6.

It was proving to be a long week for Edward. Having someone else in his space was harder than he had thought it would be. Part of the problem was, of course, that he was strongly aware of every little thing she did.

This awareness was uncomfortable.

His preoccupation with his new fake fiancée was distracting.

He watched her move about the house, tidying, dusting, polishing. He had thought his house quite adequately maintained, but her vigor made 'adequate' seem like a dirty word.

He asked, then outright commanded her to stop wearing herself out cleaning. She ignored him.

"I can't just sit around," she insisted. "I need to do something. Let me."

So he watched as she cooked. He watched as she smiled wistfully at the wall of books in his study, then took a feather duster to the shelves. He watched when he should have been working.

She didn't seem to notice.

He, of course, noticed every little thing. Like the fact that so far she had not worn even one of the new outfits she'd bought in LA. Instead, she was washing and wearing the two t-shirts and one flowery cotton blouse she seemed to have brought with her from Forks. It annoyed him that she did it, and it annoyed him that he noticed.

When he brought it up (because of course he did), it annoyed her as well.

His casual comment resulted in fifteen minutes of a rapidly escalating argument.

"I'm not wearing those clothes," she insisted. "I have my own. And you are the one who wouldn't let me go back home to Forks to pack more. So deal with it."

"Why're you being so stubborn?" he fired back. "You picked these out yourself. So why are you behaving like you can't touch them?"

"Why are you so interested in what I wear? Oh, are you afraid you might run out of detergent or something? Fine, I'll buy my own."

"What? How is that even an argument? Stop avoiding my question."

"What question? You don't get to question what I wear!"

"I get to question whatever the hell I want in my own house!" he roared.

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Fine, I'll leave, shall I? You're the one who's keeping me here. Give me a call when you need a fiancée. I might decide to come back."

He grabbed her arm and tugged her closer. "Don't. You. Dare."

"Don't try me," she scoffed. "And don't you dare shout at me again."

"So stop being so damned… stubborn!"

"Stop being so hung up on my clothes!" she shot back.

"I'm not the one who's got hang ups, sweetheart," he laughed, making her scowl. "Have you even bothered to open the damned suitcase since you got here?"

She jerked out of his hold and glared at him some more. "Hang ups. Hah! Don't get me started on yours." She held up a finger against his mouth before he could get another sharp retort out. "And I did open the suitcase. It's full of very nice clothes, sure, but there isn't really anything I can wear to work around the house! So either you let me go back to Forks and pack something of my own, or you just get used to seeing me in these."

He flicked her finger away. "I'll buy you something here."

"You're not buying me anything!" her eyes flashed a warning. "All I want is for you to pay the hospital bills. I'm not accepting anything more. Not money, not clothes, and certainly not your opinions."

"You're not roaming around my house looking like a charity case either," Edward insisted, stepping closer and effectively pinning her against the bookcase. "Just wear the clothes we bought in LA. You're so worried about spending my money now. What about the money you made me spend on those clothes? You're okay with just wasting that?"

The fight seemed to go out of her suddenly. He watched as she slumped against the bookcase, the way she turned her head away and let her hair swing forward, hiding her expression.

For some reason, his annoyance trickled away as well, leaving him feeling curiously empty.

He hesitated a moment, his hand reaching up to smooth away her hair, to turn her face back towards him, but he stopped himself just in time. He took one step back, and then another. He decided to ignore the pang of… something… in his chest at the way she seemed to relax the farther away he got; the way she finally looked up, but not at him. She bit her lip, clearly biting back more words, and he almost regretted the argument they weren't having at that moment.

He turned back to his desk and pretended he didn't follow every step she took away from him.

…

The next time they came face-to-face was at dinner a couple of hours later. She didn't immediately look up from the salad she was tossing, so Edward had ample time to notice and silently admire the picture she presented. She hadn't changed out of her jeans and t-shirt, her hair was pulled back in a messy braid from which wisps escaped wildly, and she hadn't a lick of makeup on as far as he could tell. She was so very different from the polished, poised woman he had met in LA, and yet his earlier assessment was just as true now… she was so very pretty. Whenever she looked at him with those big doe-eyes, he thought she was beautiful. But when she stood up to him and those eyes flashed fire and defiance? Then she was nothing short of mesmerizing.

She looked up and caught him staring. For a moment her eyes widened, lips tightened in a little pout, and her entire frame stiffened almost imperceptibly. Neither of them looked away, though. Instead, they stayed right where they were, while the world continued to spin on its axis, and the waves continued to crash on the shore, and the seconds ticked away quietly.

He watched as her gaze softened. He saw the moment she let go of her annoyance from their earlier argument, the way she let out a little sigh and her lips quirked with the ghost of a smile. Unconsciously, his own posture relaxed and he stepped forward to take the salad bowl from her unresisting fingers.

Dinner was quiet, not a word exchanged between them. Strangely, it wasn't the least bit uncomfortable. Like the first day he had brought her home, they worked in a wordless synchronicity that was purely intuitive. He refilled her empty water glass a moment before she reached for it; she saved him the crispy edge of the casserole, which was his favorite part, even though he'd never mentioned it to her. When she got up to take her dishes to the sink, he was up and had grabbed her fork before it fell off her plate. Then he swept all the dishes out of her hands and proceeded to rinse and stack them in the dishwasher while she dealt with leftovers and wiped down the table. Shutting off the water, he turned and shook out his wet hands, startling her with the unexpected spray.

