A/N: So…a plot bunny smacked me over the head during the night. Like, I literally woke up with visions of this story dancing in my head. I don't plan for this to be long at all, but we know how that usually goes for me, don't we?

I'm feeling a bit stressed lately, for a variety of reasons. Writing relieves my stress, but at the same time, it doesn't allow for extremely long or complicated plotlines. Which is why In the Mist was relatively short (for me, lol).

FAQ in the A/N after the closing.

Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to me. All mistakes are mine as well.

One Christmas Eve - Chapter 1

"I object, Your Honor. Those terms are completely ridiculous! You can't notify people on Christmas Eve that they're being evicted from their homes exactly one month after Christmas!"

"Counselor Swan, this isn't-"

"I mean, Jesus Christ, it's like you're trying your best to be a heartless asshole here."

"Counselor Swan," Judge Weber said again, "while you're in my private chambers, you'll watch your language, and you'll watch how you speak to your fellow Counselors." Her tone was infused with a warning I already knew Counselor Swan wouldn't heed.

That last accusation from Counselor Swan's fiery mouth was directed at me. From across the large, oval mahogany wood table where we negotiated terms, I held Counselor Swan's gaze. Her dainty little nostrils flared. Her smooth forehead furrowed so deeply it made her rich, dark eyes narrow into slits; it disappointed me because after so many weeks of working together – or should I say, of working against one another – I'd learned to enjoy the flames that danced in her big, coffee-toned eyes when she was angry; which was often.

Yet, the way her naturally-caramel complexion took on a darker shade of scarlet as her cheeks burned with indignation sort of made up for the loss of her wide, combustible gaze. Then, there was her hair, a riot of sable that drove me nuts at its calmest as it cascaded past her shoulders. It swayed back and forth like ocean waves whenever she shook her head with vigor. Counselor Isabella Swan was almost too distracting to argue against in a court of law. Almost.

She leaned across the table. "Counselor Cullen, you and your callous clients can't possibly expect me to deliver such a harsh notice to my clients on Christmas Eve."

Straightening the legal documents in front of me, I imitated her posture and leaned across the table as well, which brought our faces so close together I saw the different shades that produced her bewitching eye color – brown, hazel, gold. I sighed in what was admittedly an exaggerated manner meant to piss her off all the more.

"Counselor Swan, since I – and by extension, my clients – already won this lawsuit," I smirked, bouncing a finger over the legally-binding documents between us, "by law, I actually can expect you to deliver our notice. Moreover, I certainly do expect it."

Admittedly, I more than enjoyed the way her gaze darkened impossibly further right before my eyes – brown, gold, and hazel morphed into ebony like Christmas fucking magic itself. My heart rate – as well as other parts of me – spiked furiously as I awaited what was sure to be Christmas Eve fireworks.

My fellow practitioner of the law did not disappoint. When she opened that mouth again – that pouty-lipped, heart-shaped mouth – her voice was low, deadly and full of a heat that bathed me from across the table.

"You, Edward Cullen, are the most insensitive, ruthless prick I've ever met, and you'd give Ebenezer fucking Scrooge a run for his money."

Ahh, there it was – the big pay-off. Isabella Swan was fucking gorgeous when she was furious. Actually, I was pretty sure she was gorgeous all the time, though I'd yet to see her anything less than exasperated.

"COUNSELOR SWAN, ENOUGH!" Judge Weber banged her open palm repeatedly on the wooden table. "I warned you! Now, you'll be fined for using that language in my chambers!"

Either way, none of it, not her brains nor her beauty nor her mouth had prevented me from kicking her ass – figuratively – in court a few weeks ago. It was to be expected, of course. After all, I was the better lawyer – Princeton University Grad to her City University of New York degree. Private Law firm to her admirable – yet highly unprofitable – job with a nonprofit dedicated to helping the economically disadvantaged.

She scowled at me, shaking that head again, hair swinging like a pendulum once more as she pulled back, crossed her arms against her chest, and snorted.

