorrow," I whisper, the words tumbling from my mouth before the thought is fully formed.
His suddenly-arched eyebrows reveal that he's just as surprised as I am by my hasty admission. Still not
used to voicing such tender emotions, I'm embarrassed, and I rush to explain. "I mean, it's weird. I love
my job and I'm anxious to go back, but I don't want to leave you. I… like hanging out with you all day."

"I feel the same way, legs," he replies, his mouth curving into a crooked grin. Still holding my necklace
with one hand, he cradles my face with the other and pulls me down to him. "I love you."

Against his lips, I murmur my reply. And when I do, I feel it from the depths of my soul: They're the truest
words I've ever spoken.

Monday morning, I arrive at the station a little early and sit alone at the table in the lounge. I spend a few
minutes skimming the Sports section of the Times, but, inevitably,my mind wanders to Cullen.

Claiming he couldn't sleep, he shuffled groggily into the bathroom at four-thirty this morning. He kissed
me, and then sat on the vanity, sneaking drinks from my coffee mug and talking to me while I got ready
for work. When I was ready to leave, he rode down in the elevator with me and walked me to my truck,
refusing to close the door until I promised to return tonight. Sighing, I remember watching him wave
goodbye as I drove out of the underground garage.

"Ah, the third wheel has returned," Newton pronounces as he enters the lounge through the doorway
behind me. Instantly annoyed, I begin counting backward from ten in my head, not wanting to fight with
him – at least not this soon. His grating voice interrupts before I get past seven. "Your recent bout of
relationship drama begs the question: Will we be treated to a Bella-free week every time your love life
hits the skids?"

Clinging to my intended tolerance, I pick up the bottle of water I opened a few minutes ago and take a
sip. Keeping my voice low and even, I answer. "Maybe."

"Well, luckily for us, it's such a rare occurrence that you actually have a love life that it shouldn't interfere
with the show very often." My grip on the water bottle tightens, causing the flexible plastic to crackle
before I set it down. Walking around the table, he stands across from me and places his palms on the
top, leaning down. His haughty gaze roams my face. "You've recovered from getting dumped, then?"

Speechlessness isn't a condition that befalls me often around Newton; I almost always have an insulting
retort or snide remark tripping from my tongue before I can stop it. This time, however, I blink mutely at
him, despite my outrage at his offensive remark. Several silent seconds tick by before he turns away
triumphantly and heads for the coffee machine. I frown, bothered by my reticence and afraid I know
exactly why I've lost my edge.

Cullen.

Has admitting that I'm in love cost me the ability to verbally spar with Newton? Has happiness stolen both
my backbone and my vocabulary in one fell swoop?

Suddenly panicked, my brain spins off on its own tangent, petrified that I've become a mushy,
sentimental fool. My stomach somersaults as I worry that I'll struggle to hold my own on the air with
Emmett, that I'll be incapable of tackling tough topics that make the show interesting. Afraid that Newton
will steamroll me right out of a job, I absently lift one hand to run through my hair.

On the other side of the room, Newton's arrogant chuckle draws my attention and I glance his way,
narrowing my eyes at his back. If anyone can break the love spell, it's him.

"It's no surprise that you always end up alone. You're too picky," he says condescendingly.

Finding my voice, I interject, "I prefer to think of myself as discerning."

"You can think whatever you want, but the fact is men don't like women who are demanding and
overcritical," he advises. A couple of months ago, before I met Cullen, Newton's warning might have
disturbed me; I might have been afraid he was correct. But not now. Now I know that one man likes me –
loves me – the way I am. I drop my hand to grasp the pendant of my necklace, sliding my fingers over
the etched sterling. "I'm the kind of man who accepts those flaws. Bet you wish you'd gone out with me
when you had the chance."

"Words cannot adequately convey my despair," I reply instinctively. Oh, thank God. I am still in there
somewhere. I tuck the necklace inside my shirt, pressing the cool metal against my skin.

"When you started working on the morning show, I felt it was only right to tell my wife about our past."
Shocked, my eyes widen and my lips fall open. Past? What past? There's no past – at least not the kind
he's alluding to… the kind with blossoming affection, stolen kisses and late night trysts. I shudder at the
thought of having any of those things with Newton. "But I assured her that there's no longer anything
between us."

"Don't overlook the mutual disdain," I assert.

"She was certainly relieved to hear that you and I were never on the same page at the same time."

He turns around and leans against the counter behind him. I don't know if he's trying to needle me or if
he really believes the bullhockey he's spewing, but I'm determined to regain the upper hand as soon as I

see the smug look on his face. Letting my head fall backward, I laugh exaggeratedly. When I look at him
again, I wipe the corners of my eyes, pretending tears of hilarity are threatening and delighting in his
sudden scowl.

"Newton, I was never in the same book as you."

Before he can respond, Emmett's booming voice fills the room and I twist around in my seat to greet him.
Flopping down in the chair next to mine, he spends a couple of minutes complaining about hosting the
show without me last week. Whether he's doing it to flatter me or to irritate Newton doesn't matter; I'm
amused and grateful either way. Newton reacts as I expect, spending most of the pre-production
meeting barking terse orders about which topics he wants us to cover on the show.

Once we're in the studio, I quickly realize that the rocky morning isn't over yet. My IFB quits working just
before we go on the air, and I rush to get a replacement hooked up before we're live. Flustered, I
struggle through the first few segments, unable to stop the wordy drivel spilling from my lips. During the
next hour, I think I'm finally hitting my stride, but Newton butts in to disagree. He spends an entire break
spouting criticism into my IFB, complaining that my football analysis is dull and unintelligent. In the next
break, he calls my World Series commentary overly emotional. Wishing I had the malfunctioning IFB
again, I nod along, absorbing his critique to keep the peace.

We end the show by conducting a four-minute phone interview with a nationally prominent sportswriter
who's also the author of a newly-released book. Newton's plan is for me to lead the discussion, talking
with him about current sports events for a couple of minutes, and then promoting his book for the
remaining time. However, the guest immediately deviates from the protocol, steering each topic back to
himself. Although Emmett tries to help, he's not any more successful than I am at coaxing the jackwagon
into cooperation. The segment is a complete disaster, and as soon as Newton comes into the lounge for
the post-show meeting, I realize I'll be taking the blame for this, too.

"What the hell was that, Bella?" he rants, slapping a folder on top of the table. "You let the guest
completely derail the conversation!"

"I tried to get him back on track," I insist. "He wouldn't answer the questions I asked."

"It wasn't her fault, Newton. The guy clearly had his own agenda," Emmett interjects, but Newton holds
his palm up, halting Emmett's chivalrous defense.

"In addition to the long-winded replies you let go unchecked, you also allowed almost eight seconds of
dead air to tick by," he reprimands. "Did you forget everything you know about broadcasting while you
were on vacation?"

"Yes, I did. And yet, amazingly, I still know more about it than you," I snap. While Emmett snickers beside
me, I sit back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest. Newton mimics my gesture, waiting for a real
explanation. With a huff, I try to justify what happened. "I was watching the clock, but he was mid-
sentence when he paused. I would have seemed rude and confrontational if I had interrupted to
disagree with him."

"You're the host. You should have maintained control."

"You're the producer. You should vet the guests more thoroughly," I argue, returning his icy stare. "If I
had known he wouldn't answer questions succinctly, I would have adjusted my strategy before we had
him on-air."

"Your job is to make the necessary adjustments as you go." Well, crap. He's kind of right about that.
Shrugging, I tilt my head slightly, acknowledging that he has a point. Pulling a chair out from the other
side of the table, he sits down and opens the folder. "You'll have a chance to redeem yourself tomorrow.
We just got confirmation that Marcus Matthews will join us for the last hour of the show. In-studio."

"For real?" Emmett asks, awestruck. He whistles lowly as he picks up the spec sheets Newton slides
toward us, setting one in front of me. "Dude, he owns the Seahawks."

"He owns everything north of Portland," I mutter, chuckling at Emmett's redundant explanation; everyone
in the Pacific Northwest knows who Marcus Matthews is. And since he rarely grants interviews, the
likelihood that local and national sports media outlets will pick up sound bites from KSST is high. This is
an enormous booking for us, and I'm impressed but unwilling to say so.

"Bella, you take the lead with Matthews since he knows you."

"He doesn't know me," I clarify as my heart begins to pound. After the failure of this morning, I'm not
convinced that I should be the one handling such an important assignment. Sitting forward, I pick up a
pen laying on the table and stare down at the paper, not really absorbing any of the information. "I've
been in the same room with him a few times, but he's never spoken more than ten words to me."

"Well, you know his background story."

"No, I don't."

"Then learn it by eight o'clock tomorrow morning," he orders through clenched teeth. Too late, I realize
that my rapid pen tapping and shrill voice have betrayed my uncertainty. Inwardly cringing, I look up in
time to see Newton's lips turn upward into a self-satisfied sneer. "Unless you're not up to the task. If
that's the case, I'll let Kate know. She told Matthews you'd be on point."

Damn. Newton scores again. He knows I won't want to admit defeat or disappoint Kate. With the
reputation of the station as well as my own professional credibility at stake, the pressure of this
responsibility weighs heavily on me. But I shake my head, forcing a wide smile onto my face.

"I'll be prepared," I pronounce confidently, wishing I felt as sure as I sound.

"Good. I need you two in the sound booth in ten minutes."

Newton leaves the room without another word, and I lean forward, letting my forehead thump on the
table. "Emmett."

"Bella," he whines, echoing my tone. "Stop worrying. You know you're good at this shit. What happened
with the asshole author this morning was an aberration. And, yes, I know what that word means."

Turning my head toward him, I laugh. "I wasn't going to ask if–."

"You were thinking it," he teases, standing up. "Come on. The sooner we finish with Newton, the sooner
you can lock yourself in your office to work."

"Yes, sir," I mock, taking his offered hand and letting him pull me to my feet.

While we record teases and new commercials for the show, I watch the clock tick steadily toward noon,
my stress growing into a heavy knot in my stomach. When Newton finally releases us, I practically sprint
up the hallway toward my office, but stop short when I see Kate standing beside my door. She insists on
taking me to lunch to discuss the interview, and realizing that I'm expected to agree, I do.

Although I smile throughout the meal, her excited chatter causes my already-frayed nerves to further
decay. Any other time, I would probably share her enthusiasm. But on the heels of the worst on-air day
I've had in years, each reminder of how much is riding on my performance makes me more queasy.
Sipping club soda, I push the food on my plate around in circles, hoping she doesn't notice that I only
eat a few bites. By the time we leave the restaurant, the afternoon is almost gone and I haven't even
begun to prepare for Mr. Matthews.

Deciding that I need peace and quiet, I head for my apartment to study the way I did in college –
dressed in comfy clothes with my hair pulled up in a ponytail. Soon I'm settled at my kitchen table with a
laptop and a mug of coffee, wearing Cullen's Northwestern sweatshirt. I pick up my phone, feeling guilty
as I text him to say I'm not coming over tonight.

*Hope your day is better than mine. I'm at home. Working on a huge project. I'll explain later.

I set the phone down and begin compiling stats and a timeline of Matthews' life, the same way I would if
he was an athlete. Working diligently, I hardly look away from the computer for the next few hours – until
I'm startled by the sound of my ringing phone. As I pick it up, I'm surprised to see that it's past seven
o'clock, and I smile when I see the number on the screen.

"Hi, Cullen."

"Hey. Where are you?"

"Home." Puzzled by the lengthy pause that follows my reply, I go on. "I sent you a text."

"Yeah, I got it. I thought you meant… so you're at your place."

"Right. Sorry about tonight," I sigh, "but I think I'll be working until I go to bed."

Although he sounds disappointed, he says he understands and we talk for a few more minutes before
we hang up. I continue working until my self-imposed bedtime, pleased with what I've prepped, but still
fearful that the interview won't go well. As I'm packing my messenger bag for the morning, my phone
dings with Cullen's text chime.

*Still working?

*Just finished.

*Can I come in? I'm in the hall.

My stomach drops while my heart skips in my chest. Rushing toward the door, I yank it open, smiling
automatically when I see his reddening cheeks and crooked grin. With a whispered hello, I reach for him,
sighing happily as he lifts me off my feet and steps inside. We hug tightly for a moment, and then he
sets me down and turns to close the door.

"Sorry for showing up uninvited," he begins.

"I'm glad you did," I say, but I know the hesitancy in my voice is obvious. He looks apprehensive when he
faces me again, and I shift my weight anxiously from foot to foot as I try to figure out how to explain
myself. "Um, but I'm kind of freaking about this interview, Cullen. I was just going to bed. To sleep, I
mean. I… can't… stay up late."

"This isn't a booty call, Swan," he says, insulted. His hands rest on his hips as he frowns at me. "I came
here to see my girlfriend, not to get laid. Jesus. Is that really what you think about me?"

"No. No. I know that you're not – we're not – like that," I stammer, ashamed of myself for jumping to
carnal conclusions. I raise my hands to cover my face, unable to look him in the eye. "It's just…. I'm
just… did you miss the freaking out part?"

"I heard, baby. Come here," he soothes, his irritation of a moment ago gone. Spreading my fingers apart
slightly, I step forward at the same time he does, leaning against his chest as he wraps his arms around
me. The relief I feel is instantaneous, and my body relaxes against his. "I'll leave you alone if you want
me to."

"I just didn't want to keep you here under false pretenses."

"You don't need to worry about me, Swan. In fact, I wouldn't have sex with you tonight if you asked."

Looking skeptically up at him, I see that his green eyes are shining with amusement. "Really?"

"Really," he confirms with a nod. "But just to be safe, you probably shouldn't ask." Sliding my hands up
to circle his neck, I laugh with him. "Do you want me to go?"

"No," I answer, pushing up on my tiptoes to kiss him. "Stay. Please."

Before letting me go, he presses his closed lips to mine several times. He locks the door and turns out
the living room lights while I finish packing up for the morning, rambling mournfully about my bad day.

"I mean, you should have heard the interview," I lament as he follows me to the bedroom several minutes
later.

"I heard it," he interjects. Mouth dropping open, I pause just inside the doorway to look at him. "I was in
the Chief's office this morning and he was listening to the show."

"Oh, God. Now I feel even worse."

"Swan, this is just like football. You've got to have a short memory when you have an off day," he
advises, walking past me to set his phone and keys on the dresser.

Standing beside the closet, I pull my sweatshirt off and toss it toward the laundry basket, rolling my eyes
when I miss. I can't even hit that today. After putting on a tank top with my pajama pants, I fold the
covers back and climb onto the bed, sitting cross-legged in the middle.

"What if I totally screw this up for the station and for myself?"

"You won't," he states, turning to wink at me. Stripped down to his boxers, he lays his clothes across the
chair in the corner. "You like to win too much."

"I do like to win," I agree, flopping backward on the mattress dramatically.

"Then quit moping about today and start believing that tomorrow will be better," he urges, repeating the
same message I've given to him after a loss. "I have faith in you."

"You do?"

"Without question. You're great at your job. Smart. Confident. Funny. Insightful." Turning my head, I
meet his gaze when he moves to stand at the side of the bed. "I'm always proud of you, legs."

Abruptly abandoning my bedtime edict, I scramble onto my knees and launch myself into his arms. As I
kiss him, his lips match mine movement for movement, stoking the surge of desire started by his sweet
words, by his unconditional belief in me. When I press my hips forward to meet his, he skims his hands
down my back to my ass, holding me close… and holding me still.

After a moment, he breaks the kiss and gently unwinds my arms from his neck. Squeezing my hands, he
takes a step backward.

"Cullen," I complain, trying to pull him to me again.

"Nope. You'll be mad at both of us in the morning," he reasons, smirking when I glare jokingly at him.

Grumbling under my breath even though he's right, I scoot to the other side of the bed and turn off the
lamp. Once I lie down, he curls up behind me, shaping his body to mine. His breathing slows within a few
minutes, but I can't shut off my brain. Instead of being filled with worries about the interview, though, my
thoughts center on him.

Two months ago, I would have scoffed at the idea that I could become so intimate, both physically and
emotionally, so quickly with someone I hadn't met. But the protections I spent years building around
myself were no match for Cullen… and I smile wryly as I recall how easy it was for him to sneak past my
guard.

Now, I can't bear to think about a day when I don't have this… don't have him. The feelings I have for
him are deeper and stronger than any I've experienced before, and although I may not know everything
about his life yet, I know his heart. Grateful that his persistence overcame my player prejudice, I reach

for the arm he's resting on my waist, ghosting my hand across his skin.

"Cullen?" I whisper. He grunts against my back sleepily. "I really love you."

"I really love you, too," he answers. "But I'm still not sleeping with you tonight."

"Fine," I huff, drawing the word out until he chuckles.

When my hand reaches his, he flexes his fingers so I can slide mine between them. I lie silent and still,
feeling his breath tickle my neck each time he exhales. Closing my eyes, I match the rhythm of my
breathing to his and sink into peaceful sleep.

Arriving at the station the next morning, I'm more nervous for a show than I've ever been. During the
pre-show meeting, I hardly hear Newton's nonsense over the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. I
study my notes and questions during every break of the first two hours of the show, and then, finally, it's
time to bring Mr. Matthews in.

He kisses my cheek when he greets me, insisting that he remembers meeting me before. I'm not sure I
believe him, but his easygoing manner begins to calm my jitters. By the time we go live a couple of
minutes later, I'm more relaxed, and we settle into a fluid conversation, discussing his professional life
momentarily. Emmett chimes in as planned to transition the topic to his ownership of the Seahawks. The
rest of the interview flows so smoothly that Newton rarely speaks into my ear. Kate nods at me through
the control room window each time I turn around. Emmett lets me lead, but clearly makes an effort to
help keep the show on track.

Once we're off the air, Mr. Matthews continues to be gracious. He makes a point of saying goodbye to
everyone individually, handing out field passes so we can all watch Sunday's Seahawks game from the
sidelines. As I walk toward my office several minutes later, I pull my vibrating phone from my pocket. I'm
glad that Kate – and even Newton – seem pleased with the interview, but it's the six-word text on my
screen that makes me giggle like a teenage girl.

*You were great, legs. Told ya.

Sunday afternoon, I stand between Seth and Emmett on the sidelines of CenturyLink Field and look up
at the overcast sky. For the last few minutes, Emmett has been making fun of me for wearing
sunglasses, but I'm afraid my frequent glances at Cullen will give me away if my eyes aren't hidden.
Unless it rains, the glasses stay.

Although the team is still in the locker room, the coaching staff is beginning to assemble on the field.
Grinning, I watch my dad come toward me.

"Just like old times, huh? You've spent a lot of Sundays on the sidelines with me, kid," he says, bending
down to hug me. After I laughingly agree, he shakes hands with Emmett and Seth. "Enjoy the game,
guys. Bells, let's have lunch this week. I'm not getting any younger, you know. You'd better spend time
with me while you can."

"Yes, sir, Chief," I reply with a laugh, rolling my eyes behind my dark lenses as he walks away.

"I wish you'd let the Chief come on the show," Newton declares, startling me. I didn't know he'd come up
behind me.

"It would be weird," I shrug, glancing over my shoulder at him. "And not many assistant coaches do
interviews, anyway. It's a hierarchy thing."

He continues blathering on, but I'm no longer listening. The Seagals are gathering by the tunnel, and I
know that means the team is headed outside. Newton's voice is soon drowned out by blaring music and
the announcer's voice as the offensive players are introduced. Hoping to hide my smile, I put my pinkies

in the corners of my mouth and whistle loudly for several of them, including Whitlock and Cullen.

Even though Cullen assured me that my presence down here wouldn't be disruptive, I see his eyes slide
my way as he jogs toward the bench. When I shake my head minutely, his lips twitch. But he turns away,
catching the ball one of the trainers throws to him and stopping to talk to the QB coach. By the time he
runs onto the field thirty seconds later, I see the shift in his body language and know he's focused on
the game.

At first, the excitement of being so close to the action enthralls me the way it always has. The emotion of
the crowd is contagious, and Emmett and I yell loudly for every big play. I love it all – the cadence Cullen
shouts before the ball is snapped, the sound of shoulder pads banging against each other as the
linemen fight for position, the exhilaration I feel when the Seahawks score three times in a row.

But by the fourth quarter, the O-line is clearly tired. Although the Seahawks have played well and have a
ten-point lead, Cullen is rushed on almost every play and hit several times. When two defensive backs
sack him for an eight-yard loss on third down, he's slow to get up, and then he limps to the sideline.
Hardly able to stand still, I bite my lower lip as Seth and Emmett discuss him.

"They're checking his lower leg, not his knee. That's a good sign," Emmett observes, straining his neck
to look toward the bench where Cullen is being treated. "Someone's working on his arm, too."

"Right arm?" I ask, shutting my eyes briefly to make a silent plea. Please, God. Please not the right.
Selfishly, I don't want him to be hurt at all, but I also know that he'll be devastated if he has an injury that
keeps him from playing.

"Left. Not his throwing arm."

"Jesus, that's a relief," Seth exhales. He turns to smile down at me and nudges my arm. "Think the Chief
just had heart failure?"

Probably. Like father, like daughter.

The stadium erupts in cheers around us as the Seahawks defense makes a big play and I face forward
again, applauding with everyone else.

"Yeah," I answer absently, looking for Cullen as the game ends. In the sea of people milling around on
the field, I can't spot him, but he's not sitting on the bench anymore.

Nauseated with worry about Cullen, I decline when Emmett asks if I want to stay for the presser. I avoid
my dad, too, disappearing into the group of people leaving the field. Intent on seeing Edward as quickly
as possible, I drive straight to the underground garage of his condo building to wait, sitting in my truck
for more than an hour before he arrives. As he walks toward me, his limp isn't as pronounced as earlier,
but I can tell he's in pain. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, and part of his left forearm is covered with a
gauze bandage. Stifling a sob, I hold one hand across my mouth.

"Baby, what's wrong?" he asks, concern furrowing his brow.

"You're hurt," I mumble against my palm.

"Not too badly for being trapped underneath five-hundred pounds of defensive linemen," he says with a
half-smile.

"Is it your ankle?"

"No, just a lower leg contusion. And a cut on my forearm," he replies, reaching for me. Resting my face
against his chest, I wrap my arms around his waist and rub his back gently. "You know this shit happens,
legs. I'll be fine by next Sunday."

"You leave Friday?" I already know the answer to the question, but I welcome the distraction of thinking

about something else for a moment.

"Yeah. Charter leaves at noon. We'll spend two nights in Atlanta, play the early game on Sunday, and
be back home by midnight."

"Okay," I murmur. We stand in place for another minute, until I realize that Cullen isn't putting any weight
on his left leg. Pulling away, I look up at him. "You need to ice and elevate your leg."

"Okay, doc," he teases as we walk toward the elevator.

"There's no doctor here, Cullen. You'll have to settle for me."

"I don't consider that settling. I consider that my second win of the day," he says. He tightens the arm he
has around my shoulders and kisses the top of my head.

"I know how you like to win."

"Almost as much as you do."

"I guess it's a good thing we're on the same side, then," I comment as we get on the elevator. Turning,
he leans into me, pressing me against the wall. "Team sport, right?"

"Team sport," he agrees. I wrap my arms around his neck and press my cheek to his. Goosebumps
erupt down my arm when he whispers in my ear. "We both win."

The week flies by in a blur of cold, rainy days. I have lunch with my dad and move up another ranking
spot in my fantasy football league. Things at work settle back to normal – Emmett teases me, I refuse to
react, we both make fun of Newton. Life is pretty good… except Cullen leaves for Atlanta tomorrow and
I've hardly seen him this week.

With a short preparation week, he's spent long hours each day studying film and going over the game
plan. The last two nights, he hasn't finished at the stadium until after I'm already sleeping – at my
apartment. So even though it's late and I'm tired, I agreed to come over when he got home tonight. But
before he's finished packing, I fall asleep in his bed.

It's hours later when I feel fingers trail up the outside of my thigh and slip under the hem of my t-shirt.
The touch is so light that I wonder if I'm dreaming.

"Cullen?" I mumble, opening my eyes. The room is too dark for me to see, but his throaty chuckle
vibrates through his chest against my back.

"Were you hoping for someone else?" His breath warms my ear, sends tingles down my spine.

"No," I answer as his hand glides across my stomach and then up to my breast. "I'm glad it's you."

Using his other hand to pull my hair away from my neck, he sucks gently on the sensitive skin. Lust
warms my body and I reach up, sinking my fingers into the longer hair on top of his head while I push my
hips back toward him. He says my name softly as he traces his fingers around my nipple.

Moaning quietly, I shift to lie on my back, helping him take off my clothes. He leans over to kiss me,
moving his mouth slowly on mine. But when I clutch impatiently at him, he pulls away.

"Edward," I whisper. My eyes have adjusted to the dark enough for me to see him as he shoves the
covers down and crawls over me, caging me between his arms and legs.

"Right here, baby."

He brushes his lips across mine briefly, and then kisses leisurely down my neck. Hovering above me, he
uses his mouth to tease my shoulders… my breasts… my stomach, never lingering in any spot long

enough for my satisfaction. Restless, I wriggle underneath him while he continues scooting downward,
nudging my legs apart to wedge his body between them. His fingers feel hot on my skin as he grips my
thighs, pulling me to him.

"Oh, my God," I gasp when he drags his tongue across my clit. Repeating the action several times, his
touch is gentle when I want forceful, excruciatingly slow when I want speed. Crying out, I arch my back off
the bed as almost-there pleasure creeps outward from my spine, decadent and agonizing at the same
time.

He pauses and I lie flat again, panting… waiting. Turning his head, he presses his lips to my inner thigh,
kissing a path back to where I want him. Prolonging the blissful torture, he pays the same attention to my
other leg and pauses once more. Finally, he covers me, varying the motion of his mouth, knowing what I
like… giving what I need. The pressure builds quickly and I dig my hands into the sheets, twisting them
tightly as I get closer and closer – and then he stops.

