Twilight 4 - Breaking Dawn | Page 2

stupid to be so self-conscious, and I knew that. Besides my dad and mom,
did it really matter what people were saying about my engagement? About my new
car? About my mysterious acceptance into an Ivy League college? About the shiny
black credit card that felt red-hot in my back pocket right now?

“Yeah, who cares what they think,” I muttered under my breath.

“Um, miss?” a man’s voice called.

I turned, and then wished I hadn’t.

Two men stood beside a fancy SUV with brand-new kayaks tied to the top. Neither
of them was looking at me; they both were staring at the car.

Personally, I didn’t get it. But then, I was just proud I could distinguish
between the symbols for Toyota, Ford, and Chevy. This car was glossy black,
sleek, and pretty, but it was still just a car to me.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but could you tell me what kind of car you’re
driving?” the tall one asked.

“Um, a Mercedes, right?”

“Yes,” the man said politely while his shorter friend rolled his eyes at my
answer. “I know. But I was wondering, is that… are you driving a Mercedes
Guardian?” The man said the name with reverence. I had a feeling this guy would
get along well with Edward Cullen, my… my fiancé (there really was no getting
around that truth with the wedding just days away). “They aren’t supposed to be
available in Europe yet,” the man went on, “let alone here.”

While his eyes traced the contours of my car—it didn’t look much different from
any other Mercedes sedan to me, but what did I know?—I briefly contemplated my
issues with words like fiancé, wedding, husband, etc.

I just couldn’t put it together in my head.

On the one hand, I had been raised to cringe at the very thought of poofy white
dresses and bouquets. But more than that, I just couldn’t reconcile a staid,
respectable, dull concept like husband with my concept of Edward. It was like

casting an archangel as an accountant; I couldn’t visualize him in any
commonplace role.

Like always, as soon as I started thinking about Edward I was caught up in a
dizzy spin of fantasies. The stranger had to clear his throat to get my
attention; he was still waiting for an answer about the car’s make and model.

“I don’t know,” I told him honestly.

“Do you mind if I take a picture with it?”

It took me a second to process that. “Really? You want to take a picture with
the car?”

“Sure—nobody is going to believe me if I don’t get proof.”

“Um. Okay. Fine.”

I swiftly put away the nozzle and crept into the front seat to hide while the
enthusiast dug a huge professional-looking camera out of his backpack. He and
his friend took turns posing by the hood, and then they went to take pictures at
the back end.

“I miss my truck,” I whimpered to myself.

Very, very convenient—too convenient—that my truck would wheeze its last wheeze
just weeks after Edward and I had agreed to our lopsided compromise, one detail
of which was that he be allowed to replace my truck when it passed on. Edward
swore it was only to be expected; my truck had lived a long, full life and then
expired of natural causes. According to him. And, of course, I had no way to
verify his story or to try to raise my truck from the dead on my own. My
favorite mechanic—

I stopped that thought cold, refusing to let it come to a conclusion. Instead, I
listened to the men’s voices outside, muted by the car walls.

“. . . went at it with a flamethrower in the online video. Didn’t even pucker
the paint.”

“Of course not. You could roll a tank over this baby. Not much of a market for
one over here. Designed for Middle East diplomats, arms dealers, and drug lords
mostly.”

“Think she’s something?” the short one asked in a softer voice. I ducked my
head, cheeks flaming.

“Huh,” the tall one said. “Maybe. Can’t imagine what you’d need missile-proof
glass and four thousand pounds of body armor for around here. Must be headed
somewhere more hazardous.”

Body armor. Four thousand pounds of body armor. And missile-proof glass? Nice.
What had happened to good old-fashioned bulletproof?

Well, at least this made some sense—if you had a twisted sense of humor.

It wasn’t like I hadn’t expected Edward to take advantage of our deal, to weight
it on his side so