"Unbelievable. Five families, a total of fourteen individuals and five pets – two dogs, a cat, and two birds – will be displaced come the new year so that your clients, a family of three, can tear down my clients' one-bedroom, rent-stabilized apartments and build themselves a seven-thousand-square-foot lair, complete with seven bedrooms, four bathrooms, a gym, and-"

"and a library," I finished for her, pulling back as well. Again, I sighed. "Yes, Counselor Swan. We already went over this in court ad nauseam, and again, I must remind you that I – by which I mean my clients – won the case. They bought the building two years ago-"

"For a shit price because it was falling apart," Counselor Swan spat, "and then they did nothing to improve my clients' living conditions."

"Isabella," Judge Weber warned again.

"The price they paid for the building and its condition at the time of purchase is irrelevant. My clients own the building, and after two years of legal battles, which cost them a pretty penny, and which took them from one court to another, this court ruled for my client."

Isabella swept her accusing gaze in Judge Weber's direction.

"I had no choice, Isabella," Judge Weber said. "The law was on their side."

Again, Isabella shook her head. "It's a crappy law that'll displace five families, who are already barely making ends meet, doing nothing more than minding their business while trying to live the American dream so that one rich, spoiled family can come along and-"

"Hold on a second there, Counselor," I said, putting up a palm to halt her tirade. "My clients are trying to do the same thing: live the American dream. They were immigrants to this country themselves, who worked hard to get to where they are now."

"To get to be slumlords?" she snarled.

I glared at her. The woman was gorgeous. But at times, she could be exasperating as hell.

In illustration, I threw up my hands. "Why are we arguing this again? All this was hashed out in court, and once more," I stressed, "I'll remind you that my clients won. Now, they're simply exercising their right to give notice."

"On Christmas Eve, Edward?"

A startling shiver ran through me at her use of my first name, but I kept my expression impassive.

"They're exercising their right to give notice on Christmas Eve, and only allowing my clients thirty days to evacuate the apartments!"

"Isabella," Judge Weber cut in, "by law, that's all they're required to give. Counselor Swan," she said much more sympathetically, "Counselor Cullen is correct; all this was already hashed out. The law is on his clients' side. Look, I don't like it either, but the law is the law."

"Sometimes, the law is bullshit, and those who abuse it are assholes." Counselor Swan glared at me.

"Isabella," Judge Weber sighed, "as I said, I don't like this either, but don't make it worse by forcing me to fine you again. They have thirty days, Isabella. Give them notice."

OOOOO

Once outside Judge Weber's private chambers, I pulled my cell phone out of my brown wool Burberry coat, anxious to check my messages after ninety-minutes of a forced withdrawal. As I scrolled through the phone, I shook my head, clearing Counselor Swan's eyes, hair, and mouth from it so that I could refocus on what was important.

Isabella was a late addition to the legal battle between my clients and the residents of the tenement they wished to turn into their private residence. For a while, the residents attempted to represent themselves. And I had to give it to them; they'd put up a good fight. However, as the case was tossed from court to court, and it became more and more obvious that all that was occurring was the judges' attempts to wash their hands of a legal decision they balked at making, the residents of 1225 Milagro Street gave it one more go and finally hired an expert to represent them. She got close; I'll give her that. She brought up good points, made some great, heartfelt arguments. But in the end, as Judge Weber pointed out, the law was simply on our side.

Nevertheless, throughout the few months in which I dealt with Counselor Swan, she got under my skin in a way few people rarely did. It got to the point where it was all I could do to keep my head in the game while in a courtroom with her. Truthfully, I was immensely grateful that that law actually was on our side because toward the end there, I'm not even sure if I made sense anymore.

Needless to say, I wasn't sure how I felt about the confusion she wrought on my mind. I was twenty-nine years old, at the top of my game, and so fucking close to making partner I could practically smell the expensive leather and wood from the corner office awaiting me. The last thing I needed was a distraction, and Isabella Swan was definitely a distraction.

So, I pushed her out of my mind as I made a mental note of all the calls, texts, and emails I had to return – and almost all of them business-related despite it being Christmas Eve. But that was fine. I'd made my choices a while ago, and my career was at the forefront.