Groaning in frustration, I lift my head to look at him, watching as he inches his way up my body again, bit
by bit. Raising my hands to his jaw, I pull him, guiding his lips to mine. We kiss between labored breaths
and I tilt my hips anxiously, wanting all of him. At last, he pushes inside, filling me as he murmurs my
name.

"Cullen," I answer, wrapping my legs around him.

Propped on his forearms, he moves unhurriedly, drawing out the pleasure. When I rake my fingernails
down his chest, he grunts, thrusting fast and shallow several times, and then stilling inside me.

"Live here," he says hoarsely.

"What?"

Staring up at him, I wish the room was light enough that I could see the look in his eyes. It's not, but I can
tell that he's watching me, waiting for a reaction. He pulls almost all the way out of me, and then plunges
inside again roughly, setting a faster pace.

"Live here… with me."

"I don't – I can't think," I whisper, moving with him instinctively. Curling one hand around the nape of his
neck, I feel the faint coating of sweat on his skin. I tug on him until he kisses me.

"I know."

With only a few more thrusts, I tumble over the edge, hanging on to him as pleasure surges through me.
His orgasm is just as powerful, and he collapses on me, staying buried deep while he recovers, blowing
heavy breaths into my neck.

When he pulls out a moment later, shifting to lie next to me, I keep my eyes closed, listening as my
heartbeat slows, and then begins to race again. I'm not sure if the sudden, weighty fear settling in my
chest is because I'm afraid he meant what he said… or because I'm afraid he didn't.

Chilly without his warmth, I sit up and grab the sheet, spreading it over both of us. I lie on my side and
study him, staring until my eyes adjust to the dark room once more. He's lying on his stomach, not
moving, and for a second, I think he's already gone back to sleep.

"I was serious," he says quietly without opening his eyes.

"Cullen," I begin, but he quickly interrupts.

"I know what you're going to say. 'It's too soon, Cullen. We've only been together seven week–.'"

"Seven and a half weeks."

"'– seven and a half weeks, Cullen. We don't know each other well enough, Cullen.'" I laugh softly at his
accurate mimicry. "I know all that shit, Bella. But it doesn't change how I feel… what I want."

"What do you want?" I whisper.

"I want your stuff mixed up with mine. I want you to stop dragging your clothes here in an overnight bag,"
he insists, his impassioned words seeming loud in the quiet of predawn. "When you say you're going
home, I want you to be talking about where I am."

Uncertain how to respond, I reach for his face, resting my palm against his cheek. Opposing emotions
pull at my chest while I make a mental list of cohabitation pros and cons.

"And I may not know the name of your third grade teacher or who your best friend was when you were
twelve, but I know you. I know what's important to you and who's influenced your life," he asserts, taking
my hand. Setting our joined hands on the bed between us, he twists the silver ring on my right middle
finger, preparing to prove his Bella-expertise. "Your mom gave you this ring when you were nineteen.
She wears one just like it so you'll be connected no matter how far apart you are. You wouldn't trade
your childhood with your dad and you couldn't have picked anyone more perfect for him than Sue is.
Your stepdad is the one who suggested sports radio as a career for you because you two argued about
baseball so much. You don't like the way the NFL playoffs are structured, with the wildcard teams being
seeded lower even if their records are better than a divisional winner. I happen to agree with that
opinion, by the way. You think there's nothing chocolate-like about white chocolate, and you can't
understand why anyone would eat lima beans on purpose."

"Who knew you were really listening when I was talking about all that crap?" I chuckle, grateful that his
eyes are still shut as I wipe away the tears running from mine.

"I also know that you're lying over there, making a list of excuses why you can't move in."

"Cullen, I want to live with you," I respond truthfully, wishing it was as simple as he's making it sound.
"But–."

"I knew there'd be a 'but'," he mutters.

"But I can't be totally irresponsible," I continue, pausing to swallow before I voice my biggest concern…
my biggest fear: That he'll leave. "Your contract with the Seahawks is up in three months. What if you
sign with another team and have to move away from Seattle?"

"We'll deal with it."

"How will we deal with it? You'll be in another city while I'll be stuck here, looking for somewhere else to
live. And good downtown apartments are difficult to find," I argue emphatically. What I said is true, but
the sick feeling clenching my stomach has nothing to do with house-hunting. It's the idea of losing him
that terrifies me – the idea of moving in here and being blissfully happy, and then having it all ripped
from my hands. "Besides, my lease doesn't expire until May. It'll cost a small fortune to break it."

"Ever the realist," he observes dryly, opening his eyes.

"Well, you're always the romantic," I retort sharply. "You ignore my legitimate concerns in favor of getting
your way."

"No, but I trust that we can handle whatever obstacles we face if we work together," he asserts, shutting
his eyes again. "You could move in here, but keep your apartment for now."

"But if your contract–."

"Whatever happens with my contract at the end of the season, you and I will figure out together what to
do," he states, squeezing my hand. "That's how people in committed relationships make decisions,
right?"

"Um… right."

"Then problem solved." And for him, it's that easy. The biggest hurdle is removed. Even though I roll my
eyes, the heavy feeling in my chest is fading, defeated by his unwavering faith in us. "You have any
other legitimate concerns over there?"

"Huh uh," I mumble, my mind still torn… but my heart decided. And in a battle between the head and the
heart, I know which one usually wins. "So, no broken lease."

"And no homeless Swans if I have to move," he adds, sounding amused.

"I wouldn't have to switch my mail or find storage for my furniture," I reason thoughtfully, hoping to make
him sweat it out for a minute. "And the view from your windows can't be beat."

"Nope."

"Plus, I'd have a place to escape if you start acting like a VIP jerk," I tease.

"Mmhmm," he responds, opening his eyes partway as his lips curl slightly upward. He realizes he's on
the verge of winning.

"With winter coming, it would be nice to have someone to keep me warm at night."

He laughs, rolling onto his side to face me. "I'm good with warming you up, legs, but is that really your
rationale for moving in?"

"No," I whisper, my throat suddenly clogged with emotion. Scooting toward him, I tangle my legs with his
and look into his eyes. "I'm moving in because I love you. And I want my stuff mixed up with yours. And I
want 'home' to be wherever you are."

Pulling me closer, his lips rest against my forehead. "I could help you move next Tuesday."

"I can do it this weekend. Since you'll be gone two nights, I'll have plenty of time to rearrange
everything."

"Uh oh. Will there be chintz and pink flowers everywhere when I get back Sunday night?"

"Do you even know what chintz is?"

"No. Do you?"

"No," I laugh. When the alarm on my cell phone sounds, I roll away with a groan to silence it. "Time for
me to get up. You should go back to sleep for a couple of hours."

"I'd rather shower with you than sleep."

"Last time we did that in the morning, Newton yelled at me for wearing a hat to work. Besides, you can't
be worn out for practice this morning."

"Baby, it's just walk-through. I won't even break a sweat," he replies, pleading his case. "I'll sleep on the
way to Atlanta. And – can't you just put your hair up or something?"

"You're always talking me into doing things that don't sound like good ideas," I murmur, slipping out of
bed.

"But look how well they've turned out so far," he counters, climbing out his side and walking into the
bathroom. Knowing I can't argue with that statement, I pick up the ponytail holder I left on the nightstand
last night and slide it onto my wrist. "I'll start the shower. Coming, legs?"

Shaking my head at his laughter, I chuckle quietly, too. "Not yet, Cullen. But I guess I will."

I spend Friday evening and all of Saturday packing everything important to me and hauling it over to the
condo. I stay in my own apartment both nights, though. Saturday, I lie wide awake for hours, knowing it's
my last night here… wondering if I'll ever be back… dreading what would cause me to sleep alone in this
bed again… and doubting that I'll ever recover if things don't work out with Cullen.

But I haven't doubted my decision to move in with him for one moment.

Does that make me impetuous? Or foolhardy? It doesn't feel that way to me.

Smiling in the dark room, I recall the advice Sue gave me four years ago when I graduated from college.
Torn between two job offers, I sat at the kitchen table at my dad and Sue's house for hours. Sheets of
paper littered the tabletop, all clinically detailing reasons for taking one job over the other. Frustrated
with my indecision, my dad left the room, claiming I was overanalyzing everything. He should know; I got
that trait from him.

Sue picked up the papers one by one, crumpled them into balls and threw them on the floor. Panicked, I
bent to snatch them up, but Sue's hand on my arm stopped me.

"Bella, the answer isn't written on those yellow sheets of paper," she said. "Scribbled words are
meaningless if there's no emotion tied to them. This is a big decision. And in life, you should make the
big decisions with your heart."

Her words prompted me to accept the job at KSST, and it suddenly occurs to me that if I hadn't, I
wouldn't have met Cullen. I would be working in another city, talking about other teams, living a different
life. Several what-if scenarios tumble through my head, all ending the same way – without Cullen. The
way my chest aches at that thought makes me even more grateful for Sue's visionary, idealistic wisdom.

Finally, I drift off, getting a few hours of sleep before I go to the condo Sunday morning to begin putting
my things away. By the time the Seahawks game is over, I've mingled my books with his on the shelves
in the living room. The copper tray and candles which used to sit on my coffee table now sit on Cullen's.
Some of my framed photos are propped alongside his around the room.

While watching local coverage of Cullen's press conference after the win, I carefully unwrap the few
valuable things I inherited from Grandma Swan and place some of them on the bookcase. Pausing to
study him on the flatscreen, I listen to his calm, witty answers to the reporters' questions, always giving
credit to his teammates and the coaching staff instead of bragging about his own accomplishments. He
jokes with a couple of reporters, grinning crookedly like he does when he's really amused. I identify
several sound bites we can use on the show tomorrow morning as well as some clips that will probably
be shown on the news, but none of it seems orchestrated by Cullen. He's just naturally charismatic.
Although it's impossible for me to look at him objectively now, I think that I would like him even if I didn't
love him.

When he calls a little while later, we talk briefly about the game. He knows he performed well today, but
he once again downplays his role. After I rattle off a few stats, he finally agrees that he played "okay",
but then he changes the subject, telling me what time the charter flight will arrive in Seattle… and that
he's anxious to get home. I agree, whispering that I love him before we disconnect.

"Back to work," I mumble, looking at the boxes still stacked around the room.

Five hours later, my clothes are hung in the closet. My shoes take up half the space on the built-in
storage rack. The cigar box where I keep jewelry and a few sentimental objects is on top of the dresser.
My grandmother's faded mixing bowl sits on the kitchen counter, filled with fruit. Exhausted but happy, I
shower and put on the only skimpy nightgown I own. Then I wrap myself in the sex blankie and sit on the
couch to wait for him, sipping a glass of wine.

When my eyes get heavy, I lean over and let them close, and then jerk awake when I hear the chime of
the arriving elevator. Pushing my hair out of my face, I sit up straight and turn around just as he drops
his suitcase and bag in the foyer.

"Hey, legs," he says, walking toward me. "It's late. Why are you still awake?"

"It's our first night living together. I didn't want to go to bed without you." He leans over the back of the
couch to kiss me tenderly – twice.

"Thanks for waiting for me," he smiles, standing up to look around the room. "You got everything
moved?"

"Almost. I need help with a couple of heavy things," I answer. He wanders toward the bookshelf while I
get up and carry my wineglass to the kitchen. "I have a cedar chest and a chair that I want to bring
over."

He answers me, but I can tell by his tone that something else has captured his attention. Heading back
to the living room, I see him set down a picture he'd been looking at, and then run his hand along the
spines of the books on the shelf above.

"Yours are all still there," I insist, standing beside him. "I didn't toss any of your books about the Cubs or
the Bulls."

"You mixed yours in," he remarks softly. "Steinbeck. Twain. Fitzgerald."

"I like the classics. And since I had to buy all these books for classes during college, I figured I should
display them."

"The Brownings. You put Robert and Elizabeth Barrett right next to each other."

"Did you know they courted in secret?"

"Really?" he asks, pulling me in front of him.

"Yeah." Inexplicably, that bit of trivia popped into my head out of the blue while I was unpacking earlier.
Before today, I hadn't thought about it since the day my Brit Lit professor mentioned it during a lecture.
When I shrug, the sex blankie slips down from my shoulders, and Cullen traces his fingers along the
narrow straps of my nightgown. "I don't know why I remember that."

"Yes, you do," he argues, wrapping his arms around me.

"Because I have amazing powers of retention?"

"That's cute, the way you crack jokes when you're uncomfortable expressing your feelings," he
responds, tightening his hold as I lean back against his chest. "But I'm onto you now. The lingerie. Not
going to bed without me. Books written by lovers placed beside each other on a shelf. You, Swan, have
a romantic streak."

Since he's right – about both observations – I don't bother with a denial.

"It's your fault," I whisper, reverting to smartass mode again. "You showed up in my city, barged your ass
into my workplace and completely upended my life." Although he chuckles against the side of my head, I
promised him that I would get better at this and it's time to prove it. Taking a deep breath, I ignore the
butterflies in my stomach and turn around to meet his gaze. "And I couldn't be happier about that,
Cullen."

The way his eyes light up causes my heart to flutter almost painfully in my chest. Immediately, I know I
want him to look at me like this every day. Shifting his hands lower, he lifts me up and I let go of the
blanket to twine my arms around his neck. We're both smiling as our lips meet.

"I love you, Cullen."

"I love you, too, Swan. Welcome home."

A/N: Thanks for reading. Please review. I promise that I'll see you sooner than five months
this time. ;)

*Chapter 13*: Take a Knee

A/N: Congratulations to the Seahawks on their Super Bowl win and the Broncos on their
Super Bowl appearance. Thirty other teams (including my hometown team) didn't make it that
far. But there's always next year!

I fully intended to get this chapter up before the Super Bowl, but it just wasn't coming
together as quickly as I thought it would. Sorry for the extra wait!

As always, thanks to my friend and beta,Littlecat358, for sharing your talent. I truly appreciate
all the help. Thanks for not letting me be lazy. :)

Thanks so much for reading. Please review.

In general, I'm not much of a gambler. I don't buy lottery tickets or wager money on sports. But if the
odds makers had set the over-under on our first fight of cohabitation at three days, I would have bet the
farm on the over.

And I would have lost.

Only two days in, Cullen stands in front of the bedroom closet at my old apartment, resting his hands on
his hips and frowning at me. Hanging behind him are the objects at the center of our disagreement: My
summer clothes.

"Cullen, you're overreacting," I say, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. Shifting my weight onto my left leg,
I mirror his stance.

"Half of your stuff is still here."

"Almost everything except my furniture is at your place," I argue sharply.

"Our place," he mutters through clenched teeth.

Rolling my lips together in frustration, I bow my head for the briefest second to exhale, and then look up
at him again. "Our place."

Although neither of us is smiling right now, the last two days have been idyllic. I'm not surprised by how
easily Cullen has welcomed my complete invasion of his territory, but I am amazed by how different it
feels to be a resident of the penthouse instead of a guest. I got a little thrill when I saw him using my
favorite pan to sauté vegetables last night, and then he offered to hang some of my artwork on the living
room wall. After he saw me struggling to fit everything in my side of the dresser, he shifted his clothes
around so I could have an extra drawer. When I asked if we could rearrange the bedroom furniture to
make room for my favorite, overstuffed chair, he readily agreed and wanted to help me move it this
afternoon.

Our blissful bubble popped, however, when we got to my apartment ten minutes ago. First, he
questioned me about the books I left on a shelf – books I wasn't planning to keep. He was temporarily
pacified by that explanation, but when we walked into my old bedroom, the sight of hanging garments set
him off again. Son of a buck. Why didn't I shut the closet doors when I left here two days ago?

"You left most of your books and a closetful of clothes here," he complains, his scowl indicating that my
effort to placate him has failed.

"You're exaggerating." I force my tone to stay level, but I'm becoming increasingly irritated that I have to
defend myself. His mouth, lips drawn into a thin line, stays closed for the first time since he discovered
my not-quite-empty closet. The silence prods me to continue. "You're making a big deal out of nothing."

"It's symbolic. You always hold a piece of yourself back from me."

"You didn't accuse me of holding anything back last night," I quip suggestively, unable to stifle the
wisecrack. Remorse rushes through me when I see the quick flash of annoyance in his eyes, but he
retorts before I can apologize for my tactless attempt at humor.

"This isn't about sex, Bella."

"I understand that, Edward," I answer, mimicking his belittling tone. Pissed off by the way he's speaking
to me, my heart beats faster, and even though I have a feeling I'll regret them, the snotty words just
keep coming. "It's about my miniskirt collection."

"It's the same shit every time with you," he contends, completely ignoring my comments. "You're either
unwilling or incapable of letting your guard down and fully committing to this relationship. To me."

Although his remark gives me pause – accompanied by a sick, stomach-dropping sensation – when I
realize that he might have pinpointed my subconscious intention, my ire smothers any ability to discuss it
rationally at the moment. Charging forward, I elbow him out of the way.

"It's just summer stuff and four cocktail dresses! I haven't even been to a cocktail party in more than two
years," I snap, pulling some of the hangers from the rod. "But if you want me to move all the freaking
clothes, then I'll move all the freaking clothes."

He steps away to stand beside the bed, watching while I make two trips from the closet and back. Close
to tears, I refuse to make eye contact with him as I lay the offending garments in piles on top of the
comforter.

"Every time I think you're finally letting me all the way in, you throw another obstacle in our path," he
declares.

"You're the one who told me to keep the apartment. You knew I was going to leave stuff here."

"Furniture. You said you were leaving furniture."

"This is ridiculous," I grumble petulantly, grabbing the last few hangers from the rod. I whirl around and
stomp toward the bed, but he blocks my way.

"Yeah. Ridiculous for me to think that you wouldn't leave yourself an escape route. Enjoy this while it
lasts, and then go right back to your old life if things get tough. It's an easy out." Reaching forward, he
tries to take the load of clothing from my arms. "Let go."

"You let go," I counter, hanging on tightly. Lifting my chin, I look up at him, and then wish I hadn't. His
wounded green eyes are fixed on mine, and I suddenly want to tell him that he couldn't be more wrong…
that I think it might kill me to lose him. Panicked by the urge to expose my most insecure thoughts, my
deepest fears, I lash out. "You might not even be here by summertime. I'll probably just have to move
everything twice."

"Jesus Christ. Let go." He pulls on the clothes, shifting them slightly his way before I yank them back.
"Why are you constantly talking about me leaving Seattle?"

"Because I'm afraid we'll end up like my parents!"

I let go of the hangers just as he tugs again. He staggers backward a step, hitting the bed and sitting
down on it with a grunt and an armful of sequined formalwear. Embarrassed by the way the truth spilled
out of me so dramatically, I back up, too, crossing my arms over my chest.

"What are you talking about?" His deep frown illustrates his confusion.

"When I was in first grade, my dad was playing for the Saints. He was traded to the Cards in October,
but my mom didn't want to move me during the school year," I explain, breathing rapidly. I can hear how
shrill my voice is, and I wish I could calm down, but the adrenaline rushing through me won't allow it. "By

the time we moved to Phoenix in June, they'd grown apart."

"My parents grew apart living under the same roof and sharing a bed," he stresses, apparently
unconvinced that my fear is valid. "I don't want us to end up like them either, but I'm not using that as an
excuse to throw in the towel on this relationship every time I get nervous."

"You always disregard my feelings! You want me to be open with you, but when I am, you sweep my
worries aside like they're not important."

"I'm just pointing out that every relationship can fail if both people in it don't make an effort."

"Long-distance is different, though… harder," I insist, despite the fact that my opinion was fully formed
based on other people's experience. I have no firsthand knowledge about how difficult it really is. "It'll be
fine at first, but after a while, you'll be busy with your life there; I'll be busy with mine here. We'll put off
seeing each other, and then it'll just fizzle out. Plus, women will be throwing themselves at you
constantly."

"I want to be with you, Swan. Not anyone else," he asserts vehemently, more angry than he was a few
minutes ago. "I thought you understood that. I thought we were making progress. But you still have such
little faith in us that you have our hypothetical break up all mapped out?"

"I don't want to break up," I declare, unable to stop my voice from cracking.

"Really? Because what you're doing – keeping these walls between us – will ruin our relationship faster
than me living in another city for part of the year."

His honest, insightful words affect me immediately, softening my anger. Tears gather in my eyes while I
try to figure out what to say. Cullen doesn't speak either, letting the weighty silence hang between us.

"You're right," I finally whisper, bowing my head.

He sighs heavily. "We'll both have to work to keep our relationship strong, whether we're living together
or apart."

"I know," I sniffle, grateful that he doesn't sound as mad as he did a moment ago.

"When I told you that we'd figure this stuff out together at the end of the season, did you believe me?"

"Yes."

"Then why are you freaking out?"

"It's what I do, Cullen. You know that."

His quiet chuckle is accompanied by the rustle of fabric, and I look up from under my brow to see him
setting my dresses beside him on the bed. Stepping forward before he reaches for me, I wrap my arms
around his shoulders, holding tightly. After a moment, he lies back, taking me along as he sprawls out
on top of my summer wardrobe. Draped across his chest, I rest my head over his heart, listening to the
slow, steady beat and letting his embrace soothe me.

"I don't want to lose you." My voice is hushed, a sharp contrast to the enormity of my revelation. Cullen
tightens his embrace and gently rolls to the side, reversing our positions. His unguarded gaze holds
mine, and I can see by the look in his eyes that he understands how difficult it is for me to bare my
deepest fear to him.

"I'm not going anywhere, legs," he asserts, lifting one hand to my neck. I reach for his forearm, sliding
my fingers back and forth. "I didn't mean to dismiss your feelings earlier… about what happened with
your parents' marriage. I'm sorry. I'm glad you told me about it."

"Me, too."

"But we're not our parents, Bella. I know what I want, and I'm all in." I smile partway at his use of gambling
lingo; I guess both of us are betting on this relationship. "Everything's gonna work out if we want it to."

"I want it to," I say, closing my eyes when he rests his forehead against mine. Arching up, I press my lips
to his several times. "I'm getting better, Cullen. I didn't run away this time when I freaked out."

Lifting his head, he grins amusedly at me. "True. We are at your old apartment, though. And the keys to
your truck are in my pocket."

"Yeah, but still."

We both laugh lightly as he agrees. "But still." When he leans down to kiss me again, I press my hand
against his chest, halting him. Although it goes against every cowardly impulse I have, I force myself to
tell him the rest.

"Edward?"

"Yeah?"

"I didn't want to."

"Didn't want to what, baby?"

"Run. I didn't want to run from you. It never even crossed my mind."

I'm not sure what I thought his reaction to my statement would be, but I'm a little startled by his sweet
smile, by the way his eyes instantly darken. His lips capture mine, moving demandingly, taking my breath
away. Within moments, we're frantically pulling at each other's clothes. And when he plunges into me, I
don't care that we're lying on top of a cocktail dress I've only worn once.

I don't really like sequins anyway.

Eight days later, I sit in the back room of Cooper's bar looking down at my fantasy roster, but listening to
some guys at the end of the long table talk about Cullen. After the Seahawks' win over the Colts last
Sunday, I'm not surprised to hear them heaping praise on my favorite QB… and I can't quite suppress
my prideful grin. When their talk turns to the worst-kept secret in town – the fact that the Seahawks and
Cullen's agent have begun negotiating a contract extension – my stomach flutters nervously. Although
Cullen is optimistic that he'll sign a deal within the next few weeks, the possibility that it could fall through
has me on edge.

Deciding to distract myself, I glance sideways at Emmett, sitting in the chair next to me. I watch closely as
he takes a chip from the platter of nachos between us and piles jalapenos on top.

"So, are you taking the red-headed Seagal home with you for Thanksgiving next week?"

"Um, huh uh," he replies, still concentrating on pepper placement. "We're… not…"

When the second pause lasts longer than I think it should, I offer a suggestion. "Dating?"

With a quick grin, he turns toward me. "I was gonna say fucking." He stuffs the loaded chip into his
mouth and continues talking, requiring me to use the Emmett-deciphering skill I've honed over the last
five years to interpret his mangled words. "But I thought it would be rude."

"More rude than that?" I ask, pointing toward his smacking lips. Torn between disgust and amusement, I
shake my head at him.

"Oh, shit! Hot, hot," he whines. He lifts his beer, sees that the bottle is empty, and then makes a grab for
mine.

"No way!" I snatch the bottle from the table and hold it to my chest. "I've only had three sips out of it.
You're not filling it with your nacho backwash."

"I'll buy you another one," he pants, his face reddening. "Hurry. Hurry."

"You're an idiot," I grumble, handing him my drink and watching as he guzzles the liquid. "Only you would
put nine jalapenos on a chip and eat it all in one bite."

"Bar trick," he says, lowering the bottle to take a quick breath. "Gets me sympathy – and a drink – from a
pretty girl every time."

"That comment will cost you an extra beer," I retort with a laugh, holding three fingers up at the waitress
when she walks by. I check my watch and see that we still have fifteen minutes before the fantasy
meeting starts. "What happened with the redhead?"

"I don't really know. A couple of weeks ago, we both started making excuses why we couldn't…"

"Hook up?"

"I was gonna say see each other. Don't be so crass, Swan," he says teasingly, but in the space of one
heartbeat, I watch his expression turn gloomy. Unable to tell if he's joking or not, I narrow my eyes
slightly. "I really thought that I was falling in love with her at first. She was smart and smokin' hot. The sex
was in-fucking-credible. But after a few weeks, I realized that all we did was drink and screw. Clothed and
sober, we had nothing. I want… more. I want a girlfriend. Is that weird?"

"No," I scoff facetiously. "What's weird is that you seem to have grown a vagina since the show ended
this morning. Why are we talking about feelings after only one drink?"

"I don't know." He looks down at his beer, shoulders slumping. He rotates the bottle, wiping the
condensation from the dark glass with swipes of his thumb. I'm not used to such an introspective
Emmett, but I'm becoming convinced that there's no punch line coming at the end of his story. "I guess
because you're the only close friend I have who's a girl."

