So this here is a new fic I've started. It's going to be humorous with a teeny bit of angst and a different kind of Edward. Keep reading.
I don't own Twilight, just Nakedward.
"Damn it!" I mutter to myself for the umpteenth time.
Nothing seems to be going right today. I'm moving into my new brownstone walk-up in Cambridge to start my senior year at Harvard. I can't wait; I've been double majoring in English and Creative Writing and just want to finish up and move on to graduate school. Frankly, I've worked my ass off. Plowing through lectures, studying, writing papers—it's all I know. I am the classic library nerd; it's a fact that doesn't bother me in the slightest, frankly.
I may not be the prettiest girl in the room, but I'm almost always the smartest. I can live with that.
"Shit!" I mutter as I stub my toe while moving furniture around.
My new place was a bit of a shambles. I had boxes and bits and pieces scattered everywhere in this small one bedroom space. I've been trying all day to get stuff organized. I finally got my laptop out from where it was buried among all my other junk.
Looking for something to do besides unpack, I decide to sit down and try to configure my internet access. All my utilities should be working, but with these old buildings you never know for sure. When I try to set up a network connection, I keep getting an error message. I think there's someone else's WiFi screwing it up.
It must be whoever lives upstairs.
"Hey, sweetie, do you need help in here?" my mom asks as she walks toward me from the narrow hallway after organizing my bedroom.
"Thanks, I can finish the rest myself. You should get going, you don't want to miss your flight," I tell her.
"I know. I just want to help as much as I can—all that crazy mother hen stuff," she says with a laugh as she puts her arm around me. I turn into her and let her envelope me a nice warm hug because I really could use one.
"I love you, Mom."
"I love you, baby girl."
I set down a picture of myself with both my parents on a shelf and look at it for a moment.
"I miss him too," my mom says as she watches me sigh at the photograph in front of me.
"I'm just at the point where I'm getting mad at him, isn't that stupid? I'm mad he won't be at my graduation. Like it's his fault," I admit with a sad laugh and a shake of my head.
"Are you sure you'll be OK living alone? Don't want you to be lonely, honey, that's all," my mom explains softly as she strokes my hair.
My mom has been the one to comfort me through all that's happened in the last year, when really she needed it herself. She and my father had one of those 'star crossed' romances—the kind you read about in fairy tales. She was the bohemian and he was always on the straight and narrow. Two more opposite people couldn't have paired together, yet, my dad managed to ask her out to their college spring formal, no doubt on impulse, and somehow she said yes.
Well, they had one thing in common because nine months later I was born.
They struggled as a young married couple with a baby but they pulled through it—staying madly in love in the process. My mom became an art teacher and my dad, the chief of police. Their story would have had a happily ever after had my dad not passed away from stomach cancer six months ago. By the time we figured out what was wrong, it was too late. My father died five weeks after his diagnosis, on his 44th birthday.
"I'll be fine, really," I reassure my mom as I snap myself out of my sad memories. "Promise, if I really don't like it, I can always give one month's notice then move in with Rose and Alice. They've got an extra room and keep asking me to move in. But I want my own place—to can work on getting my thesis done and studying for grad school entrance exams," I explain. I really do need my own space to think, to piece myself back together, to just be.
"You've always known your own mind, ever since you were a little girl," my mom says as she pats my arm. "Alright, let me at least get your bed made before I leave, how's that?"
"Thank you, mummy," I say in my overly-saccharin voice that I use with her when I'm kidding around. "Gotta call the cable people, I still can't get my laptop online. Hopefully I can find my cell in here."
A while later, I finally manage to usher my mom into a cab to the airport. I promise to call at least every few days to let her know how I am. After one last tight hug, we kiss goodbye and she's gone.
Back in my tiny apartment, I have my phone pressed between my ear and my shoulder. I struggle to lift a box but drop it on my foot.
I attempt to walk to the other side of the room and stub my toe.
I get my laptop out from where it's buried under a pile of papers on the couch. I type out my username and password but nothing freaking happens.
"Yes, I'm still here," I mutter to the customer service person on the other end of my cell. "I was on hold forever; please tell me why my internet isn't working yet. OK, if there's nothing wrong with it from your end, what am I supposed to do? Ask the neighbor if it's something they're doing? Gotcha. Thanks," I grumble as I end the call.
"For fuck all, seriously," I add to myself as I chuck the phone into the couch cushion.
I stand up, sigh heavily, and walk out the front door. I may as well go up there and ask about it. I need to meet my new neighbor anyway.
I climb up the creaky stairs and knock on the door. It's open—not just unlocked, but not even pulled shut. It drifts open further with a whining squeak when I knock on it.
"Hello?" I call.
"Hello?" I call again, louder.
"Yeah, come in," I hear a male voice call back out to me.
I inch my way inside. Looking around, I notice that this is a distinctly masculine dwelling, with dark furniture and sparse décor. There's a pizza box on the kitchen counter. There's book shelves everywhere, crammed with books—hundred of them. Scanning a few of them quickly, I see there's a wide variety of genres, but one entire bookcase is filled with medical textbooks.