Nevertheless, some wistful part of me made me click on my Facebook app, a slight curiosity regarding how those few friends and family I had were spending their Christmas Eve. Just then, however, as I stood in the middle of the hallway with my eyes glued to my phone, I heard her familiar voice, her words furiously strangled. When I looked up, Counselor Swan was headed my way. She was on her cellphone and distractedly unaware of her surroundings.

"…bad enough they're being evicted in thirty days, he's forcing me to deliver the news on Christmas Eve!" She stopped talking and paused in her steps. "Emmett, I don't know what time I'll get there. I'm not exactly going to drop that bombshell and then run off to my holiday merriment, am I?"

Wrapped in a white, ivory coat and wearing a matching hat and gloves, had I really been a believer in Christmas magic, Counselor Swan would've reminded me of a Christmas fairy.

But I wasn't. So, she didn't.

Instead, I meant to look back down at my phone and return to my business, ignore her business, and stop wondering who the hell this Emmett dude was, to who she was pouring out her bleeding, little heart. It wasn't my concern. After all, once her clients evacuated my clients' building in thirty days, I wouldn't have to deal with Isabella Swan again – unless another trial brought us together once more.

It was ridiculous how hopeful that thought made me.

Before I could look away from her, I caught sight of Isabella's features. Her expression was morose, to say the least. Eyes downcast in a way I'd never seen them, her shoulders sagged in defeat as she fisted her hair.

"I swear, Emmett, it's nights like this one that make me miserable."

She looked up so suddenly that had I been a weaker man, my breath might've hitched. When she caught sight of me, the despondency in her gaze morphed into that familiar fury that admittedly turned me on.

"I gotta go, Emmett. Scrooge himself is right here, and I don't need him listening in on my convo." As she hung up her phone, she glared at me and passed me by.

I should've let her go.

Instead, I followed and fell in step beside her quick stride, while her eyes remained front and center.

"To be clear, if you speak that loudly, you can't be surprised when others in the vicinity listen in on your convo."

"Shouldn't you be off kicking puppies or taking candy away from babies somewhere?"

"First, if it makes any difference, it wasn't my choice to give notice tonight. Second, I'm no expert at babies, but I don't think they should be having candy anyway."

"So, you do take their candy and kick puppies."

"Of course, that's what you'd get from that. And no, I don't."

"You delivered your clients' decree with no issue."

"They're my clients, Counselor," I said. "You know very well how it works. I simply do their bidding."

Here, she stopped and rounded on me. "That's bullshit, and you know it. We're called Counselors for a reason – we give counsel. Tell them to wait after the new year and to at least give them ninety days to clear out."

"Boy, you don't ask for much, do you?"

"No, I don't," she spat. "It's the very least one set of human beings who are displacing another set of human beings can do."

"It's not going to happen, Counselor."

She glared at me, those nostrils flaring again before turning away and resuming her stride.

"You rich people have no frikkin' clue what real life is like, do you? Living from one paycheck to another, struggling to make ends meet and then coming home to your tiny apartment, which you can barely afford, yet being so damn grateful you have that, at least."

"Look, I'm sorry you were fined in those chambers." I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet. "Let me pay your fine since it was basically my fault-"

Again, she stopped. This time, she gazed at me incredulously. "Is that what you think this is about, Edward? The fucking fine? I would've paid twenty times that fine if it would've given those families some more time in their homes; if it would've allowed them to at the very least spend their holidays in peace without the knowledge that they'll have to clear out in thirty days hanging over their heads." Her voice broke, and she looked down at my leather wallet as if to hide her emotion. But then, she sneered back up at me. "Put your fat wallet away. I don't need you to pay a thing for me, Edward Cullen."

I sighed and closed my wallet, returning it to my pocket. "Isabella, you're taking this way too personally. Look, why don't we go grab a cup of coffee or something?" I startled myself with the invitation. Yet, once it was out there, I didn't even regret it. Instead, my mouth simply kept moving and expanded on it. "Or we could have dinner and drinks, and afterward, maybe we can…"

At the look of righteous indignation which overspread her beautiful features, I trailed off, having no idea how I'd meant to end that train of thought. For a few, bewildering seconds, she locked me in her gaze so tightly I could barely breathe, much less verbalize.