Feeling guilty for responding flippantly when he was actually seeking advice, I grasp his forearm.
"Emmett, I–."

"Wait! Why am I asking you? You've been as unlucky in love as I have," he interrupts, turning his head
to look at me. He jabs my upper arm with his elbow. "You want to come to Alaska with me for
Thanksgiving? Have you ever been to my home state?"

"No and no," I answer, twisting to say thank you to the waitress when she sets our drinks on the table.

"Swan, do you know the male to female ratio in Alaska?"

"Hmm mmm," I hum, lifting one icy bottle to my lips.

"There are, like, a hundred and seven men for every woman."

"Your talent for distortion is reaching new heights, Em. I don't think that's the real statistic."

"It felt real when I was trying to get dates with hot girls during high school," he remarks, pursing his lips
so that his dimples appear deeper, cuter. He leans close, clamping one hand on my shoulder. "You
know what my sister says about the chances of finding a man in Alaska? The odds are good, but the
goods are odd."

"Doesn't she still live in Alaska?" I ask, chuckling.

"Yep. And her boyfriend's a fucking creeper," he answers. "See, Swan? All that could be yours."

"Wow. What a sales job," I say, patting his cheek. "I appreciate the offer, but I think I'll pass."

With a shrug, he goes back to filling in his roster. Sitting back in my chair, I sip my beer while I look
around the room, sizing up the competition. I didn't have a great fantasy week and fell one spot in the
standings. But Peter the prick's drop from the top has been legendary. He's fallen steadily during the
last few weeks, and hasn't even shown up yet tonight. I hide my cackle and evil grin by taking another
big drink.

"Do you think it's true?" Emmett's quiet, earnest question startles me. Puzzled by his mood swings
tonight, I turn toward him with a furrowed brow, swallowing the liquid in my mouth. He keeps his eyes
focused on his paper, though. "The way people talk about meeting someone and with just one word, one
look, bam! They know it's love. Do you think that's true?"

Although I don't show it, my reaction is immediate. Staring at the side of Em's face, I see Cullen in my
mind. My body relives the heart-skipping, stomach-flopping sensation that swept through me on the
morning we met at the studio. I remember thinking he was beautiful as soon as he removed his helmet,
but the moment our gazes locked and he spoke directly to me – only me – my spine tingled and my
breath quickened. Just the memory of it has the same effect on me now.

Was it love at first sight? Lust at first sight? I don't know, but my body, my heart, seemed to recognize
that something unspoken was happening between us with just that one word – "Seven". I feel my lips
curve upward slightly.

"Yeah, Em. I think it's true for some people."

"I think so, too." he asks, turning to look at me at last. "Have you ever felt like that about someone?"

Taking another gulp of my beer in hopes that it will disguise the thickness of my voice, I answer honestly,
"Once."

"Hey, guys. Thanks for saving me a seat," Connor says, pulling out the vacant chair on my other side
and rescuing me from any further questioning. "What's with the long faces?"

"Emmett and the redhead are no longer an item," I explain, assuming Emmett would prefer that excuse
for our seriousness. I pass Connor the extra beer.

"Sorry, dude. You didn't love her, though," Connor reasons. He holds his beer toward us. "You'll find the
right girl. Here's to the next one being the one."

In typical Emmett fashion, he adds to the toast, wishing that the one be gifted with a great rack. I roll my
eyes while the guys laugh. But as we tap our bottles together and drink, I see the look in Emmett's
eyes… and I've never hoped more that something great happens for him.

In the hallway outside the penthouse, I stand wrapped in Cullen's arms, kissing him. When I feel his grip
loosen, feel him reach one hand toward the call button for the elevator, I protest.

"Not yet," I whisper against his lips.

"I have to go, legs."

"Two more minutes?"

His throaty chuckle vibrates through both of our chests. "Two more minutes," he affirms.

Pushing up onto my tiptoes, I hang on to him a little more tightly as I move my mouth urgently with his.
He digs one hand into my hair, holding my head still as he tilts his, sliding his tongue tantalizingly along
mine. Too soon, though, he starts to pull away again, pecking my lips softly as he pushes the down
button.

With a sigh, I stand flat-footed again, looking up at him. "I'll miss you," I say quietly. "Good luck Sunday."

"I may need more luck Saturday," he muses, alluding to the fact that his family is planning to drive from
Chicago to Green Bay to see him tomorrow. He hasn't said a lot about it, but after the way Carlisle and
Esme hurt him a few weeks ago, I'm apprehensive that this visit won't go well. Since Cullen is currently
avoiding my gaze and clenching his jaw, I think he feels the same way.

"You'll get to see your granddad, too," I remind him, trying to sound cheerful as he pulls me to his chest.
I can hear the elevator coming up the shaft, and I bury my face against his shirt, inhaling his scent one
more time. "I love you."

"You, too, legs," he answers, kissing the top of my head. "I'll call you when I get to the hotel tonight."

After a final goodbye kiss, he picks up his bag and steps onto the elevator when it arrives. We smile at
each other as the door slides closed, and then I turn away with a sigh, walking back inside the
penthouse.

As part of my commitment-phobia rehab, I drive to my old apartment the next afternoon and pack up all
the odds and ends I left there. Books, unneeded kitchen utensils and old towels go in a box to be
dropped off at a donation center. I use extra sheets to cover up my couch and loveseat, and then look
around one last time. I'll still come back, of course, to check on the apartment and pick up my mail, but
this is it. Everything is gone except the furniture. The tiny twinge of sadness I feel doesn't faze me; I
don't regret moving out and I don't want to go back to my old, Cullen-free life. Picking up the box, I step
into the hallway and pull the door shut behind me.

Sunday morning, I settle on the couch to watch the game. Although Cullen and I talked on the phone last
night, he wasn't in a very good mood and he didn't mention his family. I tried to ask about them, but he
quickly steered the conversation in another direction, and then told me he needed to get to sleep. He
texted me this morning before he went to Lambeau Field, but all he said was that he loves me and he'll
call after the game.

I wait impatiently through the pre-game analysis given by the booth announcers, wishing the camera
would switch from their faces to the players warming up on the field. Finally, they cut to a shot of Cullen
standing on the sideline.

"Oh, hell," I mumble, wrinkling my nose when I see the dark circles under his eyes, visible just above the
rectangles of eye black smeared across his cheekbones. He shakes his head at something the
quarterback coach says, the stony set of his jaw never changing. I don't like the way he looks – and
neither does my suddenly churning stomach.

As the game begins, I take notes and keep offensive stats on my laptop. Cullen's completion percentage
is down slightly, but it's the yards-after-catch total that dips the most. None of the receivers can get free
of the defenders enough to gain more than two or three yards after a reception. Even with halftime
adjustments, the Seahawks' offense never really gets going.

With a sinking heart, I watch Cullen trudge to the sideline after throwing a pick six in the third quarter,
allowing the Packers to go ahead by two touchdowns. He's had enough media training to know that he
shouldn't show a lot of anger when the cameras are on him unless he wants to be the lead story on
SportsCenter, but the fact that he shows no emotion at all concerns me. He sits on the bench looking
through the pictures taken during the last drive with a blank expression on his face.

During the fourth quarter, the offense performs a little better. Cullen completes one deep pass to
Whitlock, and Fuller rushes eighteen yards for a touchdown, but it's too little, too late. The game ends
with the Seahawks losing by ten.

I watch Cullen's televised press conference, hating the flat look in his eyes. He suffers with every loss,
but this one seems to be especially painful for him. Standing at the podium, he answers every question
the reporters ask, but he lacks the easy wit he normally exhibits when speaking to them. His words are
still thoughtful; I see his left eye narrow the way it does when he's contemplating what to say. He
compliments the Packers' defense. And even though he wasn't the only one on the team who didn't play
well, he takes all the blame for the loss.

I text him when he's done, asking him to call me. He answers almost immediately.

*Don't feel like talking now, legs. I'll see you at home.

I reply that I understand, and I do, but my chest aches for the rest of the day. I stay busy by watching
other NFL games and making a list of topics for the show tomorrow morning. In my head, I imagine which
side Emmett will want to take on most of the topics and try to formulate responses supporting the
opposite view.

It's almost eleven o'clock when I finally hear the soft bell of the elevator. Scrambling up from the couch, I
leave the sex blankie and the book I was reading where I sat and rush toward the hallway, arriving just
as Cullen walks off the elevator. Without saying a word, I go straight toward him and hug him tightly,
winding one arm around his neck and the other around his waist. He stands still for a few seconds
before he lets his duffle bag drop to the floor and returns the embrace. Bit by bit, I feel his body relax
while I rub his back gently, slide my fingers along the nape of his neck.

"You don't have anything to say, legs?" he finally asks. "No smartass comment? No 'Get it together,
Cullen'?"

"No," I murmur against his shoulder. "Sometimes when you have a crappy day, you just need to know
that someone loves you. And I do."

He swallows before he speaks. "Thank you, Swan," he says hoarsely. "Thank you for always knowing
what I need. I love you, too."

We remain in place for a few more minutes before we let go. Pulling back enough to look into his eyes, I
shift one hand to his face. "What else do you need?"

"A shower. Come with me?"

Understanding what he's asking, I take his hand and lead him back to our bathroom. I open the shower
door and turn on all the showerheads and the steam. While the water warms up, we undress each other,
exchanging lingering kisses. Once we're in the steamy stall, I trace the lines of his shoulders and chest
with my fingertips, leaning forward to kiss his wet skin.

"I'm keeping you up too late," he mumbles, sinking his hands into my hair.

"I'll take a nap tomorrow," I answer, tilting my head back to look at him. He bends down to kiss me, but
it's obvious that his mind is somewhere else. When I pull away to look questioningly at him, he lets out a
heavy sigh.

"Sorry, legs. I can't get all this shit out of my head." He drops his hands and sits down on the wide, built-
in bench.

"Do you want me to leave you alone?" I ask tentatively. Leaning against the tile at his back, he closes
his eyes and shakes his head. "Do you want to talk about what's bugging you?"

"You watched the game, right?"

"Yeah, baby. I watched."

"My performance proved the point my parents made yesterday. To them, at least." Raising his right
hand, he presses his fingers against his eyes and swallows. "According to them, I'm wasting my life
working at a career that isn't specialized or cerebral. And today I wasn't even good at it."

Immediately, pain slices through my chest, my eyes fill with tears. I'm also enraged at his parents for
being a constant source of criticism in his life, but right now, making Cullen feel better is my main focus.

"Edward Cullen, your job is so specialized that only thirty-one other people on the entire planet have it at
any given time," I say fiercely. "You have excellent analytical skills and you remember everything you

see on film. You process more information in the first two-tenths of a second after the ball is snapped
than most people process in two minutes – from the movement of the defense to the ability of the
receivers to shake loose in the flat and stay on their routes."

"I appreciate the vote of confidence, Swan, but we both know I got lucky stepping into the situation here.
There were already good pieces in place."

"So? It's your job to execute plays and make all those pieces work together," I say, my voice trembling.
"And you do it. Every week. Win or lose. I think you're incredible."

"It's just never going to be enough for them. I have to accept that." When I sniffle, he moves his hand,
opening his eyes to look up at me through the steam. "Don't cry, Swan. It's not worth it."

"You're worth it," I declare. He reaches for me and I step between his legs, clutching his shoulders.
Resting his head against my stomach, he wraps his arms around my waist. "What about your granddad?
What does he think?"

"He said, 'Screw what they want and make yourself happy'," he recalls, causing me to smile. I think I love
his granddad. "And then he told me that his parents didn't want him to be a musician. But if he hadn't
been playing in that little jazz club in Chicago, he wouldn't have met Gran. And I started thinking that if I
wasn't playing football, I never would have moved here and had my ass insulted on the radio."

Tilting his head back slightly, he grins crookedly at me.

"I apologized," I defend, smiling back and hoping that his heavy mood is starting to fade. I stroke my
fingers across his cheek. "But I'm not really sorry that I said it."

"I'm not either," he says quietly, pressing his lips against my skin. As he kisses his way across my
stomach, his hands skim up my back, and then down to grasp the backs of my thighs. "We met the next
day because of it."

I start to answer him, but then exhale in a gust instead when he circles my belly button with his tongue.
The flash of desire is immediate and has me gripping his shoulders, trying to remain standing on my
shaky legs. Wrapping one arm around my waist to support me, he moves his mouth slowly up the center
of my body. My lips fall open; my nails dig into his skin as he teases the area between my breasts.

"Cullen. Oh, God," I whisper, shivering slightly as a tingle spreads up my spine and down my arms. He
closes his hand over one breast and his mouth over the other, and then looks up at me while he sucks
strongly. "I'm supposed to be making you feel better."

Humming against my skin, he swirls his tongue around my nipple and nudges my foot with his until I step
apart. When his fingers slip from my breast and trail down my abdomen, I moan, waiting impatiently for
his touch. Just before he slides his fingers between my legs, he pulls his mouth away from my breast.

"Watching you like this does make me feel better," he says.

He keeps his gaze locked with mine as his fingers skim over my clit and push inside me. It feels so good,
his hand pressed against me, that I can't stop my hips from rocking forward. Slow strokes gradually
speed up, the pleasure building until my eyes close, my head falls back. Crying out when the orgasm
bursts through me, I let him hold me up, I savor the sensation of his stubble-covered chin rubbing back
and forth across my stomach. As my body returns to normal, I look down at him, smile when he smiles at
me, and move willingly when he pulls me to straddle him.

Kissing him, I glide my tongue along his bottom lip, and then pull it between mine to suck gently. His
hands cup the sides of my neck, fingers sliding under my wet hair as he responds to my attention.
Intending to draw out his pleasure, I smooth my fingertips across his face, down his neck. I trace the
muscles of his shoulders and arms. Finally, I place my palms against his chest and let them fall slowly.
He groans into my open mouth as I finally wrap my hand around him.

"I love you so much," I murmur against his lips.

His only reply is to kiss me more passionately. He doesn't let me continue caressing him very long,
pulling my hand away and shifting us so I can sink down onto him. Tongues tangling, we breathe into
each other's mouths, but I know he needs more. I need more. Gripping his shoulders, I lift myself slowly,
delighting in the low sound Cullen makes. His hands land on my waist, fingers digging in, to guide me in
the rhythm he wants, and soon I feel myself racing toward another orgasm. Sliding his hands to my ass,
he moves me faster, driving into me at the same time. Wrenching my mouth away from his, I hold him
close as I come again, feeling him follow right after.

Panting, we stay still, wrapped around each other and surrounded by steam. He leans against the tile
wall and I lean against him, burying my face in his neck. His fingers skim up and down my spine a few
times, tickling me, before I feel his hands drop away to rest on the seat beside my legs. Smiling softly, I
hope that he's as satisfied as I am.

"Hey, legs," he mutters several minutes later, his voice deep and raspy. He waits until I answer before
continuing. "We've been in this shower for half an hour and we're dirtier than when we got in."

Laughing, I sit up to look at him. He's smiling, eyes barely open. "Come on, baby. I'll wash you off."

He grips my legs, not letting me stand quite yet. "Kiss me first," he pleads. I press my lips to his gently.
"Thanks for staying up with me."

After answering, I get up and pull him to his feet, rambling about my weekend while we finish showering.
Wrapped in a towel, he steps out of the stall first, and then offers me his hand as I follow.

"What are we doing for Thanksgiving?" he asks, surprising me.

"Um, I don't… don't you have regular practice Thursday?"

"Yeah, but I have Tuesday off. We could cook then."

All my life, holidays that take place during football season have just been regular workdays for my dad.
It's a side effect of the business. We've always celebrated in February when he has some time off.
Before now, it didn't occur to me that things would be any different with Cullen, but I'm instantly grinning,
excited by his suggestion.

"Really?"

"Really," he nods. "I know my schedule screws it up some, but I don't want to just ignore our first big
holiday together. Even if we can't have Thanksgiving on Thanksgiving."

"It's not about which day we cook the bird, Cullen. It's about taking time to be grateful for what we have,"
I contend.

"You're right. Maybe it should be our tradition – Thanksgiving on Tuesday every year." I recognize the
telltale redness creeping into his cheeks and know that he's anxious about what he's saying. "What do
you think?"

"I think having a tradition with you sounds absolutely perfect." Holding my towel closed with one hand, I
raise the other to his neck and boost myself up to kiss him.

We talk a little about what food we want to make, but neither of us can stop yawning while I dry my hair.
When we get into bed several minutes later, he curls up behind me, holding me close.

"Cullen, can I tell you something?" I whisper.

"Mmhmm."

"I never had a best friend when I was growing up. I mean, I had good friends, but I didn't have anyone

that I told everything to," I confide. Reaching for the hand he has draped across my waist, I pull it to my
lips, kissing his fingers. "Until you. You're my best friend."

"You're my best friend, too, Swan," he responds, his soft words slightly slurred with sleepiness. "I love
you so much."

Hearing him echo my feelings, I sigh happily and let my eyes slide closed. Too tired to answer, I squeeze
his hand, trusting that he'll understand what I mean… and he squeezes back.

"This is the best stuffing," Sue says, setting an index card in front of me. Pointing my phone at it, I take a
picture of each side of the card while she continues flipping through her recipe book.

"Will I be able to make all this stuff?" I mumble, flicking my finger across the screen and perusing the
recipes for all the Thanksgiving dinner staples. Turkey. Stuffing. Mashed potatoes. Sweet potatoes.
Pumpkin pie.

"Use the refrigerated pie crust," she advises. "You'll be fine for all the others."

"Thank you for everything," I smile.

I freaked out this afternoon, realizing that I've never done more than assist in the kitchen for holiday
meals. My mom isn't a great cook, but Sue is. When I called her for help, she volunteered to share all
her recipes… and she hasn't asked a single question about why I want them. Judging by her knowing
smiles, though, she's guessed I'm cooking for a man.

"You're welcome, sweetie."

We both turn toward the back door when it opens and my dad walks in.

"Hi, Bells! I was surprised to see your truck in the driveway. Everything okay?"

"Hey, Dad," I reply, standing up to hug and kiss him. "Things are fine."

"What brings you by?" He releases me partway, but keeps one arm around my shoulders.

"I just came to see Sue."

"Isn't that your holiday cookbook, honey?" he asks her, pointing toward the table. Before she has a
chance to answer, he turns to look at me, sadness evident in his brown eyes. "You're cooking
Thanksgiving dinner? You're not going to your mom's this year? You could go to Portland with Sue, you
know."

"She knows she's welcome at my sister's house, Charlie," Sue points out. "She doesn't want to go."

"She should be with family," he insists, clearly not catching Sue's hint. "I hate that I always miss the
holidays with you two.

"Oh, my God," I groan, pulling away from him and sitting down again. "Dad, can we please not do the
guilt thing again?"

"I just want you to be happy."

"I am," I say emphatically, letting my head hang back to look up at him. "I had a happy childhood. I have
a happy adulthood. I'm not scarred because you have to work on holidays during the season. We'll
celebrate Thanksgiving-mas in February the way we have since I was a kid."

He chuckles at my use of the moniker we came up with years ago for our make-up holiday. Resting his
hands on my shoulders, he squeezes lightly before moving toward Sue. He bends down to kiss her, and
then sits down, shrugging out of his jacket. I stay a little longer, but now that I know Cullen is probably at

the penthouse, I'm itching to get there, too. After hugging and kissing them both, I head for home.

"C'mere," Cullen mutters, lifting his head to look at me.

"I can't," I whine, adjusting the decorative pillow under my head. "I'm miserable."

Chuckling, he grabs my foot. "Me, too. We made a damn good Tuesday Thanksgiving, legs," he
pronounces.

In spite of my state of discomfort, I smile when I think about the day. Cullen did all the grocery shopping
while I was at work, and we spent the rest of the day side-by-side in the kitchen. We've cooked a lot of
meals and spent a lot of Tuesdays together, but today ranks among the best of both. We laughed at
each other's funny stories about Thanksgivings past and reminisced about our grandmothers. We
Googled cooking terminology we didn't know, dumped out one dish that went horribly wrong and high-
fived every time something turned out well.

When we finally sat down at the table, we toasted to our first holiday and named the things we're
thankful for. By dessert, I'd had two glasses of pinot and too much food, so I only had a couple of bites
of pie. Cullen, however, topped his piece with whipped cream and ate the whole thing before we moved
to the living room and collapsed on opposite ends of the couch.

"I agree," I answer with a satisfied sigh. "And we're good, too, right? I mean, every day, even though I
think this – us – can't get better… it just does."

"Yeah, Bella. We're good, too." His voice is raspy as his fingers tighten around my foot. "Make room. I'm
coming up there."

Rolling to my side, I giggle as he moves to lie next to me, groaning from the effort. We face each other,
intertwining our arms and legs. Content to enjoy the closeness of the moment, we kiss unhurriedly,
pausing often to smile at each other. My chest swells, overcome with love for him, gratitude for this day.

"We forgot to do the wishbone," he remembers, pulling back.

"I'm too comfortable to get up, Cullen."

"But it's a tradition. It's good luck." I have no defense against the wrinkled brow, the plaintive look in his
eyes.

"All right, but I'm still not getting up. We'll have to improvise. Close your eyes and hold out your pinky," I
order, smiling when he immediately complies. He's so boyishly cute this way. I hook my pinky around his
and lean forward to kiss him. "Make a wish and pull."

Physically, I know I'm no match for Cullen, but I also know he won't use all his strength to beat me right
off the bat. I put up a fight long enough that I hope he won't know I'm totally letting him win, and then give
up the struggle. Clasping my hand to his chest, he opens his eyes and grins crookedly at me.

"Did you lose on purpose so I could get my wish?"

Shrugging one shoulder, I answer cryptically. "Maybe. What did you wish for?"

"If I tell you, it won't come true," he refuses, wrapping his arm around my waist. He slips his hand up the
back of my shirt, gliding his fingers along my skin. "What about yours?"

"I couldn't think of anything to wish for," I admit. "I have everything I want right here. I'm so happy."

"I am, too."

"But you still made a wish."

"So maybe my wish involves you… and me… and our happiness," he leads, raising one eyebrow at me.

"Cullen, I'm suffering from tryptophan overload," I complain, burrowing into his chest. "I'm only going to
be awake about forty-five more seconds. I can't follow some wayward brain teaser tonight."

"Okay, baby. Go to sleep. I'll fill you in later."

Before I slip into the kind of nap that's only possible when you have a full stomach and a full heart, I
clutch his shirt in my fist, loving the way he's wrapped both arms around me.

"Happy first Thanksgiving," I mumble.

His lips rest against my forehead, ruffling my hair as he answers. "Happy first Thanksgiving, Swan."

On Sunday, Cullen and his teammates play an almost flawless game in Houston, scoring thirty-one
points while holding the Texans to just a field goal. Cullen takes a knee on the last play of the game and
keeps his expression neutral as he shakes hands with several players on the other team, but he doesn't
fool me. I see the excitement in his eyes. The win is the most lopsided so far this year, and is Cullen's
best statistical game to date. I watch with joy as he answers questions during the post-game presser with
his usual unassuming humor. When he gets home late that night, his smile is wide and his eyes are
shining.

After a short practice on Monday, he spends several hours doing radio and television interviews for both
local and national media outlets. But by early evening, he's situated on the leather couch in the living
room, watching game film of the Vikings to prepare for next weekend. His playbook is open on the coffee
table in front of him, and he's taking notes on the legal pad balanced in his lap.

He seems engrossed in his task, so when I pick my laptop up from the kitchen counter and head toward
the bedroom, I try to be quiet. He doesn't turn to look at me, but as I walk past, he reaches one arm over
his head, bent at the elbow, palm up.

"Come here, legs."

Veering his way, I skim my fingers across his palm playfully. Bending over the back of the couch, I set my
laptop down beside him and kiss the top of his head. When I wrap my arms around his shoulders, he
threads his fingers with mine.

"What's up?"

"Watch this." Grabbing the remote, he rewinds the video and shows me several plays. "Tell me what you
see."

"Hmmm. They give the illusion of pressure by lining up in blitz formation, but they don't blitz when the ball
is snapped," I say, surprised that I can concentrate on the television with his thumb rhythmically stroking
the underside of my wrist. "They drop back and play man-on-man at the line most of the time."

"What else?"

"I think you can go after the weak side safety," I continue. "It looks like he usually bites on the out route
and tries to go stride for stride with the wide receiver. If the receiver stutters and switches back toward
the post, the safety will run right by. Nobody else in the secondary is fast enough to catch the wide
receiver, leaving the potential for a big gain."

"I love listening to you break down the defense," he says, squeezing my fingers as he presses his lips to
them.

"You love getting me to do your work for you," I tease, even though I can read on his notepad that he's
already identified the same patterns I did, plus more. I kiss him again before I pull away. "I'm going to go

finish a couple of things for the morning. Are you coming to bed soon?"

"Yeah. In a bit," he answers, but I can tell I've already lost his attention as he goes back to watching the
video.

An hour later, I'm typing notes for the show when I hear Cullen come into the room. Sitting propped
against the headboard, I see him standing at the end of the bed, but he doesn't say anything until I look
up at him, raising my eyebrows.

"Hey." I continue typing, trying not to lose my train of thought.

"Hey."

He crawls up the bed to lie facedown, wrapping his arms around my waist. I glance at the screen again,
my fingers clicking quickly across the keys. Using his forearm, he nudges the laptop away from me until
it becomes difficult to type. More amused than annoyed, I save the document and move the computer off
my legs. Immediately, Cullen shifts to put his head in my lap, closing his eyes as I drag my fingers
through the top of his hair again and again. I rest my other hand in the middle of his chest, and he
reaches for it, playing idly with my fingers.

"I love you, Swan," he says quietly.

"I love you, too. Are you done studying?"

"For tonight. I'll get more video tomorrow."

"Good. I don't want you flattened by any of those defensive backs next Sunday. Burgess really trucks
around the outside if he gets a jump on the O-line."

"I don't want to talk about football, Bella," he murmurs.

