The Twilight Saga and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer, not yours truly. I think we all know better than to think Edward would ever buy a fixer-upper.


I'm going to start posting my own remodeling funnies and horror stories here once in a blue moon. well, they might be funny. They might be sweet. Hopefully someone gets naked occasionally, if only for my own sake. And one day "Edward and Bella" will have a whole house. Or I really hope they do, again for selfish reasons.

These will be short, rough and unbeta'ed.


So, I'm eye-humping this scrumptious hunk of Vermont's finest languishing in my almost-kitchen and I have to inquire, "You ever look at a block of Monterey Jack and think, 'I'm pretty sure I could eat the whole thing?' 'Cos that's where I am right now."

My husband barely looks up from his ballgame. "Um, no. I think that's genetic because your family are the only people I've seen do that."

I ogle the sharp cheddar again. Oh, yes. You will be mine. Pale, sharp and cheesy. Just the way I like my men.

"Warm up some soup or something. That cheese is gonna get ideas about what you intend to do to it if you flirt with it all day. Can you bring me a Dr. Pepper?"

I pulled the flannel drape/picnic blanket aside that separated the "finshed" (painted drywall) portion of the house from the "unfinished" (some drywall, some bare studs—and not the sexy kind) majority. The kitchen was currently part of that majority.

The block of cheese, an uncut loaf of sourdough and a bottle of light cran-grape accompanied me to "my" room.

We'd taken to occupying separate rooms when we were working or playing on our computers. The 500 square feet of finished space was crammed with a house full of stuff. It seemed so much smaller than it was and we did our best to create some barriers.

Knowing that the renovations would take about three of four times as long as Edward had estimated made me choose to sleep in an area that would finally become a guest room. I didn't want to hate the master suite before the house was even finished.

Over the course of my day, he would stomp down the hallway a dozen times maybe.

"Do you want me to order out lunch?"

Yes.

"Do you want to go with me to the store?"

No.

"Have you signed that check so I can deposit it?"

Yes.

Always mundane and always about two decibels too loud.

The only parts of life that remained unchanged and untainted occurred after lights out, as if not seeing the disaster around me lessened its impact somehow. Whatever the reason, I could dim the overhead and be a newlywed once again, a couple with no baggage.

If only.


I am late coming home from work. And frantic. It's been more than a month since I've missed Jeopardy and I am dying a little.

He smirks when I throw the door open, I can hear it in his voice in the next room. "All the categories I'm any good at are cleaned out but even if we start keeping score now, I'll still kick your ass."

My scrub top is already off, the still-attached nametag skittering under a cedar chest when it hits the tile. "I'll take that challenge but I feel like I'm taking advantage of you."

"You should do that."

Alex drones on behind me, introducing the players. With a single tug on the drawstring, my scrub bottoms fall. They never really stood a chance. I realize as I walk into the bedroom that Edward is probably naked under the sheet.

He shifts and I correct myself with an internal victory dance. Definitely nude.

Do little old ladies who purchase linens as wedding presents have any idea what newlyweds do to those sheets and blankets? Surely they don't. My great aunt's heart condition would be victorious were she to see the neat little pup tent in the very center of my bed. She would most certainly take her pristine gift back if it didn't mean exposing the tent pole.

The gift that keeps on giving.

I'm trying not to giggle about this, trying to keep my gameface fixed as I look up and down the bed, pretending to appraise. The new sheets are pretty. "Still not into sharing the bed, Mr. Cullen?"

"Dividing it in down the middle is not sharing, Mrs. Cullen. I have a place picked out for you right here." The tent shimmies and my giggle prevails.

His fingers are laced behind his head. Cocky bastard.

I straddle his waist over the sheet, carefully steering clear of his erection, and kiss him hello. I might be a sure thing, but I don't have to be easy.

By Double Jeopardy, I am in only a bra.

By Final Jeopardy, I have thoroughly showed him which half of this union knows their Eastern European geography and Shakespearean villains but the topics were skewed his direction and he wins. He's paying Trebek off, I just know he is.

My grin is so huge that I know he can see my cheeks rounding up by my ears, even from behind.

"Close your eyes."

"Done."

I feel him get out of the bed and hear the tinny clatter of him opening the top drawer of the bedside table. It's possible that I'm holding my breath.

"If you lay back, I'll put a pillow under you."

I lean back and wait for the pillow under my neck that never comes. He lifts my bottom instead.

Oh.

My eyelids flutter and he warns me to keep them closed. Cold metal on each ankle and each is tethered to a separate bedpost, giving his warning some teeth. He never touches my wrists.

He kisses and licks his way up and down my legs and I keep my hands to myself, mostly because he stays out of reach. But once his lips are on my navel, my breasts, I can't keep them to myself anymore.

As his face descends between my legs, he half-whispers that he wants to see my hands on my nipples when he looks up because his will be busy.

And they are.

I can't see what he's doing but I can feel his fingers trace my lips, teasing them apart before he strokes a finger between them. I'm wet and wonder how I'm going to get this stain off the cute throw pillow under me.

Not that I care.

His tongue replaces the finger in one long slide and my hands grasp for the edges of the mattress, forgetting their assignment.


"What do you mean you want to have people over to watch the Superbowl? Where? We don't have a couch here or a single real chair."

"The living room will be done by then and we have furniture in storage."

"I know that half of that statement is true. The other half…."

It wasn't the first ridiculous self-imposed deadline Edward had tossed out since we started renovating and I was certain it wouldn't it be the last, so why was I biting? Why let myself get mad about this one?

I saw the jaw clench, the fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, and retreated to the shower before my mouth escalated the situation.

My mouth used to be good for more than pissing him off.

My own sarcasm was pissing me off. I moved more quickly for the bathroom.


Author's Note: Feel free to leave your own horror stories. I would love to know that someone else hates grouting tile or loves the smell or lumber as much as I do. I can't wait to hear from you.