"First of all, I never gave you permission to address me by my first name."

"That's a bit hypocritical when you've addressed me by my first name more than once."

She talked right over me. "Second, you do realize it's Christmas Eve, don't you?"

"Of course, I do. You've reminded me about twenty times in the past ninety minutes."

She reeled back in outrage, tilting her head sideways. "Then, don't you think I'd prefer to spend the evening with my family and friends rather than with yours?"

When I didn't reply, she snorted, and half her upper lip twisted in a snarl.

"Wait a minute; you weren't even inviting me to spend Christmas Eve with your family and friends, were you? You were inviting me out for…for what? A quick screw with one of the plebeians before you ran off to enjoy your holidays with your fellow Bourgeoisie? Scrooge screws over Bob Cratchit, and I'm supposed to screw him in return?"

Her assumptions about me, about my holiday plans, and the vague image of Emmett dancing in my head made me retort in a caustic manner meant to piss her off even more than per usual.

"Hey, Tiny Tim, quit calling me Scrooge. And for your information, I wasn't inviting you out for a screw. If I wanted a screw, I could look elsewhere. Furthermore, how I spend my holidays is none of your damn business. Just because I don't choose to go through life with sugar-fucking-plums dancing in my head," I bounced the tips of my fingers against my temple in illustration, "and pretending everything should be fair and equal for the masses doesn't give you the right to talk so much garbage. Maybe if you climbed off of your moral high horse for a minute, Miss High and Mighty, you'd realize that life is never fair, and trying to make it so is a useless – and unprofitable, I might mention – endeavor. Then, maybe you could finally move on from your shitty, nonprofit job, which obviously makes you miserable, into something more productive."

For a long while, Isabella…Counselor Swan simply stared at me, all expression wiped from her gaze, her eyes strangely impassive.

"Perhaps…" she finally said, her words measured and careful in a way I'd never heard from her usually impulsive mouth, "perhaps I don't know you very well, Counselor Cullen. And I must say, you don't know me very well at all either if you think my nonprofit job is what makes me miserable. Moreover, with how much you and I argue, I think it's best we keep it that way."

"You're probably right," I agreed coolly. "Forgive me. I don't know what came over me. Blame it on Christmas Eve magic," I sneered sarcastically, "but you're correct; you and I definitely don't need to know one another beyond what we already do." Swallowing, I forced myself to hold her gaze, and I forced to mind all those reasons why yes, she was right.

Counselor Swan nodded. "I'm glad we agree on that much, at least." Then, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin, a woman who couldn't be more than five-foot-five abruptly seemed to tower over my six-foot-two frame.

"I shall deliver your clients' notice, Counselor Cullen. I suppose we'll have to meet once or twice in between, but thankfully, in thirty days' time…we'll be done with one another unless another case comes along."

A few minutes earlier, that had been my very thought. Yet, I felt a hint of disappointment now to know that's how she felt.

I nodded wordlessly.

"Merry Christmas," she smirked. Then turning around, Counselor Swan stalked away.

OOOOO

"Infuriating damn woman. The nerve of her, to assume so much…and then to turn me down! To think I was asking her out to…"

I shook my head, as much to shake the snow off my hair as to shake her out of my mind. But the fact that I was still talking to myself about her as I strode furiously into the lobby of my Central Park West apartment wasn't a good sign of my success.

"As if I didn't have people I could call if that's what I-"

"Mr. Cullen, sir, everything good?"

I stopped in the middle of the marble-floored lobby and turned around, my brow furrowing at the unfamiliar middle-aged face standing at the Concierge desk.

"George, sir," the man said, pointing at the name emblazoned on his uniform pocket.

"Oh. Hi…George," I said. "Where's Mike?"

"Mike has been on vacation all week, sir. Didn't you notice? He'll be on vacation through the new year."

"Oh," I repeated, neither caring very much nor having noted the difference, though Mike was dark-haired and in his thirties or thereabouts, while this man was completely gray-haired and at least in his eighties.

