Edward, who?

The One Where . . . I hit someone with my truck, but it's cool, they're still breathing (I'm pretty sure).

The day started off just like any other.

I woke up, bleary-eyed, to world's worst alarm clock.

Don't misconstrue me; I don't have a personal vendetta against alarm clocks. No, I do not find their numbers or hard plastic offensive. I don't have nightmares about its screeching wakeup call – because it doesn't wake me up half the time.

I'm not a heavy sleeper. There's just no screeching noise more often than there is one.

So, with the red numbers glowering down at me ominously, I hauled-ass to the bathroom – tripping several times on the way there, may I add – and threw myself into the shower.

This is always a bad move. It's always freaking freezing.

And there's really no need for me to take a cold shower – ever.

I'm pretty sure I'm asexual.

From thereon I throw clothes on and yank a brush through my hair, because at this point, I'm half-hour late and really not giving two freaking fudge-nuts about any sense of calmness or composure.

Composure went out the window somewhere along with the alarm clock.

(Don't worry; I'll pick it up later on. It's pretty indestructible. Plus, I think it needs to cool off, and the wet grass it landed on will surely do the trick).

There's a banana stuffed into my mouth when I bolt out of the door. I almost trip on the stairs (go figure) but manage to steady myself on the banister. Just as I'm about to open the main door, my neighbour, Mrs Wesley, calls down to me.

"Patricia! You be careful at the stables today!"

She also thinks I'm her granddaughter and this is Texas instead of Forks. But she's elderly and is always bringing me a vast assortment of cakes to "keep me strong", so I go with it.

FYI, I would have still rolled with it even if she didn't bring me delicious pastries.

I'm, like, a nice person.

OK?

OK.

"Always am!" Is always my response back.

My truck is awaiting me as I burst out into the heat. It sits there in the parking lot all red and rustic and old. And because of its uber-cool appearance, obviously super-fast engine, and just general awesome factor, it tends to get notices quite a bit. When this happens, I just roll down the window, lean out, and say to the hip young kids – "Hey, bro. See these wheels? Imported all the way from Italy – hot off the Ferrari itself. That's right – the, not a. See how much more impressive it makes them?"

Well, not really.

Maybe sometimes.

As it goes, I don't have time for such antics this morning.

I arrive at the office smelling like burnt rubber because I'm pretty sure I just singed my tires from the speed at which I was going.

"Swan!" Is the first thing I hear when I enter the building. I hold back a groan and close my eyes, trying to think of happy thoughts before I turn around to face (unfortunately) my boss.

"James," I greet, somewhat civilly.

"You're late," he growls, looking down at his watch. "By 45 minutes."

"Er, well, um," I say, as fluently as ever. "There was an, erm, family emergency."

He raises an eyebrow. "That's the third one this month."

Fudge-fuddy-kins!

"Thank you for keeping a score-card," I say, very seriously. "You must give it to me once you've complied the whole list of all my family's health issues, I'm sure they'll be so appreciative that you kept a record of their – possibly fatal – experiences." I pause. "Something to share at parties, maybe."

His eyes grow dark.

Strudel! I think. Tone down the sarcasm, Bella. You still want a job tomorrow, don't you?

"Once more, Bella," he says, thrusting his finger in my face. His nails are dirty, ew. "And you're out, I swear to God."

This time, I keep my mouth firmly closed.

I flop onto my chair, dropping my head into my hands. I'm trying to summon up guilt over being late for the third time in the past month, but I can't do it. So instead, I garner guilt because I don't feel guilty.

I hate my job.

"Don't worry about James, he's just pissy because you won't sleep with him."

I don't look up.

"He's going to be pissy at me forever, then," I respond, voice muffled by the desk I'm trying to crawl my way into. "Which really sucks seeing as I think I'll be working here for the rest of my life."

"No, you won't," the voice soothes, "you'll retire first."

I lift my head up off the table and look up to see Bree perched on the edge of my desk – like a damn bird or something. I scowl at her. "Don't you have work to do, or something?"

She examines her fingernails closely. "Or something."

I huff. "Well, I have work to do, so . . ."

She doesn't even look away from her nails when she responds, "Sure, you do."

"Bree," I whine, pushing at her bony hip. "I can't afford any more screw-ups, and I think not working counts as a screw up."

"Oh, please," Bree scoffs, looking away from her nails finally. "As long as there is a cock in that man's pants, he's got a hard-on for you, and as long as he's got a hard-on for you, you're not going anywhere."

I cringe. "You're so vulgar."

She reaches forward to pat my cheeks. "And you're so virginal," she coos, and then bounds back to her own cubicle which is right across from my own.

I flush, and shoot her a death glare. She smiles innocently back at me before turning her attention to her computer. I sigh and do the same.

I like Bree, I really do, but she's like Woody the Woodpecker: I love that bird but damn if its pecking doesn't get irritating every once in a while.

The day passes tediously – as is normal – and Bree invites me to the bar all the staff go to after work and I refuse – as is normal. But what is not normal is the downpour outside that has me soaked in the minutes it takes for me to bolt from the building to my truck.

Now my clothes are clinging to me in a most uncomfortable and unflattering manner.

Great.

I drive home – even slower than usual – because the torrential rain makes it difficult to see through. And I really don't want to hit a cat or a dog or Bambi or something.

There's a sudden flash of lighting in the sky, followed by a rumble of loud thunder.

I jump and yelp a little.

It's storming.

Also great.

Squinting against the water streaming down the windshield, I find that the window wipers aren't very much help and so roll down my window a little to peer through the darkness. Finding the road clear ahead, I attempt to roll the window back up again but find it uncooperative – it's stuck.

The wind blows outside – rain rushes into the truck-bed and attacks my eyes.

Have I mentioned? GREAT.

I splutter and a slew of fudge this! and fudge that's! escape my mouth. With one hand on the wheel, I attempt to rub the water out of my eyes with the other.

It doesn't occur to me to stop the car because obviously: I'm an idiot.

When I manage to open my eyes properly, there's a blur of darkness that obscures the front of the road – where I'm driving. My eyes widen, but my reflexes are slow, and all I see before I hit the figure are two wide green eyes – staring at me in horror.