Hi guys! This is a short story I wrote in January using WitFit prompts from Fictionista Workshop. I posted them on another profile that I'm using just for WitFit but I had a nice response to the story and thought I'd share it with you. Aussiegirl101 has graciously agreed to beta these chaps so they don't make your brain cry. I'll update every day until complete - 16 chaps in all. I'll put the prompt at the bottom of each chap for those who are interested in that sort of thing.
SM owns Twilight.
It can't be him…
I look again, a quick glance. There's the hair – that's what caught my attention in the first place. That ridiculous mop of silky bronze hair. It's wet, from the near constant drizzling outside, and even though it's a shade darker than I remember it still stands out in a crowd. It still looks familiar.
I risk a peek at the man's face.
Beautiful, all sharp angles and planes, golden stubble and lashes that belong in a mascara advertisement. I can't see his eyes but I don't need to. Nobody else in the world looks like this man.
My stomach knots.
It is him.
My own face burns. The pure impact of him hasn't diminished, not in the least. In fact he's better looking than I remembered.
I have to get out of here before he sees me. I'm not on fire just because Edward Cullen's face can stop traffic. I'm not light-headed because he's the tallest person in line or his shoulders completely obscure the person in front of him. I swear to God he's throwing an aura... and I can't do this. Not again.
There are memories. There is shame.
There is want.
I take one more look and regret it. His hands are in his pockets, his dress pants stretched tight across the back.
I never even got the chance to touch it.
The one-two punch of the outline of his perfect rear and the memory of fingers I can't even see send me reeling.
Fingers that brushed the skin of my neck or shoulder so many times, innocently. Or so I always thought. I mean, what would Edward Cullen want with me?
Fingers that teased me just the once, one night, one moment. Skimming over my bare thigh, toying with the edge of my panties. Those fingers and those lips because, now that he's half-turned his head, I can see his full lips. I can remember his hot breath on my skin and the warm, wet trail they left on my neck. How he gasped my name. Ruined me.
I can't face him.
I try to back out of the coffee shop's line but I'm corralled in and no one seems to be getting my secret mind memo to get out of my way. Edward is only a few people in front of me. If I speak up he might recognize my voice.
Would he recognize my voice?
Would he even want to talk to me?
I'm not graceful at the best of times and ducking under the green rope to escape probably isn't the best idea. Of course, it isn't.
I stumble, I pull the whole fucking thing down with me, the rope, the two silver posts holding up the rope… I'm a heap on the floor, hot tears sting my eyes…
I don't dare look up, I just right myself, square my shoulders and start to walk toward the door. Low mutters and a few 'what the fucks?' reach my ears. My hand is on the door handle…
Please, God. Just let me get out of here? Please?
"Bella? Bella, is that you?"
WitFit prompt: Sizzle, fizzle, drizzle.
I made a playlist for the story. This chapter's song: Don't Panic by Coldplay
Thanks for reading. Marina (rinabina on ff) made a gorgeous banner for this story and I flove it! Link on my profile. See you soon.