"Okay," I smile, playing along. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Tomorrow."

"Do you get the whole day off?"

"Yeah. No practice. No meetings," he confirms. "Do you have plans after your show?"

"Nope," I answer, still sliding my fingers through his hair. "Why?"

"I've been thinking that we should… I want us to do something."

"What do you want us to do?" I ask, mentally running through the list of Seattle activities he's mentioned
before. The ferry. The aquarium. The vintage music store on Pike Street.

But staring down at him, I see his face begin to redden and immediately sense that none of those things
are what he has in mind. Realizing that he's nervous to tell me, I feel a sense of dread begin to spread
outward from my chest, and I have to remind myself that he just said he loves me; whatever he wants
can't be that bad. When I feel his heart beating rapidly under my palm, however, my stomach flips and I
have a hard time breathing.

His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, and then his eyes pop open. The bright green gaze that meets
mine is anxious… expectant.

"Get married."

*Chapter 14*: Keeper

A/N: Sorry for the unplanned delay. I'll save the random rambles for after the chap. Read or
skip as you wish. :)

Thanks so much to Littlecat358 for always helping when I need it and for making great
suggestions.

I truly appreciate the reviews, follows and favorites. Thanks also to those who have rec'd the
story via blog, word of mouth or otherwise. xxoo

Thanks for reading. Please review.

With the sound of my rapid heartbeats echoing in my ears, I sit stunned, staring down at Cullen as my
mouth hangs slightly open. Sprawled sideways on the bed with his head in my lap, he stares back. His
vivid gaze is paralyzing; I can't look away, although I think I want to. Suddenly heavy, my arms go slack,
causing the hand I have in his hair to drop and lay motionless on my leg.

"Wha–?" Exhaling in a gust, the word is hardly audible, even to me.

"Let's get married."

When I hear his simple statement, my other hand tightens, balling into a fist on his chest and clutching
the material of his shirt between my fingers. Cullen's large hand covers it, his thumb sliding rhythmically
across my knuckles. Blinking slowly, I try to process what he's now said twice. My mind races, but comes
up blank.

"Huh?"

"Legs, I know there's an extensive vocabulary in there somewhere," he murmurs. His voice is tinged with
amusement, but his face remains sincere. "Do I really have to repeat myself? Again?"

"Huh uh." Through the fog clouding my brain, euphoria bubbles to the surface. But the flash of
exhilaration is short-lived, quickly tempered by the cold weight of panic that follows. "You, um… um,
you…what?"

"You heard me."

"Married? Tomorrow?" At last, two coherent, multisyllabic words burst their way out of my thick-tongued
mouth.

"Mmhmm."

Fleetingly, a vision of my Journalism 101 professor pops into my mind. She drilled the basics of
investigative reporting into the heads of her eager students, and I used to methodically dissect
situations, identifying the five W's: Who? What? When? Where? Why? This seems like a strange time
for that old habit to reappear, but the internal dialogue of question and answer begins instinctively. For
a moment, applying step-by-step logic calms my frenzied thoughts… until the fourth W stumps me,
bringing the process to a dead stop.

"Where?" I ask. "The courthouse?"

"No, King County has a three-day waiting period. But there's a ten-thirty flight to Vegas tomorrow
morning."

Holy crap. Holy, holy, holy crap. My stomach somersaults wildly with the realization that this isn't a spur
of the moment whim. He's done research. He's been on Expedia. Or Kayak. Or Travelocity. He's serious
about this… this… this.

"Jeez, Cullen. What's the rush?" I mutter, uncomfortable under his intense stare. As alarm takes hold in
my chest, my innate defense mechanism flares and I let the wisecracks fly. "Why so anxious for the ball
and chain? Are you about to be deported? Did you commit a crime and don't want me to testify against
you? Oh, my God! Are you pregnant?"

His eyebrows shoot up, wrinkling his forehead. At the same time, the left side of his mouth twitches as he
struggles not to smile. Oh, damn. He's really cute. But I'm a little annoyed by his look of pleased
bemusement… annoyed that, as usual, my reaction is probably transparent to him.

"What's so funny?" I demand, hackles raised.

"You're adorable when you have a normal freak out."

"Nothing about this conversation is normal," I grumble. "Aren't you supposed to distract me before you
spring the big stuff on me?"

"This is too important, Bella. You have to be sure about what you want."

"I don't know what I want for dinner tomorrow and you expect me to know if I want to go… if I want to
get..." My stomach is still rolling and now my breaths are coming fast and shallow. A light sweat has
broken out across my upper lip, the bridge of my nose. I'm either going to throw up or pass out – or
both. "Oh, God. I feel sick."

"That's exactly what I was hoping you'd say when I proposed, Swan," he remarks wryly. "A simple 'yes'
would have been so cliché."

An uncontrolled giggle escapes my mouth. I need to think, though; I can't allow myself to be entertained
by his sarcastic humor right now. Fighting to regain my composure, I try to sound resolute when I speak
between rapid inhalations. "Cullen, we can't just elope."

"Yes, we can. People do it all the time."

"But no one even knows about us."

"So at the end of the season, instead of telling people we're dating, we'll tell them we're married." His
tone is relaxed, matter-of-fact, as if we're discussing a topic as ordinary as the weather. "And we can
have a party."

"A reception," I correct automatically. "We would have a…"

When I see the glimmer of triumph in his eyes, my voice trails off, realizing he's getting the impression
that I'm warming up to this crazy idea. But I'm not. Absolutely not. Definitely not. Not that warm, anyway.
Really… mostly… not.

"Reception," he agrees, finishing my abandoned sentence.

Silence settles in the room, broken only by the sound of our breathing. Long seconds elapse while
Cullen waits for me to say something, keeping his gaze locked on mine. My thoughts are disjointed,
though, reeling from the surreal turn this night has taken – and from the way I'm starting to feel about it. I
remain close-mouthed, watching as his face slowly falls, as disappointment fills his green eyes.

When he looks away, breaking our connection, pain slices through my chest. Hating his expressionless
face and averted gaze, my heart hammers, protesting my continued reticence. I know I've hurt him, and I
try desperately to think of a soothing remark, a witty retort – anything that will fill this dead air. Suddenly,
I remember that I didn't ask him about the fifth W. Curiosity wins, even though part of my brain urges me
to quit while I'm ahead… while I'm still capable of controlling my emotions.

"Why tomorrow?"

He doesn't answer at first, continuing to stare across the room. Finally, he shrugs one shoulder. "One

reason is because it might be my last day off before the end of the regular season." Although we haven't
talked about it, I already assumed that. With five games remaining on the schedule, the Seahawks are
fighting for post-season position. After a home game this week, three of the last four games will be
played out of town, which means short preparation weeks, Tuesday meetings and very little time off,
even for Christmas. "But that's really reason number two."

"What's reason number one?" I whisper, both terrified and anxious to hear it. His bright eyes snap back
to meet mine again.

"I don't want to spend one more day not married to you."

"Cullen," I croak, suppressing a sob. It feels like my heart stutters, tilts in my chest. Blinded by the tears
that instantly pool in my eyes, I grip the front of his shirt more forcefully, pulling the fabric away from his
body. Jumbled emotions and desires swarm inside while nonsense pours from my mouth, unrestrained.
"How am I supposed to? How can we? I think… Jesus, Edward. I don't know what to say."

"It's okay, baby. Take your time. I know you didn't expect this."

"That's an understatement," I mumble, my response encompassing much more than what's happening
tonight. No, I didn't see this conversation coming, but I also didn't expect to meet him, fall for him, love
him so much. I didn't know if I would ever find someone who would want me despite my quirks and
insecurities… someone who would totally get me. But Cullen does. Again and again, he pushes me to
the edge of what I think I can do, and then convinces me to go a step farther, take a leap of faith. Each
time, he's there beside me. Each time, it turns out better than I imagined.

Oh, no. Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit.

"Sit back and close your eyes," he suggests, and, grateful for a momentary escape, I do. My shoulders
sink into the pillow at my back while my head thuds softly against the wood. "Just relax for a minute."

When I shut my eyes, my breathing slows and the panic that flustered my mind recedes, little by little.
Gradually, he pries my left hand out of its tense, curled position, and lifts it, capturing it between both of
his. The gentle touch of his palms soothes me even more, and the tension begins to float out of my neck
and shoulders.

The voice inside my head recites a list of reasons it's opposed to this idea, but my heart isn't listening,
focused instead on the way his hands surround mine. He doesn't hold too tightly, which might make me
feel trapped. He doesn't hold too loosely, so I'm not afraid my hand will fall. His steady grasp is symbolic
of how he makes me feel every day – supported, treasured. I hope I do the same for him. Well, at least
when I'm not freaking out.

With that final epiphany, the voice in my head surrenders and goes quiet. Gulping down the lump in my
throat, I speak quietly.

"You really want to do this?"

"Mmhmm. But if you say no, if you're not ready, it won't change the way I feel about you."

"What if I'm terrible at it?"

"You won't be."

"What if you're terrible at it?"

"Terrible how? Leaving dirty clothes on the floor? Saying I'll take the trash out and then forgetting to do
it?"

"You already do that crap," I mutter, unable to contain the smirk when I feel him shake with laughter.

"True," he agrees quietly, staying mum about my faults even though they outnumber his by far. "Do you

want to spend the rest of your life with me anyway?"

In a millisecond, I know the answer – and it has nothing to do with dirty clothes or household chores.
Behind my eyelids, new tears gather, dampening my lashes as I answer honestly. "Yes."

"I know this seems rash, like it doesn't make sense, but–."

"It makes sense," I interrupt, shocked at my candor… shocked that I actually believe his plan is more
than logical: It's perfect. Since there's a lengthy pause before he goes on, I guess he's surprised, too.

"Then let's do it." His voice is still hushed, but I can hear the excitement creeping in. "Let's fly to Vegas
after your show. We'll come home tomorrow night as husband and wife."

"Wife and husband," I argue teasingly, sniffing.

"Wife and husband," he echoes, imitating my tone. The words hang in the air unanswered and I'm sure
the significance of this comfortable lull isn't lost on him. No more smartass comments. No more protests.
No more freaking out. He sits up, removing the weight and warmth of his head from my legs. Shifting our
hands, he keeps hold of mine with one of his as he moves around on the bed. When our knees bump, I
open my eyes, looking briefly at our joined hands before raising my eyes to his face. "I promise I won't
be terrible at it."

Nodding, affected by his husky, emotion-filled voice, I reply softly. "I know."

After a few seconds go by, he prods. "Are you going to give me an answer, Swan?"

"You haven't asked me the question yet, Cullen." I watch his lips curl upward, his eyes crinkling at the
corners, when he realizes I'm right. He tugs on my hand, and I go willingly, gripping his shoulder for
balance as I move ungracefully to straddle his lap; I wanted to be closer to him, too. I hear him swallow
just before he says the words.

"Will you marry me?"

"Yes," I whisper, smiling as I press my lips to his. "Will you marry me?"

He chuckles, but doesn't hesitate. "Yes."

"Then it's settled," I murmur between kisses. "We're getting married." Pulling back with a gasp, I look at
him, wide-eyed. "Holy crap, Cullen! We're getting married. Tomorrow. We don't have rings. I don't have
a dress. We don't even have airline tickets."

"We have tickets," he interjects sheepishly as his cheeks redden. Pursing my lips to the side, I furrow my
brow. "I already booked us on the flight."

"I don't know if that's presumptuous or romantic."

"It's both," he quips. "But mostly romantic."

He kisses me, first nipping at my lower lip, and then sliding his tongue along mine as our mouths meet
and pull apart again and again. His broad hand is spread across my back, holding me tightly against his
chest, and I get lost in the rush of prickling desire that crawls up my spine. But I resist when he tries to
tip us sideways to lie down.

"What's wrong?" he asks, skimming his mouth along my jaw.

"Don't we need to make some plans?" I mumble.

"Mmhmm. In a minute." Burying his face in my neck, he sucks on the skin below my ear. His hand falls
lower on my back, keeping me in place as he presses himself against me. For a moment, I let myself
enjoy the sensation, rolling my hips just a bit… just enough to make him groan. Then, moving quickly, I

detach myself and scoot off the bed.

"Legs," he protests, turning to look at me. "Come back. I'll behave."

He joins in when I laugh; we both know that's not true. "No way. I've been tricked into that before,
Cullen," I claim, backing up a couple of steps. "Besides, I feel like… I mean, I think maybe we should
wait, you know, until tomorrow."

"You're kidding me," he gripes, lying back on the bed. But I see his grin before he rolls to his stomach,
hiding his face. "We're not going to have sex the whole time we're engaged?"

Engaged. A thrill rushes through me when he says the word, but I keep my tone cheeky as I reply. "I
think you'll survive twenty-four hours."

"It'll be more like twenty-seven before we get home," he remarks. Turning his head, he studies me. "It's
no problem for me. I'm just worried about you."

"Me?" I ask, narrowing my eyes.

"Yeah. You're always grabbing at me, trying to pull my clothes off." He pushes himself up to sit on the
side of the bed, fighting to keep a straight face. "So if you change your mind about waiting, it's okay. I
won't judge you."

"Thanks," I laugh, moving to stand between his legs. "I'm not changing my mind, though. About
anything."

"Good to know." Wrapping his arms around my waist, he holds me close, sighing against my collarbone.
"I love you, Swan."

Smiling, feeling like my heart might burst, I answer. "I love you, too."

"What's up with you today?"

Emmett's question breaks the silence in the studio, startling me. Pulling my attention away from the
notes I was reading on my laptop, I glance to my right and meet his inquisitive stare.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Swan, you've spent the last three years openly admiring a certain tight end's tight end. He was on
Monday Night Football last night, but you've barely mentioned him or his tight, white pants."

Emmett's right; I usually can't contain my Jimmy Graham gushing, although my appreciation this season
has been solely centered on his talent and effort, and not his ass. But my preoccupation with watching
the clock this morning has hindered my interest for every topic we've discussed, including Jimmy. I'm not
fessing up to that, though.

"The Saints don't wear white pants," I retort instead, smirking. "Home or away."

"Forget the pants," he says through gritted teeth, exasperated by my evasion. "He had a season-high
receiving yards total, but you've hardly commented on it."

"I said he had a great game. What else do you want me to say?"

Looking away from him, I focus on sorting the papers for the lead-in. We're in the final bottom-of-the-
hour break of the show, meaning we'll be off the air in just over half an hour, and I'll be driving straight to
the airport. Cullen should be on his way there now – in a cab, so we can ride home together when we
get back tonight. Tonight. After our wedding. Butterflies flit furiously around my stomach, half excited
and half nervous… but all happy.

"That's not the only weird thing about you today," Emmett remarks, interrupting my daydream.
Apparently, he's not finished scrutinizing my behavior. His chair creaks as he leans back in it, and I can
feel his eyes still trained on me. "The lounge coffee is shitty, but you haven't complained or begged Seth
to make a Starbucks run. And last hour, Newton gave you two cold reads, which you hate. You didn't
even bitch about him."

"Emmett, the coffee here is never good and Newton is always a jackwagon."

"Yes," he agrees emphatically, rolling his chair over next to mine. Belatedly, I peek at the microphone
light to make sure our conversation isn't being broadcast in the control room and am relieved to see it's
unlit. "But you didn't react. At fucking all. You're all Zen and cheerful today, like you've been drugged
or… oh, oh… wait a minute."

"What?" Involuntarily, my head swivels and I find myself practically nose-to-nose with him.

"Did you get lucky last night?"

Although I try to muster some outrage at his intrusive question, he asks it so innocently – with a quirked
eyebrow and deep dimples – that I answer spontaneously.

"No," I reply, drawing the word out.

Boisterous laughter fills the room as Emmett shakes his head at me disbelievingly. I can't stop the wide
smile that pulls at my lips. "You're lying," he accuses.

"Am not."

I guess I am lying, even though I didn't get lucky the way he means. The plans for today came together
so easily – from the car service to the dinner reservation in the wine cellar of an Italian restaurant – that
luck had to have something to do with it. Cullen and I spent an hour talking to the coordinator at the
location we chose for the ceremony. The coordinator, Mrs. Cope, assured us that the after-sunset
wedding in an almond orchard north of the city would be private and confidential. And beautiful.

"You totally are. You got a little brown chicken, brown cow," he laughs, waggling his eyebrows.

"Shut up." Rolling my eyes with a huff, I face my computer screen again.

"We're back in thirty seconds. Bella, you have the lead-in." At Seth's reminder from the control room, I
hold my thumb up over my shoulder, acknowledging that I heard him.

"You're skipping the post-show meeting?" Emmett is still sitting close by, still not ready to give up on the
interrogation.

"Uh huh. Leaving as soon as we're clear."

"What did you say you're doing today?"

"I didn't say."

"Newton wants to know where you're going."

"It's none of his business."

"He thinks you're interviewing for a job somewhere else."

Since Emmett sounds worried, I turn to look him in the eye. "Then he's either paranoid or hopeful. I just
have some personal stuff to do."

He nods, moving back to his spot as the show music begins playing in our IFBs. Scooting toward the mic,
I clear my throat and watch the break clock tick toward zero.

"Swan," Emmett says quietly, waiting until I shift my gaze his way to continue. "Whatever you're doing
today, it seems like it's important to you."

"It is."

"Mics are hot," Seth announces. "On-air in six… five."

"Then good luck." Emmett whispers, leaning away from his microphone. He holds a closed fist toward
me. I bump it twice with mine, and then we point at each other, both smiling.

"Thank you," I mouth as Seth finishes counting us in.

The rest of the show passes without any more snooping by my co-host. He offers to take my IFB and
battery pack once we're off the air, suggesting that I sneak out the back door of the station to avoid
Newton. Since my goal is to elude Newton as often as possible, I follow Emmett's advice, only pausing
long enough to wave goodbye to Seth through the control room window.

Traffic is light during my drive to the airport. In the parking garage, I find a great spot near the skybridge
to the terminal. Everything is going according to plan – until I get to the security checkpoint. The line is
long. Really long. I try to be patient, but after standing still for a few minutes, I'm craning my neck to see
what's going on at the front.

"One of the scanners is broken," the man in front of me says, turning around. He's older, with kind, blue
eyes and silver hair. "We haven't moved for ten minutes."

"Oh, crap," I mutter.

"Half of the people in line headed to one of the other checkpoints, but we heard they're backed up, too."
He shrugs before facing forward again.

For the next fifteen minutes, I bounce nervously on my feet as we inch forward, afraid that this snail's
pace isn't fast enough to get me to the gate in time. As I'm checking the clock on my phone for the
millionth time, it buzzes in my hand. Cullen.

*Cold feet?

*Long security line.

*You've still got time. Don't worry.

It's a little late for that, but I don't tell him. Lifting up on my toes, I scan the crowd and try to guess how
many people are in front of me, but I quickly realize it doesn't matter how many. It's too many. When
tears prick the back of my eyes, I blink them away, holding myself together… until my phone buzzes
again a few minutes later.

*You gonna make it, legs? Our flight is boarding.

Inhaling shakily, I cover my mouth with the back of my hand. Yesterday I didn't even know I wanted this,
but now the thought of missing this flight – missing this day – crushes me. I type a response, praying it's
true.

*I'll be there.

The man in front of me peers over his shoulder, looking uneasy when he sees that I'm upset. He elbows
the woman next to him and whispers to her. She turns to face me, concern wrinkling her already-wrinkled
brow.

"Honey, why are you crying?"

"I'm supposed to get married today," I mumble, wiping at the wetness under my eyes. "But I'm going to

miss my flight."

"Goodness gracious! There won't be a wedding if the bride's not there," she declares. "Let's make sure
that doesn't happen, shall we?"

Winding her arm through mine she pulls me forward, and then taps the shoulder of the woman ahead of
her. My rescuer explains my story so loudly that several others turn around to hear it, and before I really
know what's happening, I'm being passed up the line by smiling strangers. Some pat me on the back as I
thank them or wish me luck as they nudge me forward. It's not long until I'm almost at the front of the line
– but then a stern look from a middle-aged businessman stops me in my tracks.

"You can't just jump the line," the suit-and-tie grouch snaps.

"She didn't," someone defends from behind me. "We let her go ahead of us."

"Well, I'm not letting her cut in front of me," he responds defiantly.

"She'll miss her flight," another voice chimes in. "And her wedding."

"Please, sir," I beg, undeterred by his scowl. "My boyfriend – fiancé – won't have another day off for at
least a month."

"What kind of job does he have?" His condescending tone sets my teeth on edge, but I know I have to
play nice to get past him.

"One he loves. But he doesn't get much time off in December."

"Come on, man. Have a heart," the guy behind me says. I spare a second to smile at him and he smiles
back. "Quit wasting time and let her by."

Looking quizzically at the grouch again, I wait until he grudgingly steps aside, grumbling under his
breath. The last few people in line wave me through, and I hear some of them applaud after I pass the
inspection of the first TSA agent. Turning around, I seek out the couple who initially propelled me
forward in line and wave to them. Then I rush through security and practically sprint down the
concourse.

My heart jumps when I spot Cullen standing near the gate, holding our bags and towering over everyone
around him. Under the bill of my old Mariners hat, his eyes search the crowd. He doesn't see me,
though, lost in the sea of average-sized people. I want to yell his name and run to him, but I don't want to
attract attention – especially since it was my idea to keep this relationship just between us until the end
of the season.

Instead, I veer to the left, separating myself from the cluster of people, hoping he'll notice me. His
crooked grin appears at once when our eyes meet.

"You're cutting it pretty close, legs," he says, gathering me close with one arm when I reach him.

"I know," I whisper, clinging to his neck. I want to tell him everything that happened in the security line.
But over his shoulder, I see that only a few people are still boarding our flight and the waiting area is
almost empty. Conversation can wait. "Can we get on the plane now?"

"I don't know, Swan," he chuckles as he releases me, bending down to peck my lips. "Can we?"

In the backseat of the black SUV, I stare out the window as we speed along the highway. It's impossible
to see all the sights of the strip from this angle, but I read the names of as many hotels as I can. Cullen
holds my hand on the seat between us, stroking his thumb idly along mine and talking to the chauffeur,
Billy. Ever since Edward mentioned that his granddad once played at Caesars Palace with Ella
Fitzgerald, they've been discussing the golden age of music in Vegas. Liberace. Wayne Newton. Elvis.

The Rat Pack. I'm listening quietly, impressed with their knowledge but distracted by the enormous
buildings that seem to glitter under the desert sun.

Our first stop is the county clerk's office. There are so many people roaming the halls of the courthouse
that I'm afraid it will take hours to get our marriage license, but, thankfully, the process is quick. We're
back in the car within twenty minutes and headed toward the jewelry store that Mrs. Cope
recommended.

During the drive, I carefully unfold the license and lay it on my lap. I can't stop staring at it.

"Everything spelled correctly?" Cullen asks, amused.

"Yeah," I nod absently. "But holy crap, Cullen. This is, like, official. We're getting married."

"I know, baby," he laughs.

"Here we are," Billy announces.

When the car stops, I look up with a start and lay the paper on the seat beside me. The jewelry store is
freestanding, located in the parking lot of a shopping center. Cullen comes around to open my door,
and as he helps me out, I notice a boutique across the lot. I'm so busy staring at the dress in the window
that Cullen has to say my name twice to get my attention. Apologizing, I slide my fingers between his,
gripping tightly as we walk into the store.

Inside, we look around for a few minutes before a salesman comes to check on us. Edward asks him to
show us several rings topped with large diamonds. They're stunning and sparkly… but not me. Wrinkling
my nose, I shake my head and wander away with Edward and the salesman trailing behind. I pass by
glass case after glass case, then stop suddenly when I see one I like. It's exactly what I wanted.

"Ah, the antique rings," the salesman says, moving to stand across the counter from me. "I thought you
might end up over here. Is there one in particular that caught your eye?"

"That one," I say breathlessly, pointing to a wide, silver-colored band.

"This is a beautiful piece from the early 1930's," he explains, removing it from the case. He hands it to
me, motioning for me to try it on, and I slide it onto my finger. It's perfect. "The eighteen karat white gold
band is engraved with orange blossoms. Each flower has a diamond center, and the jewels are all
original. Seven diamonds in all."

"Seven," I repeat, turning to look at Cullen beside me. "That's the first thing you said to me."

"I remember," he says, reaching for my hand. Fighting tears, I watch as he twists the ring on my finger.
"You want to try any others?" Afraid to try and speak, I shake my head. "Okay. Now we just need mine."

While I reluctantly remove the ring and hand it across the counter, the salesman points Cullen in the
direction of the men's wedding bands. Walking toward him unhurriedly, I scan the vintage jewelry in the
other cases, pausing several times to look more closely. I hear the salesman talking quietly about which
rings match mine in age and finish, and then Cullen calls my name.

"Find one?" I ask. He holds his hand up, the ring already in place. My eyes dart from his finger to his
face and back again. After examining the simple band and its raised, ridged edges, I look up at him.
"You like it?"

"Yeah. Do you?" Nodding slowly, I blow out a long, silent breath as Cullen tells the salesman that we'll
take both of them. Pleased, he disappears into the back room to clean and box them. Cullen turns to
face me again, looking a little dazed. "Jesus. Can you believe this? The only two rings we tried on fit
perfectly. What do you call that?"

Several words spring to mind: Eerie, unsettling, bizarre, disconcerting – maybe even flat-out creepy. But

when I open my mouth, a totally different, yet fitting, response comes out.

"Fate." Concerned that he's having second thoughts, I lift my hand to his jaw and step closer, narrowing
my eyes. "Are you freaking out, Cullen? Because that's my gig, you know."

"I'm not freaking out." Smiling, I boost myself up to kiss him, and then laugh when his stomach growls.
"I'm starving, though."

We agree that he'll go get food for us while I wait for the rings and shop for a dress. As soon as he's
gone, I beckon the salesman toward the vintage watch case. After looking at a few, I choose one for
Cullen and ask if it can be engraved. Fast. I'm running out of time.