Hmm, a doctor. Not bad.
I'm so lost in my own dream world about rich doctors that when I hear a deep voice behind me, I almost jump out of my skin.
"Hello, can I help you with something?" says the smooth, masculine voice behind me.
And then when I look at him, I almost jump out of my skin again. Because all I can see is skin.
There was a very good looking, very naked man standing in front of me.
Shit, I looked right at his package.
"Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod," I chant, turning my head away and pressing my hand against the side of my face to shield my eyes. "Um, whoa. You're, uh, extremely…naked?" I stammer stupidly as my words form a question for some reason. My hand covers my eyes as I turn my head away. I feel myself blush furiously.
"Yeah, just got out of the shower. What can I do for you, brown eyes?" he asks.
What the? Is he flirting with me, while buck naked?
"Uh, yeah, sorry to intrude, Mr., um…Mr. Naked Guy, but I live downstairs and…you know? Never mind," I say, wanting to leave but stumbling because my eyes are closed and my hand is still over them.
I walk into the wall with a loud thud.
"Well, brown eyes, if we're going to be neighbors and all, we may as well be…neighborly," he says, his voice like silk. "Come on now, I don't bite—unless you're into that kind of thing," he adds with a deep chuckle.
I take a deep breath and try my best to start over.
"I'm having problems with my WiFi, I'm wondering if you have yours set up in such a way that it's interfering somehow?" I say, my words spilling out as fast as I can make them. I must look like a complete ass-clown standing there talking with my hand over my face, but I'm not risking another glimpse of his man business. "Sorry, I can't be more specific than that, I'm not very good with computers," I add.
"Hmm," he says, thinking. "I believe I have a very technical way of solving this problem. Hang on," he says, the laugh in his voice clear.
I hear his footfalls go further and further away but I'm too afraid to uncover my eyes. I hear him come back after a few minutes.
"I think I fixed it," I hear him say. "The old 'power off, power on,' trick," he explains.
"That was quick," I reply with a nervous giggle. "Thanks, um…Mr Naked Guy," I add.
"You know brown eyes, I got dressed about ten minutes ago," he says.
"Oh," I reply dumbly.
I open my eyes and blink a few times. I feel really stupid and my cheeks heat up even more than they did when he first walked into the room. I finally turn my head back toward him.
Standing in front of me in pair of black silk boxers is probably…the most insanely good looking guy I've ever seen. He's got bronze red/brown hair, all spiky and messy, like he's been frolicking in the sack for the last few hours.
Which he probably has been.
His nose is long and slightly pointy at the end, and ever so slightly crooked with a small bump in the bridge. He's got a devilish smile that goes up higher on one side than the other—like he's thinking about something dirty.
Which he probably is.
I meet his gaze and notice that his eyes are a brilliant green color, framed with thick lashes and eyebrows. His forehead comes down a little low, giving him an intensely introspective look. He's got a nice amount of scruff growing from his beard—probably a few days worth of not shaving.
"You see something you like, brown eyes?" he asks, his crooked smile growing. He's got pretty white pointy teeth that make me think dirty things.
I clear my throat, mortified that I allowed myself to ogle this complete stranger.
"Sorry, Mr. Nay..." I try to say but he interrupts me.
"I'm Edward," he says, extending his hand to shake mine.
"I'm Bella," I reply, shaking his hand.
I can't help but notice how even his hands are gorgeous. He's got long slim fingers that wrap around my hand tightly but also delicately.
"Piano," he says plainly.
"Excuse me?" I answer, confused.
"My fingers. I play piano. I have been since I was five," he explains.
"Are you a musician?" I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.
"Yes, but not by trade," he replies. "I'm a doctor—I'm finishing up my residency at Brigham and Women's Hospital," he adds.
"Are you a surgeon?" I ask, trying to not look like I'm prying but failing miserably.
"Not exclusively, though I do perform surgical procedures. I'm a gynecologist," he explains.
"I'm not especially surprised by that," I mumble under my breath.
"Sorry, brown eyes?" he asks with a smirk.
"How'd you know my eyes are brown? I've had them covered until a minute ago," I ask, getting a little irritated by this guy's overly familiar tone.
He just looks at me as a huge shit-eating grin creeps across his face.
"Trust me, brown eyes, you didn't close them that fast."
Arrogant little bastard. I don't have time for this nonsense, seriously.
"Yeah, OK, well, thanks for that. Bye," I say as I shake my head and turn toward the door.
Back in my apartment, I sit on my couch with my laptop. Whatever this neighbor mine did, it seems to have fixed my WiFi. I pull up a web browser and enter an update on my Twitter status.
What are you doing? The heading at the top of the web page asks me. I type into the rectangular box underneath it.
Met my new neighbor. He's the naked guy upstairs. (TNGUS) :op
Like it? Leave me some love. I already have quite a bit written out. I'll be updating once a week, hopefully!