“Ostentatious,” he muttered.
“What kind of car is that?” I asked.
“An M3.”
“I don’t speak Car and Driver.”
“It’s a BMW.” He rolled his eyes, not looking at me, trying to back out without running over the car enthusiasts.
I nodded — I’d heard of that one.
“Are you still angry?” he asked as he carefully maneuvered his way out.
“Definitely.”
He sighed. “Will you forgive me if I apologize?”
“Maybe . . . if you mean it. And if you promise not to do it again,” I insisted.
His eyes were suddenly shrewd. “How about if I mean it, and I agree to let you drive Saturday?” he countered my conditions.
I considered, and decided it was probably the best offer I would get. “Deal,” I agreed.
“Then I’m very sorry I upset you.” His eyes burned with sincerity for a protracted moment — playing havoc with the rhythm of my heart — and then turned playful. “And I’ll be on your doorstep bright and early Saturday morning.”
“Um, it doesn’t help with the Charlie situation if an unexplained Volvo is left in the driveway.”
His smile was condescending now. “I wasn’t intending to bring a car.”
“How —”
He cut me off. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be there, no car.”
I let it go. I had a more pressing question.
“Is it later yet?” I asked significantly.
He frowned. “I supposed it is later.”
I kept my expression polite as I waited.
He stopped the car. I looked up, surprised — of course we were already at Charlie’s house, parked behind the truck. It was easier to ride with him if I only looked when it was over. When I looked back at him, he was staring at me, measuring with his eyes.
“And you still want to know why you can’t see me hunt?” He seemed solemn, but I thought I saw a trace of humor deep in his eyes.
“Well,” I clarified, “I was mostly wondering about your reaction.”
“Did I frighten you?” Yes, there was definitely humor there.
“No,” I lied. He didn’t buy it.
“I apologize for scaring you,” he persisted with a slight smile, but then all evidence of teasing disappeared. “It was just the very thought of you being there . . . while we hunted.” His jaw tightened.
“That would be bad?”
He spoke from between clenched teeth. “Extremely.”
“Because . . . ?”
He took a deep breath and stared through the windshield at the thick, rolling clouds that seemed to press down, almost within reach.
“When we hunt,” he spoke slowly, unwillingly, “we give ourselves over to our senses . . . govern less with our minds. Especially our sense of smell. If you were anywhere near me when I lost control that way . . .” He shook his head, still gazing morosely at the heavy clouds.
I kept my expression firmly under control, expecting the swift flash of his eyes to judge my reaction that soon followed. My face gave nothing away.
But our eyes held, and the silence deepened — and changed. Flickers of the electricity I’d felt this afternoon began to charge the atmosphere as he gazed unrelentingly into my eyes. It wasn’t until my head started to swim that I realized I wasn’t breathing. When I drew in a jagged breath, breaking the stillness, he closed his eyes.
“Bella, I think you should go inside now.” His low voice was rough, his eyes on the clouds again.
I opened the door, and the arctic draft that burst into the car helped clear my head. Afraid I might stumble in my woozy state, I stepped carefully out of the car and shut the door behind me without looking back. The whir of the automatic window unrolling made me turn.
“Oh, Bella?” he called after me, his voice more even. He leaned toward the open window with a faint smile on his lips.
“Yes?”
“Tomorrow it’s my turn.”
“Your turn to what?”
He smiled wider, flashing his gleaming teeth. “Ask the questions.”
And then he was gone, the car speeding down the street and disappearing around the corner before I could even collect my thoughts. I smiled as I walked to the house. It was clear he was planning to see me tomorrow, if nothing else.
That night Edward starred in my dreams, as usual. However, the climate of my unconsciousness had changed. It thrilled with the same electricity that had charged the afternoon, and I tossed and turned restlessly, waking often. It was only in the early hours of the morning that I finally sank into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.
When I woke I was still tired, but edgy as well. I pulled on my brown turtleneck and the inescapable jeans, sighing as I daydreamed of spaghetti straps and shorts. Breakfast was the usual, quiet event I expected. Charlie fried eggs for himself; I had my bowl of cereal. I wondered if he had forgotten about this Saturday. He answered my unspoken question as he stood up to take his plate to the sink.