Less than ten minutes later, I leave the store with the watch and rings. Crossing the parking lot, I study
the dress in the boutique's window. It's elegant, cream-colored, knee-length. Bridal but not too bridal,
which is exactly what I had in mind; I want to wear it home.

Since I'm the only customer in the boutique, I get a lot of attention. Three ladies listen to my story, ask
my size, and then divide and conquer. In the fitting room, they bring me undergarments, a garter,
lingerie for later and even a black cardigan that I can wear as camouflage on the plane. And, finally, the
dress.

"Please fit. Please fit," I mutter, eyes squeezed shut, as they help me try it on.

I hear their quiet approvals before I look in the mirror and I know: It does.

"Almost there," Billy declares, turning onto a winding road.

Although Cullen and I have been talking quietly, Billy's announcement halts our conversation. As Cullen
leans forward to ask him how much further, nervous excitement stirs my stomach. Glancing out my
window, I pull two pieces of gum from my purse, unwrapping one to chew. We pass the lush greens of a
golf course, and within a minute I see the entrance sign for our destination, Valley Grove. Gulping down
my gum, I immediately put the second piece in my mouth.

Up ahead, I recognize the sandy-colored building topped with a red tile roof that Cullen and I saw online
last night. As we get closer and closer, I chomp my gum harder and harder. By the time Billy drives
under the covered part of the circle drive, my heart is pounding and I'm fidgeting in my seat. I've also
swallowed another piece of gum and reloaded.

The woman waiting on the sidewalk comes forward to open my door when we roll to a stop, introducing
herself as Mrs. Cope. Cullen walks around from his side of the SUV to meet her, and soon after, she's
got each of us by the wrist, pulling us to the back of the car.

"It's a fantastic day for a wedding," she enthuses as Cullen breaks away from her to get our bags.
"December can be chilly, but it's nice and warm today."

When I see Cullen curiously peeking inside the shopping bag from the boutique, I yank it from his hands,
grinning and shaking my head. We follow Mrs. Cope into the building, stopping briefly in the dressing
rooms to drop off our things. She chatters almost nonstop as she leads us through the ballroom where
large receptions are held, and then out through a set of French doors to the rear of the property. We
take a curving path past a fountain and around the side of a large gazebo.

"This also makes a wonderful place for the ceremony, but when you said you wanted something intimate
and secluded, I knew it had to be the orchard. Now, don't worry when you see it," she warns, which, of
course, makes me immediately apprehensive. And as the cluster of almond trees comes into view, I see
the bare, gnarled branches and understand her concern. In the online pictures, the trees were full and
beautiful. It didn't occur to me that the leaves would all have fallen off by this time of year. "It doesn't look
like much now, but it's breathtaking after dark. Trust me."

Even though I'm a little disappointed, I nod and smile politely. Cullen and I cooperate as she points here
and there, showing us where he'll stand, where I'll walk. She describes the music and the photographer
and the minister. When she asks if we want to rehearse, I look at Cullen and shrug.

"Want to wing it, Swan?" he asks, winking at me.

"It's worked for us so far," I laugh. Stepping closer to his side, I wrap my arms around his waist.

After making sure we don't have any other questions, Mrs. Cope hustles away, claiming she still has a
lot to do. Once she's out of earshot, he steps in front of me, meeting my gaze.

"You all right?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"You've swallowed five pieces of gum, legs."

"Only four," I chide jokingly, holding the fifth piece between my teeth to show him. Chuckling, he leans
down to kiss me, but I pull away after a few seconds. "Hang on. I have something for you."

"I have something for you, too," he replies, reaching into his pocket. Holding a black velvet pouch, he
takes my hand and turns it palm up. He tips the pouch, sliding a silver bracelet into my hand.

"It matches my ring!" I exclaim when I see that it's imprinted with the same delicate flowers as my wedding
band. Deep blue sapphires separate the two blossoms on each link. "How did you find it?"

"The salesman at the jewelry store pointed it out to me, so I went back while you were shopping."

Swallowing my gum, I hook it around my wrist, and then look up. "It's beautiful, Cullen. Thank you. I love
it. I love you." Lifting up on my tiptoes, I wrap my arms around his shoulders, holding tightly. Flat-footed
again, I take the square watch box from my purse and give it to him. "Happy wedding day."

Grinning crookedly, he opens it. "Swan, you shouldn't have done this."

"I know you already have a watch–."

"That's not what I mean," he interjects. "This… is expensive."

"Well, I can't return it. It's already engraved."

Removing it from the box, he turns it over and reads the inscription. "From the first minute, I fell." The
date and our initials are also etched on the silver backing, but he doesn't say the rest out loud. He
keeps his head bowed for so long that I'm afraid he doesn't like it. At length, he clears his throat and
unclasps his other watch, putting it in his pocket. With the watch I gave him in its place, he looks at me
with slightly reddened, but mischievous, eyes. "If you were falling, then how come you kept turning me
down when I asked you to dinner?"

"Because falling for you scared the crap out of me. I didn't think I should put that on your wedding gift,
though," I quip. We're both smiling as he bends down, and just before we kiss, I murmur the truth against
his lips. "But I fell, Cullen. And it's the best thing I've ever done."

"Come in," I say, answering the quiet knock. Mrs. Cope peeks around the door, smiling genuinely at me.

"How are you doing, dear? Need any help?"

"Yes, please. My zipper." She closes the door to my dressing room as I turn around and move my hair
over one shoulder. Her touch is gentle as she zips the dress and fastens the hook-and-eye closure at
the top.

"Are you nervous?" She's being kind; I know she can see that my hands are shaking.

"Not nervous to marry him, but nervous, yes. Does that make sense?"

"Absolutely. It's a big day; the day you choose your life," she asserts, nudging my shoulder until I turn to
face her. Her words and her supportive smile have an oddly calming effect. "Do you have your four
somethings? Old, new, borrowed and blue?"

"I think so. My grandmother's earrings are old. My dress is new." Looking down at the handkerchief
clutched in my right hand, I trace my thumb across the dark blue swan embroidered on one corner. "I
borrowed this from my dad. I've had it for three years, though, so it might be more like stolen. Do you
think that counts?"

Lifting my head, I breathe a sigh of relief when she nods, chuckling. "Yes, I think it counts."

"And blue. Cullen gave me this bracelet earlier."

"It's gorgeous," she declares, studying it before she looks at me again. "What about a garter?"

"In place," I respond, automatically reaching toward my right leg to verify that it's still there.

"Sounds like you're all set. Shall we go?"

Mrs. Cope turns to walk out of the room and I follow, a bit wobbly on the high heels I so rarely wear. At
the door, she holds her arm out for me to go first, and then takes the lead again, guiding me down the
hallway and through the ballroom in the same path we took just two hours ago. She plucks a bouquet
from a table along the way and stops inside the French doors that open to the outside. She hands me
the flowers, cupping her hands around mine and pressing to steady them.

"You look lovely," she says approvingly. "Ready?"

"Ready." I trail half a step behind her on the walkway. As we curve around the gazebo, the orchard
comes into view. The trees are wrapped with tiny white lights and tall lanterns line each side of the path.
I can't contain my astonished gasp when I see how much different it looks now that the sun has set.
"Mrs. Cope, it's incredible."

"I told you to trust me. I'm very good at my job," she murmurs proudly, stopping and turning toward me.
"You wait here until you hear the music."

"Okay."

"Breathe. Smile," she commands, laughing as she hugs me lightly.

When she's gone and I'm standing alone, I wrap my dad's handkerchief around the flower stems,
swallowing the lump in my throat. I expected this moment to be bittersweet, and it is. I wouldn't change a
thing about today; I love that it's just Cullen and me here, making these promises to each other. I'm
happy that the moment will be ours, away from the publicity machine that he's sometimes pressured to
satisfy for his job. But I also feel a little sad – and a little guilty – that I'm getting married without my
family. Closing my eyes, I think of them – Mom and Phil, Dad and Sue. My parents are always behind
me, encouraging me. I think they will be this time, too. Cullen's parents may be a different story.
Selfishly, though, I'm glad they won't be able to spoil this night for him.

Before I can dwell too long on melancholy thoughts, I hear the guitarist begin playing a classical song
that I recognize, but don't know the name of. That's my cue. With a final deep breath, I open my eyes
and walk, only taking a few steps before I get around the gazebo. As soon as I see Cullen, standing
beneath brightly lit branches that arch just above his head, the sadness and worry melt away. I only
think of him, us.

His crooked smile greets me as I reach him, rest my hand in the crook of his offered elbow. When the

minister begins, I listen attentively, absorbing every word about love and commitment and honesty. Once
we've each confirmed that marriage is our intent, Reverend Tom focuses on me.

"Bella, Edward asked me to read something for you," he says, unfolding a sheet of paper. Cullen's
slanted handwriting is visible on the page, and, surprised, I peek at him before looking at the minister
again. "He chose a passage from a letter that Robert Browning wrote to his wife, Elizabeth.

"Words can never tell you, however, form them, transform them anyway, how perfectly dear you are to
me, perfectly dear to my heart and soul.

I look back, and in every one point, every word and gesture, every letter, every silence, you have been
entirely perfect to me, I would not change one word, one look.

You have given me the highest, completest proof of love that ever one human being gave another. I am
all gratitude, and all pride (under the proper feeling which ascribes pride to the right source) all pride
that my life has been so crowned by you."

By the end of the excerpt, my eyes are brimming with tears and I hear Mrs. Cope sniffling quietly on my
left. When I look up at Cullen, his eyes are watery, too, but he smiles.

"You've been reading poetry?" I whisper.

"I've been Googling poetry," he answers lowly, making everyone laugh. Cheeks reddening, he bends
toward me, kissing the spot in front of my ear, and then speaking softly so that no one else hears. "But
it's how I feel."

In front of us, Reverend Tom is still snickering as he folds the paper. "Edward, you might want to hold on
to this," he suggests, interrupting our tête-à-tête to hand it to Cullen. "It may be useful the next time
you're in trouble."

Putting the note in his suit pocket, Cullen looks at me with a raised eyebrow. "He's probably right," I
agree, playing along with his unspoken, teasing question. Laughing again, I squeeze his arm and lean
my head against his shoulder for a brief moment.

Nodding at us, Reverend Tom instructs, "Please face each other and join hands."

I give my flowers to Mrs. Cope and turn toward Cullen. He goes first, reciting the words that will bind us
together legally… spiritually. As he vows to love, honor and respect, his voice is sure, unwavering. Mine
is the opposite, trembling noticeably when it's my turn to repeat the lines. Cullen's thumbs slide
soothingly across my knuckles, his gaze never leaving mine. I finish without completely breaking down,
but a couple of tears overflow, rolling down my left cheek.

"I love you," he murmurs. He shifts both of my hands to one of his, using the other to wipe away the
wetness. Struggling to rein in my runaway emotions, I grip his fingers tightly in reply, but don't try to
answer out loud.

"May I have the rings please?" Reverend Tom asks. While Cullen gets them from his pocket and hands
them over, I take several deep breaths, determined not to cry my way through the rest of the wedding.
Cupping our bands in his palm, Reverend Tom points out the significance and symbolism of exchanging
rings, and then holds them toward us. "Edward."

Cullen lifts my left hand and slides the ring into place, echoing the reverend's quiet words. "Bella, I give
you this ring as a sign of my love and faithfulness."

Picking up his ring, I put it on his finger, keeping my eyes locked on his. "Edward, I give you this ring as
a sign of my love and faithfulness." Pleased that my voice is stronger this time, I smile. Then I lower my
gaze to his hand, watching as he flexes it and makes a fist a few times. When I look quizzically at him, he
shrugs.

"Just getting comfortable."

"You'll get used to it," I reply, amused. "You won't even know it's there after a few days."

"I'll know it's there, legs."

Moved by his sweet sentiment, I reach up to trace my fingers along his jaw. He grasps my hand,
pressing his lips to my palm before lowering our hands to hang between us. Grinning crookedly, he
swipes his thumb across my ring, and I suddenly realize that it's done; we're married. Elation swells in my
chest and I can hardly stand still. I'm nearly bouncing as I turn to look at Reverend Tom when he
speaks.

"Bella and Edward, you have pledged to be loyal and loving toward each other. You have formalized
your bond with spoken vows and with the giving and receiving of rings," he declares warmly. With a quiet
chuckle, he continues, "It is my pleasure to now pronounce you wife and husband."

Laughing, I immediately look at Cullen, knowing that he orchestrated the reversal of the standard
phrasing. He's laughing, too, and before Reverend Tom finishes giving us permission, his lips are on
mine. Giddy, I kiss him back, wrapping my arms around his neck when his circle my waist. The guitarist is
playing quietly in the background. The photographer is moving around us, her flash lighting up often.
Mrs. Cope is talking. But I ignore all of it, concentrating only on my husband. After a moment, I break
away long enough to whisper that I love him, and he lifts me up, hugging me tightly as he responds in
kind.

"I can't believe you got him to say that," I say, chuckling again.

"Anything for the bride. It's your day."

Rearing back to look at him, I frown. "It's our day. The groom should get what he wants, too."

"I did, Bella." He sets me down gently, and then rests his forehead against mine, closing his eyes. "I got
everything that I wanted."

Sitting in the middle of the backseat, I rest my head against Cullen's upper arm. When I glance at the
highway sign we pass, I'm relieved to see that the airport exit is just a mile ahead. We've been married
for almost two hours now, and we have to catch a plane by the time we hit the three-hour mark.

Relaxed from the wine I drank during dinner, I wind my arm through Cullen's and close my eyes, content
to let my mind replay the last few hours. Again. Every detail of the ceremony is burned into my memory,
from the look in Cullen's eyes to the sound of his voice. In ways I wouldn't have thought of, he made
sure our wedding included moments – both romantic and humorous – that were meaningful to us.

The wine cellar where we ate dinner had a private entrance and was isolated from the dining room of the
restaurant. Wooden shelves lined three walls, holding dark bottles of the finest vintage. After Cullen
chose one for us, we toasted each other and drank with our arms linked, following tradition. We also fed
each other chocolate cake for dessert. My pulse quickens as I remember the way Cullen closed his lips
around my fingers to lick off the sticky icing. Flirting with me. Tempting me. Arousing me.

Just as I leaned in to kiss him, someone opened the cellar door, interrupting us, and I huffed in
aggravation. But my frustration turned to delight when I saw the portly, little accordion player come into
the room, calling "Buona sera!" Thinking of him now, I laugh quietly.

"Guido?" Cullen guesses, chuckling, too.

"His name was Giustino," I say, sitting up to look at him. "He was cute. And so eager to play for us."

"Of course he was. You're beautiful and I look like a good tipper."

"Cullen," I chastise playfully. "He was sweet."

Unapologetic, he shrugs, grinning. "He was an old flirt who wooed you with his Italian accent. Then you
told him your name and he played the spaghetti song from the dog movie for you."

Recalling how excited he was to play a song with my name in it, I can't help but have affection for him.
Although we didn't tell him that we had just gotten married, he insisted that Cullen and I dance, claiming
the song was for lovers. Once I heard the tune, keeping a straight face wasn't easy, but Cullen turned
me away from Giustino each time I was overwhelmed by a fit of giggles.

"He played the spaghetti song from the dog movie for us," I argue. "And now it's our wedding dance
song, which kind of makes it our song song."

"You don't like it?" he asks, hearing the whine I couldn't quite keep out of my tone.

"It's a song about noodle-slurping, cartoon canines."

"No, it's not, legs," he contends, brushing the back of his hand along my cheek. "It's a song about
finding someone you want to share everything with."

Shaking my head at him, I feel a smile tug at the corners of my mouth and purse my lips to contain it. "I
swear you do this disarming, romantic crap on purpose," I mutter. "Now I'm gonna like the damn dog
song."

Lifting his arm, he wraps it around me and pulls me to his chest. "I like the damn dog song, too." He
kisses the top of my head as Billy stops at the airport curb to let us out. "Ready to go home, baby?"

Inhaling his scent, I sigh contentedly, and then look up at him. "Ready."

"This is awkward."

"Quit complaining."

"Cullen, I'm not this kind of girl."

"Well, I am this kind of guy." He shifts me a little in his arms as the elevator ascends.

"You didn't have to carry me all the way from the truck, though."

"I'm not sure which threshold in the building I'm supposed to carry you over. I don't want to screw this
up." Smiling, eyes shining, he looks the way I feel: Completely happy.

Leaning in, I kiss him until the elevator stops on our floor. He carries me into the penthouse foyer and
sets me down, kissing my lips and then my forehead.

"I'll get our bags. Be right back."

Once he's gone, I take off my cardigan and leave it on the entryway table. I walk to the kitchen and get a
bottle of water, sipping it as I head down the hall toward our bedroom. Stopping short in the doorway, my
mouth falls open. The dim, recessed lights are on, making the room glow softly. Large vases of white
flowers sit on the nightstands and each end of the dresser.

Wondering how he had time to do all this, I move toward the dresser, bending down to breathe in the
sweet floral scent. After setting my water down, I step out of my heels and push them to the side, and
then pull out the pins holding part of my hair up. When I hear Cullen coming down the hall, I'm suddenly
shy, peering sideways at him as he carries our bags into the bathroom. He returns a moment later to
lean against the doorjamb, watching while I remove my jewelry piece by piece until only my wedding ring
remains.

Dropping my eyes, I study this ring I love, given to me by this man I love. As I'm looking down, I sense,
more than see, him move behind me. Wrapping one arm around my waist, he lifts his other hand,
pushing my hair out of the way and leaning down to kiss my neck. His mouth skims up toward my ear,
barely touching my skin, sending a shiver down my spine. I tilt my head to the side a bit to give him more
space and raise my eyes to the dresser mirror to watch him.

"Thank you for the flowers."

"You're welcome," he murmurs, his lips tickling my ear. With a soft sigh, I let my eyes slide closed. "I
wanted to do some of that disarming, romantic crap for my wife."

Although I'm amused by the way he throws my words back at me, I fixate on the last part of his
statement. "That's the first time you've called me your wife," I whisper, smiling.

"Is it?"

"Uh huh."

"I called you my bride earlier, though."

"Mmhmm." His mouth drifts down my neck, pausing several times to suck lightly, bite gently. "I like that,
too," I pant, savoring the arousal that blooms in my belly and seeps outward to flood my body. His hands
wander from waist to hips to back, and my eyes pop open when I feel him reach for the zipper of my
dress. "Wait, Cullen. I have new lingerie."

"I can't wait to see it." He presses a lingering kiss to my shoulder, and then raises his head to meet my
gaze in the mirror. "Tomorrow night."

As he unzips me slowly, deliberately, I turn my head to kiss him. Our lips move together while he peels
the dress from my upper body and pushes it past my hips to drop to the floor. His fingers ghost over my
bare skin, sliding along the curve of my waist, drawing around my navel, tracing my ribcage from front to
back. When he unhooks my strapless bra, I grab it and toss it carelessly aside, waiting anxiously as
Cullen's broad hands glide across my stomach.

Finally, he cups my breasts, squeezes tenderly, brushes his fingers over my sensitive nipples again and
again. Lazy kisses increasingly become more heated, and I reach up to grip the back of his neck,
keeping him in place. He drops one hand, slipping his fingers under the lace of my underwear to make
quick circles around my clit.

"Cullen," I gasp, wrenching my mouth away from his. I clutch the collar of his shirt to stay steady on my
trembling legs, letting my head fall back against his chest… sinking into the building pleasure.

Too soon, his fingers slow, and I roll my lips together, moaning quietly in blissful dissatisfaction. Aching
for more… aching for him, I twist around, pulling his mouth to mine while I unbutton his shirt. I help him
push it off his shoulders impatiently and he yanks off the t-shirt underneath, too. Stepping over the
dress puddled at my feet, I take his hand and walk backward, pulling him with me.

At the side of the bed, I let go of him to fold down the covers and hear the clink of his belt buckle as he
finishes undressing behind me. When I climb onto the mattress, he reaches for my right leg, halting me.

"A garter?" he asks, hooking his fingers under the satin-covered elastic. I peer over my shoulder at him
before I answer.

"It's a tradition."

Flashing a crooked grin at me, he lets go so that the garter snaps softly back into place. Laughing, I lie
down and he crawls over me, nudging my legs apart to lie between them.

"I like it," he says.

Lying chest to chest, our smiles fade as we look at each other. He dips his head to kiss me… really kiss
me… seducing me with lips that move swiftly and then slowly until I'm desperate for release. Scooting
down, he covers my breast with his mouth, swirling his tongue, sucking unhurriedly while I squirm under
him. It's only when I rock my hips against his that he continues moving down. Wrapping his hand around
my right leg, he bends my knee and bites the garter. Breathing hard, I lift my head and see him looking
up at me playfully, one eyebrow cocked.

"Really?"

"It's a tradition," he replies through gritted teeth.

With a slightly embarrassed giggle, I lie flat and close my eyes as he begins dragging the garter down.
The sensation of the silky fabric and Cullen's mouth skimming along my leg heightens my craving for
him, erases my unease. Lost in desire once more, I don't watch as he slides off my underwear and
begins diligently working his way back up my body. But behind my eyelids, bright colors burst and fade
with every hot breath against my skin, every touch of his tongue, every caress of his fingers.

Our lips meet again just before he pushes inside me with a quiet groan. He moves slowly, staying buried
deep with each thrust. It feels so good, but I want more… need more. I hum my approval into his mouth,
but dig my fingernails into his back at the same time, knowing he'll understand. Reaching down, he
grasps my leg and pulls until I wrap it around him, and then drives into me more forcefully. When he
twists his mouth away after a moment, I open my eyes to find him staring at me.

"You're so beautiful." His voice is raspy. His dark eyes, filled with love and lust, search my suddenly-
teary ones.

"I love you," I murmur around the lump in my throat.

"I love you, too."

Holding still, he kisses me again – plucking softly at my lips, nipping along my jaw. When I can't take the
sweet torment any longer, I whisper his name, sighing as he settles his mouth on mine. Grabbing my
hands one at a time, he pushes them above my head and pulls almost all the way out of me. I cling to
him, lifting my hips as he slides back inside. Steadily, he moves faster, faster, burying his face in my
neck.

"Oh, God. Oh, my God," I moan, arching my back as shockwaves of pleasure flow through me. After
several more thrusts, he comes inside me, sending another jolt of ecstasy rippling through my body.

Recovering, we lie silently as our breathing slows and our skin cools. A few minutes later, we pull the
covers up and shift to lie on our sides, facing each other. Trading soft kisses, we intertwine hands, arms,
legs.

"You need to sleep, legs," he remarks, brushing my hair away from my forehead. "You have to get up for
work in three hours."

"I know," I grumble. "But I don't want this day to be over. It was perfect."

"You're right. But so am I."

I wrinkle my nose at him until he laughs and twists away from me. I watch him get out of bed to turn off
the lights, and then roll over, smiling when he curls up behind me and drapes his arm over my waist.
Thoroughly content, I shut my eyes and fiddle with the ring on his finger.

"Cullen?"

"Hmm?"

"I know it's only the first day, but so far, I love being married to you."

Tightening his arm, he hugs me to his chest. "I love being married to you, too, Swan."

"Cullen."

"Yeah, legs?"

"I was correcting you. I'm a Cullen now, too," I clarify. Resting his lips against my shoulder, he lets
several seconds pass while he remains mute. "Right?"

"Come here."

I turn over and he digs a hand into my hair, holding me in place as his lips land on mine. Kissing me
sweetly, he presses my lips open to slide his tongue inside. Unrushed, the kiss changes from playful to
passionate and back again. When he eventually breaks away, he skims his mouth across my cheek to
speak quietly in my ear.

"Do you have any idea how much I love you, Cullen?"

"Yeah… I think I do," I whisper. "But I wouldn't object if you want to show me again."

"You're gonna be tired for work," he admonishes, but he shifts to lie on his back, pulling me on top of
him.

"I'm not worried about it, Cullen." Propped on my arms, I stare down at him, watching his face come into
focus as my eyes adjust to the darkness. "I'm not worried at all."

A/N Cont'd: Happy spring! Spring is usually my favorite season, but this year, it's been a little
rocky in my household. After a pretty good February, M arch, April and early M ay were tough
for my family. M y father-in-law became very sick, and with a traveling mother-in-law, we took
on some of the nursing duties for a while. He's had a tough road with multiple hospitalizations
and a surgery, but he is starting to improve and regain some of the strength he lost. We hope
it continues. We'd like to keep him around for a while.

In the middle of his illness, my daughter also became really sick. After two ER visits, a stop at
the pediatrician and an overnight stay at the children's hospital, we finally had a (sort of by
deduction) diagnosis. I'm grateful that her prognosis was good, but she had to endure about
four weeks of pretty severe pain since her condition didn't have a cure except pain
management and time. Thankfully, for the last two weeks, she has been pain-free and finally
back to being her normal, social, bouncy, teenage self. Who ever thought I would miss the
eyerolls and snotty comments when they disappeared? Ha. But I did. :)

Anyway, I had a rough patch for a bit, but I'm almost totally back to my sarcastic, suspicious,
kinda bitchy personality. I learned a lot about true friendship, deep fear, deeper love and
Frozen. Great movie, but come on. She's 14 and I had to watch it at least 25 times. LOL I also
learned it's okay to cry (I'm so not a crier normally) and to appreciate the people in my life,
even when it's not convenient. So, on second thought, maybe it's been a good spring after
all.

If you've read this far, you deserve a prize!

Thanks for reading. Please review.

*Chapter 15*: Blitz

Well, well, well. I have no excuse for this tardiness. The only thing I can say is that I've
struggled over the last few months to find the balance of life. I'm not trying to get all deep
and philosophical here, but, like everyone else, I have things I have to do and things I want to
do. And I've really sucked at getting it all done. To those who've wondered about my daughter
and FIL's health, thank you for your kind words and understanding. M y daughter is back to
her bouncy, social, eyerolling self, and doing what teenage daughters do best - driving me to
drink. M y FIL has also improved, although he continues to be fragile.