Her yelp made him grin… which made her glare… and before they knew it, they were both shaking with laughter, leaning side-by-side against the counter.

She nudged him, and he turned his head towards her.

"Want to come down to the beach for a walk?" The words were out before he even realized he'd spoken.

She grinned back at him, and nodded.

…

"Just promise me you won't sulk like that again," he insisted. "You were seriously scary, with your death glares."

She gasped and pushed him playfully. "I was not! You're so annoying! Why are you so annoying?"

"What, me? Annoying? No way, I'm the most charming guy around," he teased, reaching for her hand and helping her scramble over some rocks. "Careful, they're a little slippery."

"You're the only guy around," she said pointedly. "Thanks, though. I can be a little clumsy sometimes."

"Really? I thought I imagined you tripping over air back there," he turned and pointed.

"Don't rub it in!" she pouted. "It just happens sometimes when I'm not paying attention, that's all."

He laughed and grabbed her hand, tugging her away from another half-hidden rock. Their hands fit comfortably together, and she didn't pull away. Off to the right, the sun lazily melted away into the horizon, painting both water and sky in muted shades of orange and pink, purple and grey.

"Does that happen often?" he asked after a moment. "Not paying attention, I mean."

"Well, not so much now, but I did tend to be a bit of a space cadet when I was a kid. I was in my own head a lot and I have plenty of scars to show for it. Here," she stopped and turned towards him, using their joined hands to point to her left elbow. "I don't know if you can see it in this light, but I have a two inch long scar here."

He shook his head. "Can't really see it, but how'd you get hurt anyway?"

"Ah, I was fourteen. I had just finished reading Wuthering Heights, and I was still caught up in the atmosphere of that story, the romance and heartbreak, and just all that emotion, you know?" He nodded, enjoying how her eyes lit up with excitement at the memory. "I walked out of the front door to go to school one day, completely missed the steps and landed flat on the driveway. I had cuts and bruises and a broken arm. I got lucky, actually; it could've been a lot worse."

He reached out a hand to caress the soft skin of her elbow, and felt it—a slightly different texture against his fingertips. He felt the way his touch made her shiver. She looked away, towards the waves that kept rushing in towards them. She didn't physically move, but in that moment, he felt her withdraw emotionally from the warm camaraderie they had found, and realized that he didn't want that. He didn't want her to build up a wall of cool indifference towards him. He didn't want them to go back to being strangers tip-toeing around each other, polite and frustratingly distant.

"I didn't have any major injuries till I was seventeen," he blurted out. Her gaze snapped back to his with a look of surprise. "I must've been really lucky or something, because I barely ever so much as scraped a knee."

"Wow, I can't even imagine that… a life without band-aids covering some or the other part of the body? Sounds like a fairy tale," she giggled. "So, what happened at seventeen? Sports injury? You look like you played a sport."

"I did play, several sports actually. I was into soccer and tennis, was on the swim team, chess team, I picked up Ice hockey when we were in Chicago for a few years," he trailed off, idly swinging their hands as they walked.

"First time I've heard someone list chess as a sport alongside swimming and soccer," she said with a smile. "Not picking on you, by the way. I used to play with my dad all the time."

"Tell me if you ever feel like a game."

"I will." Her smile felt like sunshine, but the light around them was fading fast.

"We should head home. The stairs are steep and it's going to get dark real quick."

…

They could hear the phone ringing as they neared the house. Edward frowned. Hardly anyone called on the landline any more.

As he opened the back door and ushered her in, the ringing stopped and a few moments later started up again.

"Wow, sounds like someone's desperate to reach you," Bella commented, frowning as the ringing abruptly stopped.

Edward hummed in agreement and tossed aside the light jacket he had worn to the beach. He strode into the kitchen and picked up his cell phone from where he had left it to charge. Twenty missed calls and fifty seven new texts from a couple of unknown numbers. Before he could even unlock his phone, the landline started ringing yet again.

"Hello?" he grabbed it on the second ring.

"Where is she? Where is she, you fucker?"

Edward clenched and released his fist. The urge to punch something was strong. "None of your business, asshole," he replied evenly. "Stop calling me."

"Just… is she alright? Let me talk to her for a minute. Just one minute," he sounded strange… frantic, wound up.

"Where's Alice?" Edward gritted out.

"She's out shopping. She's fine. I'm taking care of her, alright? Now let me talk to Izzy."

Edward saw her walk into the kitchen through a red haze. His eyes didn't waver from hers as he answered. "My fiancée is fine, thank you. She really doesn't want to talk to you, though. No, shut up and listen to me. If you hurt Alice… if you so much as think of Izzy again, I will end you."

He cut the call and removed the cord from the phone. Bella followed slowly as he strode upstairs and tugged the cord out of the study phone as well.

"You haven't been in touch with him, then? That's good," he said almost calmly, staring down at his phone and scrolling through the barrage of texts he had got.

She bit her lip, then ventured, "Who…?"

Edward gave a short laugh and turned to her. "Jasper, who else."

"Jasper… Whitlock?" she asked haltingly, eyes dark in her suddenly pale face.

Edward nodded, noting that she didn't seem happy to hear about Jasper at all. That was good. "Don't worry about him," he finally said. "We have a bigger problem right now."

"What's that?" she asked.

"Your acting skills are about to be put to test, Ms Dwyer. My evil stepmother has decided to visit this weekend."