"All right, then. Happy…holidays." I made to resume my stride toward the penthouse elevator.

"Is everything okay, sir?"

With a silent sigh, I stopped again and once more turned toward George. If I'd been taught one good thing by my nannies while my parents jetted around the world, it was to respect the elderly.

He smiled. "You just seem…quite upset this Christmas Eve, and it being such a magical evening, I hate the thought of anyone being so upset."

I tried not to roll my eyes at the magical evening nonsense. "It's nothing." Waving off his concern, I turned back around. But then…for some reason, I turned back toward George.

With slow, measured steps, I made my way toward the concierge desk. And then, I found myself confessing to a perfect stranger.

"I argued with a woman this evening."

George chuckled heartily, revealing a set of perfectly white teeth, which were surprising for a gentleman his age.

"Isn't that usually the cause of a man's bad humor?"

I allowed a small chuckle of my own in return. "She's…infuriating, to say the least. Thinks she's morally superior, swears she's always right, refuses to lose even after she's already lost!" I raked a hand through my snow-dampened hair and swallowed. "And she's so intelligent and strong-willed and…beautiful."

George looked at me through a set of amused brown eyes which appeared too young for his lined face.

"We were opposing lawyers on a case regarding a tenement in the Lower East Side which the owners are converting into a private home for themselves. She lost. I asked her out."

"When, tonight?" George asked. "Christmas Eve?"

"Yes."

"Don't you have plans with family and friends?"

"No."

He frowned slightly. "Doesn't she?"

"She has plans with somebody." I shrugged carelessly – or feigning a lack of care. "She turned me down."

Again, George offered me a hearty chuckle. Strangely enough, I found myself chuckling with him yet again.

"Anyway," I said, sobering, "it's for the best."

"Is it? How come?"

"She's not what I need – not now or in the future. See, I'm a career-minded and obviously well-off guy." I stretched my arms around our opulent surroundings. "Meanwhile, she can't seem to think of herself or her own well-being in any way, shape, or form."

"Why, because she wants to help those in need?"

"Helping those in need is all well and good, George – in theory," I qualified. "In reality, you've got to help yourself because no one else will."

George was silent.

"Anyway," I said, shifting my feet, " as I said, it's all good. She and I are way too opposite, and we would've never worked."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Totally."

"O-kay. If you say so. Enjoy your Christmas Eve, Mr. Cullen, and remember what you just said."

There was something peculiar about George's tone – it was one of those tones people tended to use when they knew something you didn't. Which, of course, made no sense. When George grinned widely, he showcased those pearly-white teeth again – teeth almost as white as the freshly falling snow outside; so white, in fact, I could've sworn I saw the flash and chime of a sparkle on the top of his front tooth, just like in one of those toothpaste commercials.

Looking away from him, I cast my gaze toward the large window overlooking Central Park…where the falling snow sparkled like twinkling, silver stars.

I shook the stupid thoughts – a pair of many so far that evening – out of my mind, and snorted.

"You okay there, Mr. Cullen?" George asked yet again.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm just fine. I'm losing my mind, that's all, and it's all her fault. Good night, George. Enjoy your evening as well." Turning around with finality, I headed for my elevator.

Yet…as the elevator made its way up to my penthouse, butterflies tickling the pit of my stomach, I had the strangest sensation that those butterflies were caused by more than the quick ascent.

A/N: Thoughts?

FAQs:

How long will the story be?:

I don't know. Three chapters? Thirty?

What's the update schedule:

Whenever I can update, my loves.

Will I cry while reading?:

Well, it's a Christmas story, which I plan to be mostly light-hearted, so I don't think so. Probably not too much, if at all; certainly nowhere near In the Mist levels, lol. It depends on each individual person. (Yes, I qualified the hell out of that, didn't I?) All that being said, I'm me. ;) Plus, I'm writing this as I go, so although I have a basic outline in my head, the particulars are still to be decided/written.

Is it HEA?:

Go to my FF profile for my view on HEAs. :)

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"See" you soon.