M y busy home life and busy work life took center stage for a while. I freaked about the fact
that my two older kids will be out of here in three years and may remember me as the lady
who did their laundry and was otherwise constantly on her phone or computer. So I took
some steps to correct that. I'm still looking for the right life mix, but I'm working on it and it's
getting better. I truly appreciate your patience.

Big thanks to my friends Littlecat358 and Tennesseelamb (M emphis) for their suggestions
and corrections with this chapter. Love you both!

If you've stuck around to read, many thanks!

"Swan?... Swan?" Emmett's voice pulls me from my half-asleep haze. I open my eyes, but I don't answer
– don't move. "Bella?"

Seated at the table in what was the empty lounge, I'm bent forward over it, my forehead resting on my
folded arms. Staring at the wood grain laminate only two inches from my face, I wonder how long I've
been sitting here alone. Five minutes? Ten?

"Swan? You okay?" he asks, tapping my shoulder lightly. When I raise my head, he startles, snatching
his hand back with a gasp. "Jesus Christ! You scared me. I thought you were dead."

"I'm not dead."

"Are you sure? You look dead," he quips, pulling on my ponytail.

"I still look better than you," I grumble, batting his hand away. When I glance at the clock on the wall, I'm
surprised to see that the pre-show meeting should have started eight minutes ago.

Pushing away from the table, I stand up, stifling a groan as I walk toward the refrigerator in the back of
the room. My body – worn out in the best way – has protested ever since I rolled out of bed almost two
hours ago. Sore calves and feet remind me why I rarely wear heels. The dull ache behind my tired
eyelids hasn't let up despite the two mugs of coffee I've had. My thighs and arms feel shaky, strained
from the exertion of loving Cullen... moving above him… clinging to him as he moved above me.

In spite of my discomfort, I can't help smiling as I grab a cold water, twisting the lid off while I elbow the
refrigerator door shut. I lean back against the fridge and guzzle a third of the bottle before I notice that
Emmett is staring at me from his seat across the room.

"What?" I demand, wiping my mouth.

"You hung over?"

"No. Are you hung over?"

"A little," he admits with a smirk. He looks briefly toward the doorway to the hall before continuing. "Drank
my way through a blind date last night. It was bad, Swan. Epically bad."

His amusement is contagious and I chuckle as I turn to grab a water for him, too.

"Here. Hydrate." Facing him again, I toss the bottle his way. My arm is weak, so my throw is off. After
leaning way to his right to catch the wobbly pass, he raises one curious eyebrow at me. I don't usually
misfire like that. Shrugging, I walk back toward the table. "So, no hook up, I guess."

"I didn't say that."

"Emmett!"

"Not with her," he replies defensively. "I took her home early, but my swag took a bruising. I had to do
something."

"You mean someone," I joke, making him laugh. As I sit down, I check the time again. "We go on-air in
twenty. Where the hell is Newton?"

"No need to worry, sleeping beauty. I'm here," Newton announces as he comes into the room. "You were
snoring when I walked by fifteen minutes ago."

"I wasn't even asleep," I argue, although I'm not entirely sure that's true. I'm positive that I wasn't snoring,
though. Probably. I glare at him when he hands me the show rundown sheet for today, but he's too busy
scowling at Emmett to notice.

Too tired to roll my eyes at Newton's daily antics, I yawn as I read through the schedule, half-listening to
Newton give orders. Cover the MLS Cup. Uh huh. Talk about the college football conference
championships. Duh. Recap the first few weeks of the NBA season. Check.

"We also got last minute confirmation from Seahawks PR that Jasper Whitlock will do a phone-in
segment this morning. Seven minutes. Seven o'clock."

Seven. Seven.

Newton is still talking, but I'm not paying any attention to him anymore. Shifting my hands to my lap, I
twist the wedding band on my finger around, counting the stones. Seven. I sigh quietly as memories of
yesterday rewind in my head – the heat of Cullen's skin pressed against mine, the scent of the flowers in
our bedroom, the way he smiled at me after we exchanged rings, the shimmering lights of the orchard.

"Bella? Hello? Are you with me?" Newton's nasal voice interrupts my daydream and I lift my eyes to his. "I
asked if you've done any research for this weekend's Seahawks game."

"Yeah, I read up on the Vikes yesterday." On the plane to Vegas. When I helped my fiancé study his
scouting report. Before we got married.

As my heart flutters, I roll my lips together to contain my wide grin, but a giggle escapes before I can
stop it. Although I'm a little annoyed that Cullen has turned me into the kind of girl who giggles all the
time, I can't help but enjoy the displeasure on Newton's face. He clearly thinks I'm laughing at him.

"And you know the Seahawks' stats?" Newton waits until I nod to go on. "Good. Then you take the lead
with Whitlock."

"What? She's done the last three interviews with Seahawks players," Emmett protests, sitting forward in
his chair.

"And she's doing this one, too," Newton insists. Looking back and forth between his narrowed eyes and
Emmett's clenched jaw, I quickly realize that the snide remark on the tip of my tongue won't be effective
in defusing this situation. They're both really pissed. So, I decide to play the part of peacekeeper… even
though it almost makes me throw up to be so nice to Newton.

"Newton, seriously," I plead, drawing his gaze my way. My voice is syrupy and I smile a little, trying to
persuade him. "Emmett would do a great interview. He knows the stats as well as I do."

"And I've known Whitlock for years," Emmett adds. I see the flash of annoyance in Newton's eyes before

they slide back toward Emmett. He hates to be reminded that most of the players in this town know
Emmett and me by name – but hardly any of them remember his.

"So has Bella. She's constantly bragging about her dad introducing them way back when Whitlock was a
rookie," Newton retorts, gathering his papers. As he stands up, he eyes me disapprovingly and I slump
back in the chair, bracing for another attack. "Try to stay awake during the show, Bella. And do
something about the dark circles under your eyes. You look like hell."

Lacking the energy to hurl insults back at him, I stay quiet until he's out of the room, and then turn
toward Em. He doesn't look as mad as I expect… which makes me suspicious. I think he knows why he's
being punished.

"What's up Newton's ass this morning?"

"I may have left out a small detail when I told you about my night," he confesses sheepishly. Impatient, I
wave my hand for him to continue. "The other half of the epically bad blind date was Newton's sister."

My mouth drops open and I blink slowly several times while he snickers. "What the hell were you
thinking?" I finally scold, punching his arm.

"I got tricked into it. Newton had tickets to a show at The Crocodile and said I could have them if I'd take
her. I thought it would be harmless since she's only in town for a couple of days," he defends. Pouting,
he rubs the spot where I hit him. "Shit. That hurt."

"It was barely a tap."

"Not the kind of tapping I like," he jokes, flinching away when I aim for him again.

"Jesus. Are you fourteen?"

"On a scale of one to ten, baby. You just can't handle it."

"I don't want to handle it," I crack. Dimples on display, he stands, offering a hand to pull me up, too.
"Why'd you taunt him? He might've let you do the interview if you'd been civil."

"Nah. He wasn't gonna change his mind."

"I'm sor–."

"Don't apologize. I should have known better. Newton should have known better." He shrugs, clamping
one big hand on my shoulder as we walk into the hallway. "Hell, even his sister should have known
better. Dating someone who works with one of your family members never works out."

Well, not never. But I'm not arguing that point with him today. I hum instead, knowing he'll assume I
agree.

"Want to grab lunch later? I'll tell you the whole horrifying story."

"Sure. I can't wait to hear how Newton tricked you into it. You know he's hardly ever right."

"He's right about one thing. You really do look like hell this morning," he says teasingly, chuckling when I
elbow his side. "Whatever you did yesterday took a toll on you. I hope it was good."

Allowing myself a brief moment of recollection, I smile softly. Yesterday was the happiest, sweetest day
of my life. Even the harsh plunge into today's sleep-deprived, Newton-filled reality can't dampen the bliss
radiating from somewhere deep inside my chest.

"It was good, Em," I reply, leaning against him. "Epically good."

Recognizing that I'm exhausted, Newton seems to take delight in keeping me at the station for several
hours after the show is over. First, he summons Emmett and me to the sound booth to record teases
and commercials… for next week. Between takes, I retaliate by chomping on ice – right in front of the
microphone. When Newton pulls his headphones away from his ears and glares at me through the
window into the control room, I raise my eyebrows, trying to look innocent.

"Oops," I say, feigning remorse. Once he puts the headphones back on, I crunch on the rest of the ice in
my mouth and swallow. Then I smile mockingly at him through the glass, giving a thumbs up. "Ready."

After we're finished in the booth, Newton derails the plans Emmett and I have for lunch by dragging us to
the conference room for a meeting with the station manager's staff. Even the bitter lounge coffee
doesn't keep my eyes from drooping while the marketing gurus dissect our show's Arbitron stats –
Cume, AQH, TSL – and break them down by key demographic groups. We're creeping up on the
coveted five-point share and are drawing considerably higher ratings than KSEA in the young, male
demo, which drives advertising dollars. Almost an hour later, they get to the bottom line: The numbers
are pretty damn good.

Why didn't they just say that in the first place?

As soon as we're released, I bail on lunch and head for my truck, making my getaway before Newton can
stop me again. When I get home, I shuffle down the hall toward the bedroom, shedding my purse, coat,
and shoes on the way. I collapse facedown on top of the comforter and fall into a deep sleep
immediately.

Awakened hours later by something vibrating on my ass, I pull my phone from the back pocket of my
jeans. Rolling over with a quiet grunt, I glance at the screen and sigh. Even though I didn't really expect
to see Cullen's name, I'm still a little disappointed that the texter is Emmett.

*Still hungry. Feed me, Swan. Cooper's at 6?

This morning, I told Em that I wasn't going to our fantasy meeting tonight, but then he pointed out that
I've moved all the way up to second place in the league while Peter the prick is third from the bottom. I
couldn't pass up the opportunity to gloat. Besides, Wednesdays are Cullen's longest days. He won't be
home until at least nine o'clock. I type my reply to Emmett, agreeing to meet him for dinner.

Pushing myself up, I sit on the edge of the bed and look in the mirror hanging above the dresser. The
dark circles under my eyes haven't lightened much despite my three-hour nap. My ponytail is messy and
crooked, and the left side of my face is red since I've been lying on it. But none of those things is what
makes my stomach drop. It's the ring – Cullen's wedding ring – laying on the dark wood beside my
antique cigar box.

"This is stupid," I mutter, pressing a hand against my stomach as I stand and walk to the dresser.

I knew Cullen would leave his ring here when he went to practice. We talked about it on the plane last
night, deciding that since he wouldn't wear it on the field, he shouldn't risk having to explain it to a
teammate or one of the many reporters who hang around the team facility. I planned to take mine off,
too, if Emmett or Newton questioned me. Luckily, they were so preoccupied with tormenting each other
this morning that neither of them noticed the new jewelry on my left hand.

Picking up his ring, I slide it onto my index finger. As I trace the ridged edges, the knot in my gut unfurls,
no match for the way I feel about the last two days… the way I feel about Cullen. While I get ready to
meet Emmett, I keep the loose ring in place, bending my finger so it doesn't fall off. The cold metal slowly
warms against my skin, but before I leave, I carefully set it back on the dresser where Cullen left it.

Although I have a good time at Cooper's, I cut out as soon as the meeting is over, turning down Emmett
and Connor's offer to stay for another round of drinks. At home, I put on the lingerie I bought in Vegas
and lie down on the bed, covering up with the sex blankie. Determined to stay awake, I flip through all
the TV channels, but don't find anything worth watching. Then I try to read an article in the issue of
Sports Illustrated laying on Cullen's nightstand. My eyes get heavier and heavier, though, until I finally

stop struggling and let them slide closed.

When I feel the magazine slipping from my hands, I clutch it to my chest.

"Let go, legs." Hearing his deep voice makes me smile, even before I blink my eyes open to find him
leaning over me.

"Cullen."

"Married one day and you're already taking over my side of the bed?" His cute, crooked smirk sucks me
in, and my heart picks up speed. Reaching for him, I curl my fingers into the front of his shirt and pull him
down to kiss me. My grip tightens when he starts to pull away a minute later, but he pries my fingers
loose. "Hang on, baby."

I roll to my side, watching as he walks to the dresser and picks up his ring. He turns around again,
sliding it into place, and then strips down to his boxers.

"Are you gonna move?"

"Huh uh. I like your side." Chuckling, he climbs over me and lies down, wrapping his arms around me.
"Talk to me."

He tells me about his day, pausing frequently between sentences to yawn, which makes me yawn, too.
When we both laugh, he presses his lips to my bare shoulder. "Some honeymoon, huh?"

"I don't have any complaints," I murmur, skimming my fingers along his forearm.

"We'll get away after the season. Where do you want to go?"

"Somewhere warm where I can lay in the sun beside you. Somewhere we need sunglasses every day."

"Except the days we stay in bed."

"Except those days," I agree, snuggling back against his chest. "Sound good?"

"Sounds great, Swan… Cullen." He pushes my hair out of the way to rest his face against the back of my
neck, then traces his hand down my side and along the lace edge of my nightgown. "This is the new
one?"

"Mmhmm."

"I want to see it," he says, yawning again. "I'm just gonna rest for a minute first."

"Okay," I answer softly, but he doesn't hear me. He's exhaling warm air against my skin… already
asleep. Still smiling, I hang on to him and shut my eyes, too.

Nine days later, my alarm sounds before dawn, as usual. I silence it quickly, hoping it doesn't wake
Cullen. His schedule this week has been brutal – long practices each day and film study at the team
facility each night. During the last three days, we haven't both been home and awake at the same time
at all.

Lying still for a moment, I listen to him breathe deeply and savor the warmth of his chest against my
back, the weight of his arm resting on my hip. Although I knew he would be busy during these final
weeks of the season, I didn't anticipate feeling so miserable about it. I miss him. Communicating through
short text or phone conversations has become the norm for us this week, and he's leaving later this
morning for the game in Tampa Bay. If the charter returns on time Sunday night, we'll get a few hours
together before I have to go to bed. Then he'll be back at the stadium early Monday morning to start the
process all over again.

After a couple of minutes pass, I reluctantly slide out from under his arm and scoot off the bed.

"Legs."

Turning around to pull the covers over him, I smile at his sleepy mumbling. "Go back to sleep," I whisper.
He says something unintelligible as I bend down to kiss his cheek, and then he goes silent.

While I get ready for work, I shift gears, thinking about the jam-packed show scheduled for today. It's
Friday, so Emmett and I will spend most of the morning breaking down this weekend's NFL games and
analyzing the evolving playoff seeds. After a lop-sided win over the Vikings last Sunday, the Seahawks
are hovering near the top of the standings and hoping to earn a bye for the first round of the post-
season. Even though Cullen won't admit it, their chances are good.

We also have a prominent baseball columnist calling in to talk about the major league offseason. Since
Emmett is more knowledgeable about the inner workings of the league and its collective bargaining
rules, he would have been the logical choice to lead the interview. But instead, Newton smiled smugly
during our post-show meeting yesterday and assigned the duties to me. Remembering the glee in his
eyes, my irritation spikes. He's done his best to rankle me since last week… when I did my best to
provoke him so he'd get off Emmett's ass. Both of us have succeeded.

"Freaking Newton and his freaking smirk," I grumble, imitating his distorted sneer at myself in the mirror.

Muttering under my breath, I toss my hairbrush into the drawer and push it closed roughly. Then I
rummage through my makeup bag, looking for my mascara. I shove the plastic cases around as I
search, letting them clack noisily against each other until I find what I want. Yanking the wand out of the
tube forcefully, I lean close to the mirror to apply it, still talking to myself.

When the bathroom door slides open several seconds later, I clamp my mouth shut guiltily and stand up
straight. I watch Cullen in the mirror as he approaches, holding one hand up to shield his eyes from the
light.

"Crap, Cullen. Was I too loud?" I'll feel terrible if I woke him, but when he lowers his arm, I'm so happy to
look into his bright – well, bloodshot – green eyes that I can't stop the quiet sigh that escapes.

"Huh uh."

"Then why aren't you sleeping?"

"Wanted to see you," he yawns. I drop my mascara on the counter and spin around, taking two quick
steps to get to him. He catches me easily when I jump into his arms, chuckling against the side of my
head as he lifts me up. "Been missing me this week?"

"Like crazy," I admit. Closing my eyes, I press my nose and then my lips against his neck, clutching his t-
shirt in my fists.

"I missed you, too," he murmurs. Rearing back, I kiss him twice.

When he sets me on my feet, I turn around again and he trails a hand down my back, moving past me to
sit on the end of the vanity. While I finish getting ready, he sips my coffee, bumps his foot against my
bare leg, slides his hand along the silky sleeve of my short robe. These few stolen moments spent
talking and laughing with him are the best moments of my week.

As I put my makeup bag away and wash my hands, I chatter about my weekend plans, rattling off the
Christmas gifts I'm going to buy for the guys I work with. "I think I'll get a tree, too, before all the good
ones are gone. What do you think?"

"Uh, sure. Good idea." The flat tone of his voice – so different from just a couple of minutes ago – gets
my attention, and I turn toward him. He's looking down, staring at his wedding ring as he moves it back
and forth across his knuckle. Stepping closer to him, I cover his hands with one of mine.

"What's the matter?"

"I'm afraid I'll lose this if I carry it around in my pocket for three days. But leaving it on the dresser all
weekend just feels… wrong."

"Even if your ring is here, we're still married, Cullen. So don't get any ideas while you're on the road," I
tease, squeezing his hand. Although he huffs like he's amused, he keeps his head bowed. My mind
races, searching for something to say to make him feel better – and wondering if I should tell him that
seeing his ring laying on the dresser bothers me a little, too. From the corner of my eye, I see the glint of
silver along the collar of my robe and get an idea. "Do you want me to keep it on my necklace for you
while you're gone?"

He raises his head to look at me, cheeks reddening as he nods. The smile that pulls at one side of his
lips also pulls at something in my chest, and I lean forward to kiss him as I unclasp the long chain. When
I hold one end toward him, he slides the ring on next to the kaleidoscope pendant.

"How's it look?" Glancing in the mirror as I refasten the necklace, I see Cullen reach for the ring and
pendant, clinking them together.

"Perfect."

His voice is thicker, deeper than before, sending a quick jolt of awareness – anticipation – zinging up my
spine. The necklace slips from his fingers as he lowers his hand, trailing his knuckles down slightly to
rest between my breasts. Heart pounding, chest rising and falling rapidly, I wait, still studying my
reflection in the mirror. He brushes the backs of his fingers across one breast, ghosting smoothly along
the silky material. While I watch, he traces slow, arousing circles around my nipple, but he barely grazes
the sensitive peak before shifting his attention to the other side. Desire flows through my blood when he
repeats the motions, teasing with the lightest caress until I'm aching for more.

At last, he slides his hand inside my robe, his long fingers curving around my breast as he captures my
nipple and tugs gently. Arching into his touch, I moan softly and grip the edge of the counter for support.
I continue to watch in the mirror as his hand moves under the fabric, mesmerized by the way each
squeeze, every sweep of his fingers causes a prickly surge of pleasure to flood my body.

"Cullen," I whisper breathlessly, "I can't be late for work." He hesitates for a beat, but then skims his
fingertips over my skin as he starts to pull his hand from my robe. Realizing that he misunderstood me, I
grab his forearm, gripping forcefully enough to stop his retreat. I turn my head to look at him, meeting
his darkened eyes with my own. "We'll have to be quick."

In a flash, he slides off the counter, reaching for my breast again. His other arm winds around my waist
to hold me close as he turns us and lifts me onto the spot where he was just sitting.

"How long do we have?" he asks, stepping between my legs.

I glance toward the coffeemaker to check the time. "Sixteen minutes."

"Plenty of time," he assures me. When he moves his hand from inside my robe, I look down, watching as
he carefully unties the belt and spreads the front open. "You're so beautiful, Bella."

His heartfelt words pull my eyes up to meet his again, and he keeps his gaze locked with mine as he
raises his hands to my breasts, brushes his thumbs across my nipples. Breathing hard, whimpering
softly, I reach for his neck to pull him forward. He rests his face against mine, lips close but not quite
touching, and I let my eyes slide shut. I love this moment – just before he kisses me – when we both
know what's going to happen next.

"I love you," I murmur.

"I love you, too."

Shifting one hand up to grip his hair, I open my mouth on his, stroke my tongue against his. Since we're
both already aroused, it doesn't take long for the kiss to heat up, turn frantic. Balanced on the edge of
the counter, I hook my heels behind Cullen's knees and grind my hips against him, making both of us
moan. He lets me go on for a moment before he trails one hand down my stomach, easing his hand
between us – between my legs. As soon as he touches me, rubbing my clit lightly, bright colors erupt
behind my eyelids, and I have to break away from his kiss to take a breath.

"Edward," I groan, tilting my head back as he scrapes his whiskered cheek down my neck. In answer, he
makes a low sound against my skin as he closes his lips around one breast, sucking strongly. He knows
my body – knows how to use his mouth and fingers to make me come quickly – and he pushes me
expertly toward the edge. But just before I tumble over, he pulls away. Surprised and frustrated, my eyes
pop open.

"Take this off," he orders, breathing hard as he stands up straight. When he shoves the robe off my
shoulders, I shake my arms loose.

"Yours, too," I urge, pushing his shirt up. He yanks it off over his head while I lean forward to skim my lips
across his chest. Fueled by his husky sigh of pleasure, by the way he digs his hands into my hair, I use
my tongue to flick his nipple, and then bite down gently.

"Jesus, Bella." Sitting up, I wrap my arms around his waist and scratch my nails across his lower back.
When I slip my hands inside the waistband of his sweats, he braces his palms on the counter, bending
down to rest his forehead on my shoulder. I know he's watching me push his pants and boxers down his
thighs, watching as I wrap my hand around him. I stroke him slowly, slowly, until he grunts, his hips
jerking against my hand. "Fuck, baby. Faster."

He pants in my ear as I speed up, but he pulls my hand away after minute, raising his head to kiss me
roughly. Eyes shut, I feel his fingers slide against me, and then inside me, pumping just enough to make
sure I'm ready. With one arm around my back to support me, he presses me backward a little and
pushes inside.

"Oh, God. Cullen," I cry out.

"Did I hurt you?" He sounds alarmed, so I open my eyes to look at him.

"No," I reply hoarsely, gripping his shoulders as my body stretches around him. "No. It feels good."

As soon as I answer, he pulls back, but there's no gentle build, no slow start to his movements. He
plunges into me again and again while I wrap my legs around him.

Each forceful thrust sends shards of ecstasy bursting through me, drives me closer to climax. Staring at
him, looking into his deep, green eyes as he stares back, my feelings for him are almost too strong, and
I have to shut my eyes against the intensity.

He presses all the way inside me and then holds still, leaning in to kiss me. Filled – consumed – by him,
both emotionally and physically, I move my mouth with his, scrape my teeth across his lower lip. Craving
release, I breathe his name and shift my hips, hoping to spur him on. He complies, pulling unhurriedly
out of me as he grasps one of my legs. Hooking his arm under my knee, he lifts my leg, changing the
angle as he drives into me, setting a quick pace once more. Held immobile in his arms, I hang on to him,
letting him give pleasure… take pleasure… as the pressure builds higher and higher.

"Oh, God. Oh, my God," I gasp as a powerful orgasm rips through me. Cullen follows right after, pulsing
inside me as he comes.

I can feel the heat radiating from our bodies, can feel my heart thundering in my chest, can feel the
satisfied smile curving across my face. When we kiss, although the electricity still hums between us, the
lust has cooled. We take our time, as if I don't have to clean myself up and be out of here in four
minutes. Soon, though, he lowers my leg, pulling out of me.

"Thank you for keeping my ring while I'm gone," he murmurs against my lips.

"You're welcome." Dropping one hand from his shoulder, I reach for the necklace, grasping his ring
between my thumb and index finger. "It bugged me, too, to see it laying on the dresser last weekend.
This is better."

"Better." Leaning back a little, he looks at me with a raised eyebrow and a mischievous grin. "Wanna
know something, legs?"

"Mmhmm," I reply. I let go of the ring and lift my hand to his face, brushing my fingers along his stubbly
jaw.

"You did wake me up with all the banging around in here," he laughs.

Stifling my own chuckle, I purse my lips to one side and pretend to consider what he's said. "I guess I
should apologize, Cullen. But I'm having a hard time being sorry about it."

"I'm not sorry either, baby." He comes willingly when I pull him in for another kiss. "I'm not sorry either."

"Bella, wake up," he whispers excitedly, his breath warm against my ear. His lips brush across my cheek.
"Come on, legs. It's Christmas morning."

Cullen's quiet words interrupt a deep, peaceful sleep – a sleep I'm not ready to give up yet. He only has
a couple of hours off this morning, though, so I try to force my eyes open. My eyebrows move up, then
down. I wrinkle my nose and wiggle my lips side-to-side, trying to wake up. But my eyelids don't budge.
Sighing, I abandon the effort and bury my face in the pillow, not even capable of protesting when I feel
the bed move as he gets out.

Although I hear him moving around in the bathroom, I mostly doze through it until he comes back. Well,
until I smell what he's got with him when he comes back.

"Mmmm." As he sits down on the edge of the mattress, I instinctively roll toward him, struggling again to
crack at least one eye open. This time, it's a success. "Coffee."

"I'll try not to be insulted that the coffee got a bigger reaction than I did," he teases with a chuckle.

"That's your fault for keeping me up so late," I retort, laughing with him. I sit up, holding the covers
against my bare chest and reaching for his jaw when he leans in to kiss me. "Merry Christmas, Edward."

"Merry Christmas," he echoes.

I have more to say, but I'm quickly preoccupied by the way his lips match mine movement for movement,
our tongues sliding leisurely together. Desire, fuzzy and warm, swirls through my chest, then wafts
outward in waves, tingling along my skin. My heart beats faster, and I kiss him more eagerly, letting go of
the covers to wrap my arms around his neck. After another moment, I feel him reach toward the
nightstand, hear him set the stainless steel coffee mug on the wood. He moans into my mouth as he
presses me backward, stretching out on top of me.

