la belle dame sans merci | carlisle cullen

68

Minerva hadn't been to a party, of any sort, in decades. Unless she counted funerals, which she'd decided not to. It was a overwhelming, even without the obvious cause for stress. Dana had gone to the trouble of inviting just about everybody and their dog. With the exception of some familiar faces from The Lodge or the cafe, she felt extremely out of her element.

It was never more apparent that she didn't know anybody. More importantly, they didn't know her. She knew some names, some occupations, it didn't extend beyond that. It was making her a little insane.

So, Minerva did what was natural. She'd gotten there early enough to be ahead of the curve: she found the bar. Tucked away in the basement of the old church, the bartender was kind enough to oblige once she'd supplied a generous tip. Granted, it was two pm though and it only took one strange look for her to duck out for a cigarette with her glass.

She kept looking over her shoulder, even when she went back in and dropped her glass off with an emphatic thank you to the bored bartender, who wouldn't have a task for a couple hours yet. There was no sign of him yet.

She kept fussing with her dress, alternating the sleeves between around and off the shoulder. A mantra of 'it's just Carlisle' kept running through her  head but there was an undertone that disrupted the peace. It had never, ever just been Carlisle.

It was a fight not to turn her head every time someone new came through the doors, she was losing her mind. The double gin and tonic hadn't done nearly enough to calm her nerves or quiet her mind. The more time that passed, the more agitated she became. He was going to be late, if he didn't get there soon. It annoyed her that she was even thinking of that.

Maybe he'd taken do whatever you want as a sign not to come. If things had been reversed, she certainly wouldn't have come. Perhaps it was a little entitled or even delusional that she hadn't thought, not for even a second, that he might not come. Not until she was subtly eyeing the entrance, wrestling with the complicated mixture of relief and disappointment when it wasn't his face to come through the door.

In all her vigilance, somehow she missed it when he walked through the door, though Carlisle's eyes sought her out instantly. She'd placed herself near the back, a chosen seat he could guess from the absence of placards on the remaining empty seats. One of those empty seats remained next to her.

Her face was turned ahead, lips pursed in thought as she studied a group of people talking near the altar. It felt surreal just to occupy the same space as her, to see her and, if he could buck up and stop gawking, speak to her.

Carlisle was glad for this moment, to find his bearings. On her worst days, he found himself awestruck by her. There was something otherworldly in her beauty, in a way different than his species. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, what her particular genre of magnetism was. Even still, he felt like a cartoon character being lifted off his feet, careening toward a comically large magnet.

His feet carried him forward, before he could dwell too much on whether he should leave the space next to her vacant. "Is this seat taken?" He asked as he came up beside the empty chair, letting his fingertips graze the back of it as he slowed to a stop.

Her neck could have broken from the sheer velocity of it turning in his direction. Her eyes were wide, she fumbled for a moment before she uttered out, "I suppose it is now." He smiled, softly in response before he took the seat.

Desperately, he wanted to tell her how beautiful she looked. He'd never seen her dressed up before and he wasn't sure beautiful did her justice. However, he could guess Minerva wouldn't enjoy flattery. Not after the rocky road that led them to sitting uncomfortably side by side at a stranger's wedding.