IG A/N: I can't believe I'm actually putting this fic out into the world. Due to a rampant case of perfectionism, I have been clinging to the damn thing for dear life. I'd like to thank a few people for giving me the courage to post.
farkle, my betarkle. You light up my life. You give me hope to carry on. You are more than a beta. You are a wonderful friend and a fantastic writer. Thanks for the shot of courage. If you haven't please RUN – don't walk – and check out her fic "Don't Stand So Close to Me" on Twilighted.
Leon. Sigh. I kept thinking, "All these women writing about how a man thinks. It would be great if I could find an actual man to write about how a man thinks," and then you came to me out of the fog. The missing piece I needed.
KiyaRaven. Kick-ass bitch extraordinaire. Thanks for the ass-kicking. Please check out her fic "The Screamers" on Twilighted.
Now: I do realize there are women out there who are trying to save the reputation of a fictional character. To those people, I say this: If you think I've written a story called "Unforgivable Act" and that act does not take place, you are sadly mistaken. If this isn't your cuppa, take thee to a fic that is more suited to your "sensibilities." Nobody is tying you to a chair making you read this stuff. You can threaten, flame and try to provoke me. This story is not coming down. I will just laugh at how pathetic you are.
Yes, I do realize this A/N is totally out of hand. It's my first fic. Leave me alone.
I will be doing BPOV. Leon McFrenchington will do EPOV.
A "meet-cute" happens in romantic comedies. It is when the two main characters meet under unusual circumstances and many times there is awkwardness or outright animosity that eventually turns into love.
Ex. Bridget Jones' Diary - Bridget's mom tries to set her up with good-looking attorney Mark Darcy. He immediately thinks she's got a mad case of verbal diarrhea, smokes too much and dresses like her mother. She thinks he's a stuffed shirt.
Before I answer, you should know there are a couple of things I consider "Unforgivable Acts."
If either of these happen, I will leave. It will be as if I'd never existed. You would have to agree not to try and contact me in any way, shape or form.
I went into the coffee house. My refuge. I ordered my usual Americano and went to sit on my favorite gold couch, with its worn upholstery and sagging cushions, and opened my laptop. I turned on my iPod and put the buds in my ears.
I had discovered this place when a friend asked me to meet him here. I instantly fell in love with it and decided it would be my writing place. I hated to write at home. Too many distractions and thoughts of other responsibilities.
After graduating college, I became a freelance writer and was actually earning a good enough living that I didn't need another job. Like most writers, I'd always had fantasies of doing something bigger and better. I was writing my first novel and needed to have my mind fully on my work. Lately, though, I was having a bad case of writer's block - even in my sanctuary. I stared at my screen. I'd been stuck on page thirty-five for who knew how long. It stared at me and mocked me and maybe enjoyed my suffering. I tried to glare it into submission for an hour. It glared back. It was stronger.
Suddenly, I felt someone on the couch with me. I looked up. It was two someones. A guy and a girl. The guy was… oh Lord… I could only see his profile, but sonnets could be written about his bone structure alone. His bronze hair screamed "rape me" - which was apparently what was happening, since there was a strawberry blonde on his lap running her fingers through it. She was kissing his neck, nearly sucking the skin off.
I blatantly stared. I couldn't help myself. I guess the energy of my stare must have triggered some awareness in the guy, because he stopped murmuring into her collarbone to look at me.
It took every bit of muscle control not to let my mouth hang open. Drooling at this point would have been completely unacceptable. I stared into glorious green eyes. Then I stared some more. Then - then! He winked at me. He freakin' winked at me. The cocky asshole! Here he was with someone who was most likely his girlfriend and they were groping each other, and he winked at me?
That shook me out of my coma. I went back to glaring at page thirty-five. No use. Between Mr. Sex Hair and writer's block, it was all too much. Even the music in my ears sounded discordant.
I pulled the ear buds out in time to hear "Eddie honey, I'll go get our coffee. You wait right here and keep those lips nice and warm for me!" She leaned in and kissed him. I fought the urge to toss my coffee back up.
"Tanya, baby, how many times do I have to tell you? It's not 'Ed' or 'Eddie,' it's 'Edward.' Please honey, try to remember."
"Huh. You don't seem to mind when I'm screaming 'Eddie' at the top of my lungs, but I'll try to remember, sweetie."
She bounced off his lap. I rolled my eyes. Baby, honey and sweetie? Oh, just kill me now. Cute little pet names like that were the surefire sign of a relationship going absolutely nowhere. It screamed of false intimacy. I started to put my laptop away when I heard someone clear his throat and speak.
"Where are you going?"
I looked up to see Mr. Sex Hair staring at me. Did he look at every girl like that? Like he was undressing them with his eyes? I squirmed. "I've decided I don't want to see the second act of your performance. I can't write when I'm trying not to throw up."
He chuckled. No. Just no. Someone who was this much of a jackass should not have a voice or laugh like that. DJs on those smooth jazz stations could only dream of having his voice.
'Bella!' my inner calm voice spoke to me. 'You will not be thinking of Mr. Sex Hair and his "Fuck Me" voice. You are going to get out of here with as much dignity as you can muster and try not to trip over your own stupid feet on the way out. Then you'll never have to see him again.'
I managed to put my iPod and computer away into my computer case, zipped it up and then stood - all without dropping anything. I was impressed with myself. Apparently righteous indignation helped with my usually debilitating clumsiness.
I also managed to do it all without looking at him. I'd have to remember to reward myself later. I had my case on my shoulder and my keys in my grip when I felt a hand on my shoulder, and suddenly that voice - that damn sexy, beautiful, dreamy, "Fuck Me" voice - was in my damn ear, whispering…
"I hope to see you again soon."
Praying he did not see the involuntary shudder that coursed through me, I made my way out the door without looking back. I mentally promised myself an even bigger reward.