"Don't stop," I whisper, twisting my head away to take a breath. He kisses down my neck, pushing the
covers between us away with one hand.

"Presents?"

"Later, Cullen," I pant as he settles between my legs, rocking his hips into mine. "Later."

Sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of our tree, we're surrounded by boxes and torn wrapping
paper. Cullen is wearing the goofy plaid winter hat that I bought for him as a joke; I'm wearing the Cubs

sweatshirt he got for me and eating kettle corn from the biggest, yummiest bag I've ever seen.

"Go ahead," I say, nudging Cullen's last two gifts toward him with my foot.

"You first, legs."

Grinning, I brush my hands off and rip open the box he hands me.

"I love them!" I exclaim when I see the black-framed sunglasses under the tissue paper. I slide them on,
and then notice there are several brochures in the bottom of the box. "What are these?"

"Homework," he quips. Picking them up, I thumb through the brightly colored pamphlets. The locations
vary from fancy resorts to private cruises to secluded villas. But they have one thing in common: Sun.
"Pick a vacation spot."

"Honeymoon spot," I murmur. Although I plan to read them all, I'm immediately drawn to the picture of the
thatch-roofed hut perched on stilts above clear, turquoise water. I put it on the top of the pile, and then
set them aside. I grab one of his packages and hold it toward him. "Your turn."

He rips the paper away, and opens the box. "Are these… opening day? We're going to Wrigley for
opening day?" He tears his eyes away from the Cubs tickets he's holding to glance at me. I nod. "Three
tickets?"

"I thought we could take your granddad with us."

He lunges toward me, hugging me tightly. "This is incredible. I can't wait to take you to Chicago."

When he sits back, I open my last gift – a "First Christmas Together" ornament engraved with the year.
The silver ornament holds a photo, so I insist that we take a selfie to put in it. He keeps the hat on. I
keep the sunglasses on, and we both laugh at the resulting image. Then, with butterflies in my stomach,
I watch his face while he opens the final box.

"Bella, shit," he mumbles, lifting the scrapbook from the box into his lap. I'm teary-eyed as he reads over
the first two pages, which document his trade to the Seahawks in August. Although I couldn't find any
detailed retelling of my on-air criticism of Cullen's ass, one local sports columnist made a vague
reference to it and to Cullen's subsequent appearance on the radio show with Emmett and me. I see his
fingers land briefly on the copy of the column I included in the book, but he doesn't chuckle like I expect.

Without looking up, he flips the pages, carefully studying the two-page summary of each game. He
touches some of the articles and photos I glued inside. His fingers trace over the game stats I wrote by
hand, the same way his grandmother did in the scrapbook she made to document his younger sports
life. He seems engrossed, but his silence makes me worry that he doesn't like the book.

"I know you're not big on keeping track of just your own stats, so I put team stats in, too," I explain in a
rush.

"This is… I don't…"

"I'm not trying to take away from the book your gran made for you. But I figured she did it because she
was so proud of you and she loved you so much. And I feel that way about you, too, Cullen."

"Legs, I didn't–."

"But it's not a big deal if you don't want-."

"Swan, will you be quiet for a second?" he begs, exasperated. Finally, he raises his head to look at me.

"My last name isn't Swan anymore," I mumble in protest.

"I know," he replies. "But I still like calling you Swan sometimes." He smiles, the corners of his eyes

crinkling up like they do when he's really happy. "And I thought it would get you to shut up for a second
so I could talk. I love the book."

"You do?"

"I do." Reaching for my new sunglasses, he pulls them off and lays them down beside me. Then he
takes my hand, twisting his fingers between mine as he holds my gaze. "You must have spent so much
time on it."

"It didn't take that long," I say. Only every afternoon of the last two weeks. But I don't tell him because it's
not about that. It's about him.

"Thank you for making it for me. I love you, Cullen."

"I love you, too." When he raises our joined hands, pressing his lips against my fingers, I get a glimpse
of his watch and gasp. "Crap! You have team meeting in an hour."

"I know. I gotta get in the shower. Come with me?" He stands, and then offers a hand to help me up, too.
I push onto my tiptoes to wrap my arms around his neck. "You're coming to the game Sunday, right?"

In a stroke of accidental brilliance, the NFL schedulers slated the Seahawks and Cardinals to play a late
December game in Seattle with no way of knowing how enormous the implications would be. A Seahawks
win guarantees a first-round playoff bye, and the opponent is Cullen's former team, and the Seahawks
lost to the Cards earlier this season in Arizona. Cullen tries to act calm about it, but I can tell he's excited
– and eager to get another shot at beating his previous teammates. He's been even more obsessed
than usual with his prep work. Other than the couple of hours we spent celebrating Christmas last night
and this morning, he's had his head buried in either his iPad or his playbook since last Sunday night.

"I'll be there," I confirm, pulling away to smile at him. As I lead him down the hallway, I look over my
shoulder at him. "I'll wash your back to save time."

"Baby, you can wash more than my back," he says suggestively.

"Ah, but that won't save time, Cullen."

"This will." He stops, yanking on my hand to spin me around. Before I realize what his intention is, he lifts
me up, tossing me upside down over his shoulder. Maybe I should kick. Maybe I should protest. But,
instead, I smack his ass and tell him to get a move on. And with a laugh, he does.

After he leaves, I call my mom and Phil. I call Sue, too, even though I talked to her and my dad last night.
She repeats the invitation she's already issued twice to join her family for the day, but I politely decline
again. I spend a low-key afternoon alone, watching part of an NBA game and napping through most of a
cheesy, holiday movie. At five o'clock, I head to the kitchen to make the dinner Cullen requested,
knowing practice normally breaks around this time on Fridays. Soon after, my phone rings, and I smile
when I see that it's him.

"Hey," I say softly when I answer. "Are you on your way?"

"Uh, yeah, legs." He sounds nervous, and he continues before I have a chance to respond. "I, um, got
busted. I forgot to leave my ring at home and Whitlock saw it this morning when we were walking in."

"How did you explain it?" I ask, wrapping one arm across my suddenly-queasy stomach.

"I didn't. But he won't let it go. He's following me home." He pauses and I hear him exhale loudly. "I think
I'm gonna have to bring him upstairs."

"So, we're telling him?"

"I don't see any way around it. He'll keep it quiet," he responds.

"Yeah, I think you're right." I'm not really sure if that's true, but Cullen sounds so anxious that I want to
make him feel better. After we hang up, though, I pour a glass of cabernet and chug it, my thoughts
dwelling on the possibility that the carefully constructed bubble we're living in may be about to pop. I've
just started sipping my second glass of wine when I hear the elevator arrive.

"Honey, we're home," Whitlock calls in that easily-recognizable Southern drawl of his. I hear him laugh,
followed by the low tone of Cullen's voice, but he speaks too quietly for me to understand what he says.
Blowing out a deep breath, I walk toward the foyer to meet them. As I round the corner, I briefly meet
Cullen's wary gaze before I look at Whitlock. Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, his shock is genuine. "Holy
fuck! It's you? You're the wife?"

"I'm the wife." Despite my lingering worry, I don't try to stop the smile that breaks across my face.

"Holy fuck," he repeats, looking from me to Cullen and back. He walks toward me and pulls me into a
hug. "Congratulations."

"Thanks, Jasper."

When he lets go, I move to hug and kiss Cullen, dismissing his hushed, unnecessary apology and
whispering that we should invite Whitlock to stay for Christmas dinner. Jasper readily accepts, saying his
family isn't flying up from Texas until Sunday, and they both follow me to the kitchen.

While we eat, Cullen and I recount an abbreviated version of our relationship. To my surprise, it feels
good to tell someone about our marriage, and Whitlock swears he won't breathe a word until we
announce it. When they move on to talk football, I sit back and listen, amused by their stories. By the
time we walk Whitlock to the door two hours later, my sides hurt from laughing.

"Thanks for dinner," Jasper says, bending down to kiss my cheek.

"You're welcome."

"And for taking care of Cullen. Y'all seem really happy."

"We are," I nod, smiling at him.

"Of course, you know the Chief's gonna kill you," he chuckles, resting his heavy palms on my shoulders.
He winks at me before he turns to look at Cullen. "Then he's gonna kill you."

"He will not," I insist weakly, nausea whirling through my stomach and up the back of my throat. It's a
feeling I've been experiencing more and more lately – especially when I talk to my dad or Sue.

Cullen takes over, getting Jasper's coat and walking him to the elevator. Still feeling sick, I wave
goodbye, then turn and walk into the living room, bypassing the couch and chairs. I stop in front of the
windows, crossing my arms over my chest. These windows have a gorgeous view of the open ocean
during the day, but it's almost pitch-black tonight. Only a few flickering ship lights are visible in the
distance.

Although I hear Cullen approach, I don't turn to look at him, don't lean back against him when he wraps
his arms around me.

"Are you mad at me?" he asks after a couple of minutes of silence.

"No," I breathe, shaking my head slightly. "But I'm starting to feel pretty guilty about my dad."

"Me, too, legs." I uncross my arms and wrap them around his, pulling him closer, needing his comfort. He
gives it immediately – tightening his hold, resting his head against mine. "Do you want to tell him? We
can drive over there right now."

"We can't, Edward. If we tell him, we'll either have to ask him to keep it a secret from his boss – which I
don't want to do – or we'll have to announce it. I think that would be a huge distraction for you and for
the team," I reply emphatically. "We'd have to tell the rest of our families, too. My mom and Phil will be
cool about it, but do you really want to deal with the fallout from your parents this weekend?"

"No," he admits with a heavy sigh.

"It's only a few more weeks," I reason, slumping against his chest. "I just didn't expect to feel like this."

"Are you sorry that we eloped?" His quiet query, doubt evident in his voice, startles me. Taken aback, I
twist around in his arms to face him.

"Not for one second. Are you?"

Cullen's face relaxes. Lifting his hands to frame my face, he bends down to kiss me, plucking softly at my
lips over and over. After a moment, he rests his forehead against mine, sliding his thumbs along my jaw.

"I wouldn't change one thing about that day, legs. Not one, single thing." Relief courses through me,
churning with the residual queasiness in my stomach. The push and pull of mixed emotions is dizzying,
and I cling to him. As if he knows what I'm feeling, he whispers reassurance. "We'll get through it, baby.
Team sport."

"I know, Cullen." Shifting in his arms, I rest my cheek over his heart, hear its strong, steady beat. "Team
sport."

The rows of the press box are already crowded when I arrive for Sunday's game. Standing at the back of
the room, I scan the array of bald spots and ball caps, looking for Emmett and Riley. Finally, I spot them,
seated in the middle of the fourth row. As I walk down the steps toward them, I notice that Newton is
sitting there, too. Terrific.

"Excuse me, sir."

The reporter sitting on the end of the row scoots forward maybe an inch. Jackwagon. Rolling my eyes, I
squeeze behind the back of his chair, carefully holding my laptop bag so it doesn't whack him.
Sidestepping my way to the center of the row, I look around, surprised by the number of faces I don't
recognize. I know just about every local sports reporter.

"Hey, Swan," Riley says, turning to look at me when I scoot past him.

"Who are all these people?" I whisper, annoyed. I hand my laptop bag to him while I pull out the empty
chair between him and Emmett. There's hardly room for me to wedge myself into the seat and roll it
forward. "Are these chairs closer together than usual?"

"Hey there, sunshine," Emmett laughs, bumping my elbow from the other side. "Yeah, they packed us in
the box this week. Bunch of network hotshots are in town."

"The Seahawks are the biggest NFL darling this week," Riley nods, setting my bag on the built-in desk in
front of us and sliding it my way. "Pretty cool."

I knew that, and I knew that more press passes were issued by the Seahawks for this game than for any
other home game in the last four years. But I'm still irritated by all the strangers honing in on what I –
perhaps somewhat irrationally – consider my territory. Huffing, I pull the "Press" lanyard from around my
neck and slap it down on the desk.

While Riley and Em continue to discuss Seattle's return to football prominence after several years of
average play, I concentrate on arranging my work area. After setting out my laptop, notebook, pens and
highlighters, I unwrap a preemptive piece of gum as I read over the injury report. When I finally look
down at the field, I can't contain my smile as I watch Cullen throw several warm up passes to the

receivers.

"I wonder what the hold up is with Cullen's contract extension," Emmett muses. "Seems like they should
have hammered out the deal by now."

"It's got to be the money," Newton pipes up. "I bet Cullen is demanding a contract that will throw the
Seahawks over the salary cap."

"What good would that do him?" Riley asks. "If they're right up against the cap, they won't be able to
afford a good O-line, good receivers. He wouldn't want that."

"He wants to get paid."

"Everyone who works wants to get paid," I state, turning to glare at him.

"Not everyone expects top dollar after just fourteen mediocre games."

Incensed, I start to retort, but Emmett beats me to it. "Are you joking? Have you been watching the kid
play at all, Newton?" he challenges. "His completion percentage keeps climbing and his pre-snap reads
are accurate time and again. Cullen is smart and he knows what he's doing out there. If the Hawks don't
get him signed before the end of the season, he'll have about twenty-six other teams after him."

"I've been watching," Newton defends, his face reddening. "I just thought–."

"That was your first mistake," I interject dryly.

"I just thought," he continues through gritted teeth, "that maybe he doesn't want to stay. Maybe he'd
rather test the open market and see what he can get somewhere else."

Since I have inside information, I know that Cullen's new contract is all but completed. The agents and
lawyers have agreed on almost all the terms. It's taken longer than either Cullen or I anticipated, but
there was never a time when negotiations stalled or broke down. Both sides wanted the deal.

"That doesn't seem like his style," Emmett observes with a shrug. "He's been pretty open during
interviews and pressers about how much he likes being in Seattle."

"Could be playing to his audience."

"Not everyone resorts to using underhanded mendacity to advance his own career, Newton," I declare.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he spits.

"I can define the big words for you if that will help."

"Witty Bella," he sneers. "Always amusing."

"You make me laugh, too," I nod, smiling sweetly. "Although I'm not sure if you really mean to
sometimes."

Riley clears his throat, and Emmett leans forward, blocking my view of Newton. I can take a hint, so I turn
my attention to the game that's about to begin. After kickoff, the Seahawks defense takes the field and I
use Riley's binoculars to study the sidelines. Well, I'm studying Cullen, but moving the binoculars around
to avoid being obvious. He's attentive – watching the game, getting last-minute instructions from the QB
coach – and his body language is loose, relaxed.

I, on the other hand, am inexplicably jittery. As hell. Reaching up, I press two fingers against the spot
where Cullen's ring rests under my shirt. It's become our practice for me to wear it on my necklace when
he's away from home overnight. And since they've been winning, he's kind of superstitious about it now.
I drop my hand when Riley turns to look at me.

"B, I'm afraid you're pushing it with Newton," he says quietly, leaning close. "You know he won't hesitate
to complain to Kate and Charlotte."

"I know," I allow, tilting my head in acquiescence. "But sometimes I can't help myself. He's like low-
hanging fruit."

"Hard to resist. I get that," he chuckles, "but I'd like you to stay employed long enough to actually come
back to our show." He squeezes my shoulder before facing forward again, and wanting him to
understand that I appreciate his advice, I lean my head against his upper arm for just a second,
whispering my thanks.

My tension lessens once the Seahawks' offense is on the field and the ball is in Cullen's hands. He
completes his first three passes, efficiently moving down the field. Five plays later, he throws a long,
beautiful, back shoulder pass to Whitlock for a touchdown. I'd love to jump up and yell, to go crazy along
with the crowd outside the insulated windows. Even the press box is buzzing with excited voices. But I
stay controlled and quiet, showing no outward reaction except a smile. When Emmett calls it the most
impressive throw he's seen Cullen make all season, I agree, bite my lip so I don't start gushing about it,
and then continue to type game notes on my computer.

The score stays close during the first half, but the Seahawks begin to pull away in the third quarter,
padding their lead by two touchdowns. Although Cullen is still playing well, he's rushed and knocked
down by the Cards' defense more often. When the defense shows blitz toward the end of the quarter, I
know Cullen recognizes it – I watch him point to the middle linebacker, calling instructions to the O-line
and retreating into shotgun formation before the ball is snapped.

"Get rid of it. Get rid of it," I mumble, watching Cullen hold the ball for one… two… three seconds. Just
as he fires a deep pass, he's hit and driven to the ground. Hard.

The ball must have been caught downfield because the crowd erupts in unison. I'm not watching the
receiver or tight end or whoever snagged it, though. I'm watching my husband lie on the ground.
Immediately, my heart drops into my stomach as I stare in disbelief. I don't move, don't blink, don't
breathe. While he squirms a little, he doesn't really try to get up, and several Seahawks trainers soon
surround him, obscuring my view. I turn to grab the binoculars, but Riley's already looking through them.
My eyes dart to the TV monitor hanging from the ceiling in the front corner of the press box, hoping to
see a live shot or replay. Instead, the network has cut to commercial.

Outside the windows, a hush has fallen over the stadium, but I hardly notice. Heaviness settles in my
chest, and my mouth waters like I'm going to throw up. Swallowing my latest piece of gum, I press my
closed fist to my lips.

"Riley?" Emmett asks.

"I can't see much," he mutters in reply. "Wait. They're going to sit him up. Nope, he's lying down again."

"No," I whisper, shaking my head. The network coverage resumes, opening with a shot of Coach
Erickson jogging toward the spot where Cullen is still down. Knowing that head coaches don't do that for
run of the mill injuries, I struggle to hold it together. "No."

Without thinking of anything except getting to Cullen, I stand up and scoot out of the row. Tears pool in
my eyes, blurring my vision as I hustle up the steps of the press box and out to the corridor. I push the
elevator call button and wrap my arms around myself while I wait.

"Swan, you all right?"

Shit. Squeezing my eyes shut for an instant, I nod without turning to face Emmett. "Mmhmm."

"Where are you going?"

"Down… downstairs."

"You're gonna need your press pass." Glancing at him over my shoulder, I meet his knowing gaze as he
holds the lanyard and plastic-covered pass toward me. I mumble a thank you, slipping it over my head to
hang around my neck. When the elevator doors open, he grabs my hand and steps inside with me. "I'll
ride down with you."

As we descend, I swallow loudly and take a deep breath. Then I turn to look at him. "How did you know?"

"Your face," he answers, looking somber himself. "It fucking hurts to look at your face. Riley and Newton
thought you got sick, but I knew that wasn't it."

"I'm scared, Em."

"I know you are," he says, squeezing my palm. "But you know how this stuff goes, Swan. He'll probably
be back on the field by the start of the fourth quarter."

"I don't care if he can play again," I say, my voice cracking. "I just want him to be all right."

"He will be."

As the elevator stops underground, I suddenly realize I don't have my bag. "Em, I forgot about–."

"Don't worry. I'll go back up and get your stuff," he soothes. "You have your phone?" Reaching for my
back pocket, I check and then nod at him. He nudges me toward the open doors. "Go. Text me later. I'll
keep your stuff until I hear from you."

Grateful for his support, I turn into him, hugging him briefly with one arm. "Thanks."

Stepping off the elevator, I turn to my left and sprint down the long cement hallway. My press pass
serves its purpose; the first two security guards wave me through. I rush past the room where players'
families gather before and after games, past the press con room. Then I turn right, heading into the
corridor where the locker room and coaches' offices are located, relieved to see Steve, a guard I've
known for several years, leaning against the wall. At the sound of my running footsteps, he looks my way
and moves to the center of the hall, blocking my path. As I approach, he widens his stance and holds a
halting palm toward me.

"Is Cullen back there?" I pant, stopping in front of him.

"No press allowed in the hallway right now, Bella."

"I'm not reporting on him. I just need to see him." He remains stone-faced, close-mouthed. "Is he back
there?"

"I can't answer that."

"That means yes," I guess quietly. Tears sting my eyes as I remember literally running into Cullen in this
same hallway months ago. Suddenly, my head is filled with the sounds from that day – his laughter, his
challenge to prove I could run a deep route, his triumphant yell when I made the grab and ran toward
the end zone. Reliving the ache in my chest when I said goodbye to him that day, the tears begin to spill
down my cheeks. That pain was mild compared to what I feel now. Oh, my God. He has to be okay.
"Please, Steve."

"Sorry, Bella." His eyes are full of sympathy, but he shakes his head slowly. "No one gets back there
right now except Seahawks staff."

"Just for a minute," I beg desperately. I don't really expect my plea to work, but I'm hoping to stall until I
can think of something else to try.

"No one gets past you, Steve."

When the gruff order is shouted from several feet behind me, I stiffen, instantly recognizing the voice. I

can picture the face that accompanies that tone – the furrowed brow, the horizontal line of his
moustache above his tightened lips. Whipping around, I meet the unrelenting, steel stare of the man
who might be my savior… if he doesn't kill me first.

The Chief.

Thanks for reading. Please review.

*Chapter 16*: The Truth Will Out

A/N: Sheesh, I'm so sorry about the lapse. Life has been crazy - mostly in good ways. I'm still
looking for some sort of balance between my wishes and my responsibilities, which isn't
helped by three busy teenagers who don't really seem to need anything until I try to do
something that I want to do. That's not an excuse, because everyone has their shit. I've just
been crap at dealing with all of mine for a while now. I'm not giving up, though, and I truly
appreciate anyone who's stuck around to read.

Huge thanks to three great friends who helped me with this chapter. Thank you
Tennesseelamb and Littlecat358 for giving honest feedback and suggestions. Love you, love
you! And happy birthday, M emphis! :) To my beta, Hadley Hemingway, thank you for fixing my
words and for teaching me how to use google docs. I promise I'll get better! Adore you. xo

Thanks for reading. Please review.

Standing in the tunnel, I stay frozen in place, my gaze fused with the Chief's as he approaches. Over the
muffled sound of the crowd outside, I can't hear his footsteps on the cement floor, but they seem to be
keeping time with every third beat of my frantic heart. The instant he recognizes me, the stern
expression on his face arches into surprise. As I watch his lips begin to curve into a smile, the guilt that
I've grappled with for the last few days surges, mixing with the fear that's clogging my throat.

"Dad," I croak hoarsely.

Immediately, the Chief's eyebrows dive downward in concern. Picking up his pace, he calls out to me.

"Bells, what's wrong? Did something happen to you?"

His worried voice releases the hold panic had on my legs. Jarred into action, I rush toward him, shaking
my head as I close the distance between us. I hurl myself into his arms when I reach him.

"I need your help," I beg, pressing my mouth against the cool, slick material of his coat.

"Okay, honey," he soothes, embracing me. His strong, sure arms comfort me in an instant. He'll fix this.
"What can I do?"

"I need to see Cullen. Will you take me? Please. Please."

"I can't, Bells. You know the rules," he says gently, patting my back. I close my eyes as new tears
threaten. The end of my nose tingles and burns as I struggle not to cry, and I scrunch my face up,
holding on to my dad more tightly. "No one's allowed back with an injured player except family."

"Dad."

Maybe it's the desperate tone of my plea. Or the way I drag the word out into two syllables. Or the sob I
can't quite suppress. Whatever the reason, I feel the Chief's shoulders tense, lift slightly. Loosening the
stranglehold I have on his neck, I step back, resting my hands on his chest and looking up at him. Brown
eyes just like mine stare back at me, study me warily… wait for me to continue.

"I am his family," I declare quietly. "I'm his wife."

Although my dad doesn't speak right away, his nostrils flare twice, and his lower jaw shifts from side-to-
side. Reaching up, he grasps my left hand, pulling it off his chest. After glancing down long enough to
confirm the presence of my wedding ring, his cloudy-eyed gaze meets mine again. "You… got married?"

Faced with the evidence of his pain, my heart clenches, aches a little more. I blink away tears as I nod
solemnly. "Yes."

"Without us? Without even telling us?"

"We didn't tell anyone," I defend.

While he's still staring disbelievingly at me, processing what I've said, I hear advertisements begin
playing over the stadium's sound system; it must be the end of the third quarter. Then, to my horror, the
dreaded twang of a Southern drawl reaches my ears as someone calls my name. Turning my head, I
look at the player jogging toward us, helmet in hand. Son of a buck. I forgot about Whitlock.

"Bella!" he yells again. "Have you seen him yet?" I shake my head.

"Whitlock knows?" the Chief growls, drawing my attention back to him.

"He… we… he found out by accident," I stammer, sniffling as I try to keep it together. Clutching his hand,
I take a step back, trying to pull him with me, but he doesn't budge. "Dad, please. We're wasting time. I
promise I'll explain everything later."

Sighing loudly, he closes his eyes and lets his head fall back. He mumbles a surly string of words at the
ceiling, and although I can't hear all of them, I catch "damn bullhockey" and "last to know". The tears I've
been fighting finally win, filling my eyes and spilling over just as the Chief lowers his head to look at me
again. At once, his glare softens – just a little – and he rolls his eyes.

"Let's go," he orders brusquely, gripping my hand as he marches up the tunnel. "You, too, Whitlock.
Steve, not a word to anyone about what you just heard."

"Got it, Chief," Steve replies, smiling at me as he steps aside to let us pass.

"Thanks, Dad."

"You may not be thanking me for long, young lady," he barks as we continue walking at a brisk pace.
"This conversation is not over. If you still lived at home, you'd be grounded for the rest of your life,
Isabella Marie Swan."

"Cullen," I correct quietly, wiping the wetness from under my eyes.

"I might just tan both of your hides, Isabella Marie Cullen."

"Okay, Dad." Strangely comforted by his threat of discipline, I squeeze his hand – and he squeezes
back.

Veering to the left, we stop at the double doors that lead into one of the treatment rooms. My dad
knocks sharply twice before he opens the door a crack and peeks in.

"I brought a visitor for Cullen." He pushes the door open wider and steps inside, dragging me along
behind him. "How's he doing, doc?"

The room is crowded with people – team doctors and trainers, several suits from the Seahawks' front
office, and two guys with "EMS" written in yellow letters across their backs. They all turn to look at the
Chief and me. My eyes, however, are trained on the only part of Cullen I can see: His cleats. He's lying
on the treatment table in the middle of the room, but the rest of his body is blocked from my view by the
people surrounding him.

"Let her through please," Dr. Cameron says, catching my eye and beckoning me with two fingers. As the
men scoot apart and make a path, the Chief pushes me ahead to lead the way. "Chief, our preliminary
diagnoses are a left acromioclavicular joint sprain and hyperextension of the neck. I think a Grade 2 on
the shoulder. We'll confirm with CT and MRI scans."

"Loss of consciousness?"

"No, and no loss of movement or sensation in his arms or legs. We've stabilized his neck as a

precaution, though."

Although Cullen's injuries sound less serious than I feared, my stomach still somersaults when I see him
lying flat and shirtless on the table. His left arm is in a sling, bent at the elbow and resting across his
chest. A large ice pack covers his left shoulder. Reluctantly, I force my eyes to travel further, force
myself to look at the blue and yellow neck brace holding his head immobile. Above the rigid plastic, his
face is pale, his eyes shut. Swallowing to fight my rising nausea, I let go of my dad and hurry the last few
steps to him.

"Cullen," I whisper, standing near his uninjured shoulder. When his eyes open, mine nearly slide closed
in relief. Unable to move his head, he shifts just his gaze to me, and I immediately reach for him, wanting
to comfort him – and myself. My touch is gentle as I rest one hand on his right forearm and the other in
his hair.

"Hey, legs." He tries to smile, but the top of the neck brace presses against his chin and jaw, distorting
his crooked grin. "I'm okay. Don't freak out."

"Me? I never freak out," I scoff, even though I'm absolutely freaking the hell out. But he knows that–
knows me. When he huffs out a quiet chuckle, I smile slightly in return, desperately wanting to kiss him
but afraid to bump him, afraid to hurt him. "Are you in a lot of pain?"

"Not really."

His answer is contradicted by the pallor of his skin and the strain of his voice. But I nod instead of
arguing, realizing he won't be honest with so many ears in the room. Behind me, the Chief has finished
quizzing Doctor Cameron. He steps forward to peer over my shoulder at Cullen.

"How're you doing, kid?"

"I'm all right, Chief."

"Glad to hear it, son… in-law. When you're back on your feet, you and I are going to have a little talk."

"Yes, sir," Edward answers. His tone is respectful, his stare unwavering, despite my dad's half-serious
attempt to intimidate him. Sliding my hand down his arm, I grasp his hand, linking our fingers. His eyes
shift to mine before moving past me to land on Whitlock. "What are you doing back here?"

"Making sure the Chief doesn't kill you," Jasper chuckles. "And making sure you'll be healed by the
playoffs."

Thinking of my injured husband going right back to playing is almost more than my mind can deal with at
the moment. But I know how he'll feel about it, so I keep my expression neutral and my mouth shut when
he answers confidently – even though my heart thuds erratically in my chest.

"Get us the bye. I'll be ready in two weeks."

"We'll get the win. Chief, you under control?" Jasper jokes. Knowing he's trying to take some of the heat
off Cullen and me, I smile briefly at him over my shoulder and he winks in return.

"The only person I'm thinking about killing right now is you," my dad answers gruffly, eliciting laughter
from everyone around us – except Cullen. His eyes are closed again, and his lips are drawn tight. He's
clearly suffering, but when I squeeze his hand, he brushes his thumb along my finger, reassuring me.
"Get your butt back on the field, Whitlock."

"Going, Chief," Jasper concedes. I don't turn to watch him, but I hear his footsteps as he moves toward
the door. "Cullen, I'll check on you later."

Looking up, I meet Doctor Cameron's eyes across the table.

"He's in pain," I mouth.

He nods minutely, then answers in a hushed tone. "We'll get him some relief as soon as he lets us. He
wanted to wait."

"For what?"

"For you. He said you'd figure out a way to get down here, and he didn't want to be out of it when you
did."

"That's sweet. And stupid," I remark, glancing at Cullen long enough to see his lips curl upward slightly.
"Can you give him something now?"

"We'll start an IV as soon as we get out of here," he assures me, then speaks to my dad. "Chief, we
should get rolling."

Fear pulls the knot in my stomach tighter, and I wish for a second that we could just stay here… or just
go home… or just go anywhere besides the hospital, where we might find out that Cullen's injuries are
worse than first diagnosed. Fighting tears, fighting the swirling panic, I look down at him and gently pull
my fingers through his still-sweaty hair.

The Chief's hands settle on my shoulders as he agrees with Doctor Cameron. "Bells, let's step outside
for a minute."

"No. I want to stay with him."

"You can ride along in the ambulance," he promises. "But let's give the EMTs a little space to work, all
right?"

Cullen squeezes my fingers lightly, but doesn't open his eyes. "Go, legs. I won't leave without you."

"You'd better not, Cullen. Or the doctors will be patching up more than your neck and shoulder," I warn
teasingly. His answering laugh makes me feel lighter – until it's followed by a hiss of pain. Dropping my
hand from his hair, I rest the back of my fingers against his clammy cheek and whisper an apology.

When the Chief tugs me backward a bit, I let him pull me away. As we follow the onlookers filing out of
the room, I feel my already shaky composure slip a little more. Resolving not to lose it completely in front
of all these people, I take a couple of deep, hitching breaths.

"He's in good hands, Bells," my dad soothes, leaning down to speak in my ear. His thumbs press firmly in
a spot just above my shoulder blades – the same spot he knows tightens up when I'm stressed. The
same spot he's spent hours of his life massaging, while I worried about everything from research papers
to ailing grandparents.

"I know," I answer softly. Grateful for his support, I turn to look up at him. "Just don't kill him, okay?"

"Don't worry, kiddo," he retorts, patting my shoulders. "I'm not planning anything that easy for either of
you."

My eyes widen as I study him, trying to decide how mad he really is. His expression seems amused, but
the telltale line between his brows demonstrates his displeasure.

"Dad," I begin, eager to smooth things over.

"Not here, Bells. Too many witnesses," he advises with a sly grin. "We'll talk about it later."

Nodding, I turn around again, letting him steer me into the hallway… and trying not to think about the
punishment to come.

Once we arrive at the hospital, Cullen is whisked away before I really get to say anything to him. An
aggressive, but pleasant, nurse takes me by the arm and shuttles me into a private waiting room. She

hands me a clipboard full of forms and the television remote, and then shuts the door, leaving me all
alone. Sitting on one of the hard, vinyl-covered chairs, I reach for the chain around my neck and pull my
necklace from inside my shirt, hoping the weight of Cullen's ring in my hand will ease my worry. But it
doesn't help much. As I fill in the blank lines on the forms, I can't stop thinking about the ride here. Even
though Cullen got the promised IV pain medication, he grimaced every time we hit a bump or turned a
corner. Each pained grunt made me cringe in sympathy and caused a physical ache to slice through my
chest. That ache lingers now, growing heavier with each passing moment of uncertainty.

Several minutes later, my frowning father arrives, carrying Cullen's duffle bag. He doesn't say a word as
he sits down in the next chair and holds his upturned palm toward me. I don't speak either, but I set the
clipboard aside and grasp his hand. Without letting go, I give him the remote, smiling when he turns the
TV on to watch the end of the Seahawks game as I expected. We remain silent, but his leg twitches with
every play – good or bad – and I notice with amusement that his fist tightens in triumph when the clock
runs out, sealing the win.

Soon the coverage switches to the network studio. While the analysts discuss Cullen's injury, the
footage of him being driven to the ground plays again and again. Feeling sick, I close my eyes and try
not to listen as they speculate about how his injury will impact his new contract and the Seahawks'
playoff chances.

"Know-it-all talking heads," the Chief mutters, muting the sound and dropping the remote onto the table
on his other side.

Before I can sigh in relief, he clears his throat melodramatically. Uh oh. I've been through enough of
these interrogations to recognize the signal – the main event is about to commence. Willing myself into a
bravery I don't really feel, I turn my head toward him, but he continues staring at the television. Seconds
that seem like hours pass while I anxiously study his profile, watching his jaw clench and unclench.
Prepared to hear his booming voice, the single, soft-spoken word he speaks is almost startling to me.

"When?"

"December first."

"Where?"

"In Vegas. No Elvises present."

He huffs like maybe he's amused, but he still doesn't look at me. "I'm not going to be able to
congratulate you until I cool down some."

"I understand." I lean sideways, resting my head against his shoulder... remembering. Hoping to speed
up the cooling down process, I offer more details. "I wore Gran's earrings and the ring Mom gave me
when I was a freshman in college. And you know the handkerchiefs Sue gave you with the little swan
embroidered in the corner? I carried one of those."

I can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks. "You did? How'd you get that?"

"You let me use it at Gran's funeral. I never gave it back to you," I explain, my eyes tear-filled again. "It
was my something borrowed."

He grasps my hand more tightly, and I hear him swallow. "Borrowed, huh? Does that mean you're going
to give it back now?"

I laugh at his joke, at how similar we are. Expressing deep emotion is difficult for us, and we both rely on
humor to lessen the discomfort. But I want him to know how I feel, so I shift closer and wrap my other arm
around his, squeezing. "I did think of you, Dad – all of you. I'm so sorry that you're hurt."

"I know, Bells."

"But I'm not sorry that I married him."

"I'm aware of that, too," he answers, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. We settle into the stillness
that follows, each lost in our own thoughts. We're quiet for several minutes before he sighs heavily.
"Edward talked to me about you." Jerking upright, I twist in my chair to look at him, and he finally turns to
me with a wry smile. "I didn't know he was talking about you, though."

"When? What did he say?"

"On the way home from the Houston game, he sat with me on the plane. We did some initial prep for the
next game, but I could tell something else was on his mind. Just before we landed, he asked if he could
talk to me about his girlfriend. Kid was practically shaking; he was so nervous. Guess now I know why,"
he remarks, shaking his head. "He rattled off a long list of things he loved about this girl and told me he
wanted to marry her – you – even though he hadn't known her very long. And then he asked me what I
thought."

"What did you tell him?" I whisper, sniffling.

"I told him he should go ahead if he was sure." Lifting our joined hands, he brushes his knuckles under
my chin before letting our hands drop. "And I told him the things he'd just said are what every father
wants to hear from the man who's going to marry his daughter." Afraid of dissolving into sobs, I break
eye contact and rest my head against his shoulder again. The rumble of his quiet, familiar chuckle
moves through his chest. "Of course, if I'd known he was talking about marrying my daughter, I might
have answered much differently."

Hugging my dad's arm again, I smile, somehow not surprised that Edward found a way to kind of ask for
my dad's permission to marry me. And also not surprised that he kind of got it.

"I love him very much, Dad."

"That's obvious, kiddo." He pats my leg, and then groans. "Oh, crap. Phil's a Cardinals fan, right?"

"Right."

"So he's probably watching this post-game show, right?"

"Right," I answer, drawing the word out. Perplexed by his sudden curiosity about my stepdad, I glance
first at the Chief and then at the television screen his eyes are glued to. Stunned to see myself climbing
into the ambulance right behind Cullen's stretcher, my mouth drops open. "Oh, crap. How'd they get that
video?"

"Looks like it was taken with a cell phone. That area is supposed to be secure, though. Some jackwagon
must have gotten through," he fumes, turning the TV volume up. The reporter hasn't learned any new
information about Cullen's condition and doesn't mention me, but the video is playing on a loop. Phil will
definitely recognize me if he's watching. "If you haven't told your mom about this, you'd better call her.
Now."

I keep staring at the screen while my dad calls the head of player security at the stadium. Although I
realized Cullen and I were busted, I foolishly thought we'd still be able to reveal the truth about our
relationship on our own terms. Renee has always been pretty laid-back as a parent, encouraging me
and accepting my choices, so I'm not worried about her reaction. But I wanted to tell her myself.

Guilt-ridden once again, I pull my phone from my back pocket and scroll down my contact list to her
name. When she answers, I hear her laughter before her voice. "I thought maybe you'd call."

"Hi, Mom."

"You have something to tell us?"

Even though they seem to have guessed most of what I'm going to say, Mom and Phil listen as the whole
story spills out. While I'm talking, Sue comes into the waiting room, pauses to kiss my dad, and then sits
down on my other side. The fact that I have the support of all four of my parents while Cullen is lying
somewhere all alone isn't lost on me, and I get choked up when I tell my mom that I don't really know how
badly he's hurt.

"I'll go see what I can find out," my dad whispers, standing up.

After assuring my mom and Phil that they don't need to come to Seattle, we say our goodbyes and hang
up. From the corner of my eye, I see Sue turn to face me.

"So, about this secret husband you have," she begins lightheartedly. Since we talk or text almost every
day, I was afraid she'd be angry when she found out the truth. But I should have known that the woman
who's been a nurturer, confidante, and counselor to me for so many years would behave no differently
in this situation. As I twist sideways in my chair, I don't know if I've ever been more thankful that my dad
was smart enough to marry her. "This was the boy? The birthday date, the trip out of town, the
Thanksgiving cooking – all him?"

"Yeah," I admit, nodding sheepishly. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you."

"Honey, you didn't have to say the words. It was in your voice when I talked to you and all over your face
every time I saw you. I knew you were in love. I just didn't know his name."

"His name is Edward," I quip.

"Thank you for clearing that up, smartass." We both laugh, and then she reaches for my left hand, lifting
it to look at my ring. "You know, I noticed this a couple of weeks ago and thought maybe things were
getting serious. It never occurred to me that you had eloped, though."

"Dad's really mad."

Her honest gaze meets mine. "He's upset that he missed such an important day in your life. But he likes
Edward… and he loves you more than anything else in the world."

"We didn't mean to hurt anyone."

Her arms envelop me at once, and I let myself sink into her motherly embrace. "I know. And Charlie
knows that, too. Just give him a little time. He'll come around."

As we pull apart, I glance toward the clock on the wall and wonder why it's taking so long to get news
about Cullen. Are his tests finished? Have the doctors already told him what they found? And where the
heck is my dad? The fact that he hasn't returned makes me even more nervous. Sue must realize what
I'm thinking because she tries to distract me by asking questions about Cullen, about the wedding. I play
along, doing my best to answer while my heart pounds and my stomach churns.

At last, the same nurse who brought me in here appears and announces that she'll take me to Cullen.
Fear instantly grips my chest and flows coldly through my body. My throat feels too tight to speak, so I
nod at the nurse as I stand on shaky legs to go with her. It only takes one pleading look at Sue for her to
get up and link her arm with mine, steadying me. Side-by-side, we follow the nurse through the maze of
hallways, Cullen's duffle bag weighing heavily on my shoulder.

Although Sue whispers words of encouragement, my anxiety grows with each step we take. I can hardly
breathe as the nurse pushes the door to an exam room open and motions for me to go in. I see the
Chief first, standing just inside the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. He smiles at me, calming my
nerves a little, and then my eyes dart to the bed on the other side of the room – and the blue-gowned
man in it. Cullen is lying back at an angle, talking to a nurse who's removing his IV. His left arm is still in a
sling, but the neck brace is gone. When he turns his head slightly to look at me, his features relax; he
looks as relieved to see me as I am him. His quick, crooked grin makes me smile, too.

"Maggie, my wife is here." His eyes never leave mine even though he's addressing the nurse.

"I told you I'd send someone to find her." She twists around to look at me over the top of her glasses.
"He's a bit pushy when he wants something."

With a laugh, I have to agree with her observation. "He likes to win."

She nods at me before turning back to focus on her task. "You can come closer. I'll be out of the way in
a second."

"I'll take the bag, Bells," the Chief offers, reaching for the strap of the duffle. Without a glance, I hand it
off and walk toward Cullen, reaching him just as Nurse Maggie finishes up.

"The doctor should be in soon." She pulls her latex gloves off with a quiet snap and steps back, letting
me scoot into her spot.

"Hey."

"Hi," I reply softly, grasping his right hand. "You look better. How do you feel?"

"I'm okay. I got good painkillers," he answers. "But my neck is pretty stiff."

"Then hold still." I lean in carefully, gently pressing my face against his as our lips meet again and
again… until the Chief clears his throat. Grinning, I pull away and look over my shoulder at Sue. "Come
and meet him."

Sue greets him warmly, shaking his hand, bending down to kiss his cheek. Immediately, I see that he
didn't expect the outpouring of affection, but he recovers quickly enough to return the gesture. Although
I keep smiling, rage at Cullen's parents boils in my blood; he's so unused to parental nurturing that he's
surprised when it happens. Tamping down my anger, I move back to his side when he reaches for me,
perching next to him on the bed.

"We're in big trouble," I whisper as my dad heads our way. The Chief doesn't try to hide his irritation,
eyeing each of us in turn. Cullen's arm tightens around my waist, bracing us for attack.

"You're not quite back on your feet, son, but close enough," he begins. In my peripheral vision, I see
Sue take a step toward Cullen and me, and I almost smile. I know – and more importantly the Chief
knows – that means she's on my side. "I want some answers from the two of you, and I don't want to wait
any longer. I'll start with you, Bells. Are you pregnant?"

"Charlie!" Sue chides with a gasp. "That's none of your business."

"The hell it isn't," he grumbles, shifting his temper to her for a moment. "If she is, it's my grandkid, and
they'd better be honest about it right now."

"No, Dad, I'm not pregnant," I declare firmly. Cullen and I have talked about kids, and both of us want to
wait a while before we take that step. But the thought of someday having a baby with him thrills me.
When I turn to look at him, he pulls me closer, making me wonder if he's thinking the same thing. I kiss
his cheek and slide my nose along his jaw, nearly forgetting that we have an audience.

"Now, which one of you wants to explain why I wasn't invited to the wedding of my only child?"

Ouch. My dad's blunt question reminds me how upset he is, how hurt he is. With a sigh, I sit up and look
apologetically at him. For the next several minutes, Cullen and I try to smooth things over with a hearty
helping of the truth. We give our reasons, talking about our jobs, his job, privacy, Cullen's parents. The
Chief nods a couple of times, seeming to understand, but I can't read the expression on his face. After
asking a few more questions about our life and our plans, he exhales in a gust and goes quiet, signaling
that he's done – at least for the moment.

"Are you still mad?" I ask cautiously.

"Yes," he answers tersely. His tone softens when he continues. "But not as much."

Springing up, I rush to hug him. "Thanks, Dad."

"Edward, you and I have one more thing to get straight." Rolling my eyes, I try to step back to look at my
dad, but he holds me tightly, warning Cullen over the top of my head. "Don't hurt her."

"I never want to hurt her, Charlie."

"I believe you. Don't make me regret it."

"Yes, sir."

The Chief pulls away slightly, his admonishing gaze landing on me next. "And if the time ever comes that
I'm going to be a grandfather, I'd better not be the last one to hear about it."

"Okay."

"And I'd better not find out about it in the damn tunnel of the stadium."

"I promise." Moving forward, I wrap my arms around him again. "I love you, Dad."

He presses a kiss against my temple, and his voice cracks a little when he replies. "I love you, too, kid.
Congratulations."

Three hours later, I stand at my bathroom sink, rubbing cleanser on my face in slow, mindless circles.
Exhausted, I rest my elbows on the vanity as I bend forward to cup my hands under the faucet. Splash.
Repeat. Splash. Repeat. I keep rinsing long after the soap is gone, letting the water wash away the day.

A thud from inside the shower startles me. Alarmed, I whirl around, dripping water all over the floor.

"You okay in there, Cullen?"

Concerned when he doesn't reply, I turn off the faucet and grab a towel, drying my face as I walk toward
the shower. I open the frosted glass door a bit to peek inside. Cullen is sitting on the built-in bench with
his eyes closed, his left arm held against his chest. The noise-making culprit – my shampoo bottle – is
lying on the floor at his feet.

"You need help?"

"Yeah," he mutters dejectedly.

Frowning, I pull off my clothes, answering Cullen's defeated sigh with a silent one of my own. It's hard to
believe that the man in front of me is the same man I rode home with an hour ago. That Cullen was
euphoric, his eyes lit with excitement as he and the Chief, our chauffeur, talked about the playoffs. His
chattering persisted when we got upstairs, praising the doctor at the hospital who pronounced that he
should be ready to get back on the field in two weeks and claiming that his sprained shoulder didn't
even hurt much anymore. I chose not to mention that the pain meds probably had something to do with
that. He didn't shut up until I boosted myself onto the kitchen counter and summoned him with a crooked
finger. Smirking, he let me pull him as close as his sling allowed so that we were eye-to-eye, nose-to-
nose, lip-to-lip. And then, finally, I got to kiss him the way I wanted to.

But twenty minutes and one phone call to his parents later, everything had changed. He spoke to them
alone, shut in our bedroom, while I was in the kitchen calling Newton and my mom. By the time I got to
the bedroom, Cullen was standing at the windows, staring blankly at the city lights across the water. He's
hardly spoken since, and he hasn't looked at me once.

As I step inside the shower with him, he doesn't open his eyes, doesn't react to my presence at all. He
sits passively as I wash his hair and body, while I get angrier by the second at the reckless way his

parents wield their power. It seems like every conversation with them leaves him feeling unimportant and
unloved. When I ask if he wants to rinse on his own, he doesn't answer. But he gets up to stand face-
first under the spray, turning his back on me.

Rejection cuts sharply through me, and I step back to lean against the shower wall. Although this isn't
the first time I've seen him upset, it's the first time he's completely shut me out. My heart aches for him…
and because of him. Tears spring to my eyes, and I instinctively reach for the shower door, anxious to
escape the hurt, the fear. This is how I've dealt with intense emotion for most of my life, so I'm not really
shocked by the sudden impulse I have to run away; I'm not surprised that – for an instant – it's just as
strong as the urge to run to him was when he was lying on the field this afternoon.

For me, the surprise comes immediately after. Without thought or hesitation, I let go of the door and,
instead, raise my hand to the ring hanging from my necklace. Cullen's ring. Bowing my head, I study it,
the tangible proof of the bond we share and the promises we made. The symbol of the life we're
building, with all its ups and downs. And I vowed to support him through it, to love him through it. Even
when it's hard. Even when I'm scared.

Focusing on his feelings instead of my own, I move up behind him. Delicately, I trace the muscles of his
back with my fingertips, silently giving thanks that he's home, that he's okay. He doesn't flinch or recoil,
which I hope means he's ready to accept more contact. I shift closer, pressing against him as I skim my
lips along his skin, trying to show him the care that he's shown to me so many times. After a moment, he
exhales, and I feel the tautness in his body start to ease.

"That feels good, legs," he murmurs, reaching his right hand back to me. I slide my fingers between his,
and then he pulls my arm around him. "You know how much I love you, right?"

"I was pretty sure when you hung in through the Chief's interrogation."

"You think he's done grilling us?"

"Not even a little bit." Cullen's quiet laugh boosts my spirits, and I smile as I rest my forehead against his
back. "You know I love you, too, right?"

"I know." Even though he pauses for a few seconds, I can tell he's got more to say. I stay silent, giving
him the time he needs to work through his emotions. He presses my hand flat against his chest, covering
it with his own, and he blows out a long breath before he speaks again. "Carlisle and Esme weren't
exactly ecstatic about our news."

My stomach drops, which is ridiculous; I expected nothing short of vehement disapproval from his
parents. But faced with the reality of it, my apprehension builds again. "What did they say to you?"

"They tried to order me around like a fucking eight year-old. Told me to come home… like their house is
still home to me," he says with a bitter chuckle. "They were stunned when I told them I wouldn't leave
Seattle – or you. The conversation deteriorated pretty quickly after that."

"I'm so sorry," I whisper, wishing my words could heal the scars left by theirs. "Maybe they just need a
little time to adjust, like my dad."

"I doubt it, but I'll know soon enough. They're flying out here tomorrow."

"Well, once we all sit down– "

"Are you kidding?" he interrupts angrily. "I'm not letting them anywhere near you, Bella."

"Edward, look at me," I plead, shifting back so he has space to turn around. His green eyes are
bloodshot and fiery when they meet mine. "You don't have to shield me from them."

"I want to protect you."

"And I want to protect you," I counter forcefully. My gaze stays locked with his in a battle of wills. I refuse
to give in, refuse to let him take on his parents alone. Frustrated and a little pissed, I fight to keep my
tone even. "We said this relationship was a team sport. We said we'd deal with the fallout together if this
happened."

At first, my words don't seem to have much effect, but slowly the heat begins to fade from his eyes. He
sounds tired when he finally relents. "They won't be nice to you, legs."

"I can handle it. The Chief was tough on us, but we survived."

"Carlisle and Esme will make Charlie look like the good cop."

"Then you'll need me beside you," I shrug, reaching past him to turn off the water and steam.

Neither of us speaks while I dry him off, but my realistic mind races, imagining what the next few days will
hold… and it all seems painful. Cullen will start rehab on his shoulder, which will be physically and
mentally draining for him. It sounds like the visit from my in-laws will be a little slice of hell. And they
probably won't be the only ones who level harsh criticism at us. No matter how much we try to prepare
for the emotional rollercoaster, it will still be rough. I'm not looking forward to any of it.

I wrap the towel around Cullen's waist and grab another to put around myself. As I'm tucking the end in
to hold it in place, he reaches out to help, nudging my fingers out of the way.

"Were you this stubborn when we got married?"

Pleased that he sounds more like himself, I tilt my head, looking up at him with a sly grin. "You're not the
only one around here who likes to win, Cullen."

"I guess it's a good thing we're on the same side, then, Cullen."

His statement is simple; his smirk is adorable. And just like that my practical head is overruled by my
dizzy heart. Whatever challenges the days ahead bring, they're ours. We'll tackle them, defeat them
together. He can't bend down, so I kiss my fingers and then lift them to rest against his lips.

"Yeah. It's a really good thing."