Johnny leaves us after a minute, sensing an awkward silence. And then... it's just me and him.
"Hi."
My voice comes out meek, quiet and small. Harry takes a step closer to me and I look around, searching for witnesses. But there are none. He crosses his arms, tilting his head. "Are you unhappy to see me?" He says it with a smile, but the question in his eyes is sincere.
"No. Of course not." I clear my throat. "Just... surprised."
"That was the point," he smiles again. God, his smile. If only he knew what that smile does to me, how it melts my reserve like butter on hot toast.
"A good surprise, I hope. I figured this would be a step in the direction of... friendship." He extends his hand in a gesture of good faith, and I take it, shaking it briefly and firmly. I ignore the strength in his fingers, the delightful weight of his hand in mine.
"Friends," I force myself to smile as I say it. "Well, friend, I believe I was promised a tour."
"Of course. Right this way."
***
He's funny.
This is bad.
He's gorgeous, and funny, and somewhere along this 45-minute, walk-and-talk recitation of a boring, tour-guide's speech I realize just how much I'm enjoying myself. And I shouldn't be. I should be making mental notes of where to allocate funds when Peggy and I begin writing checks. I should be admiring the artistry of the sets, the beautiful costume designs, and the complicated technology of the expensive film cameras.
Instead, I can't pay attention to anything but his voice, the way he waxes poetic about cinema and theatre. I can't help but admire the slope of his nose, the dark curls that frame his sun-kissed face. The 5 o'clock shadow, an echo of facial hair. He passes a hand over his jaw, his mouth, and what I wouldn't give to touch that mouth again. What I wouldn't give to—
"Winnie?"
He startles me, interrupting my inner monologue. I seem to have been caught staring, and I feign innocence. Harry gives me an accusing look, softening it with a smile. He knows exactly what it does to me.
"Would you like to see the film sets for Dear Captain?"
"Sure, I'd love that."
"If I recall, you were quite a fan of my film." I hear the laughter in his voice as he says it. My cheeks grow red, but luckily Harry walks a few paces ahead of me and my embarrassment is hidden from sight.
We cross the lot and he pulls a silver key from his pocket. Making quick work of the lock, he ushers me inside the dark building. He stalks off to light the room, talking as he does so.
"The set has been closed since we completed filming, but they haven't had the stagehands come to take it down yet. They're planning on filming a television show with some of the pieces. But, in the meantime, I like to come here to work." The room is partially illuminated.
"Is that allowed?"
He shrugs. "I haven't been caught yet," he gives me a mischievous smile, offering his hand to help me up the steps onto the soundstage. "It's quiet, no one bothers me here. Perfect for running lines, reading scripts, writing."
"Writing?" This piques my interest. "What sort of writing?"
"Just... stories. Nothing important." A shy look crosses his face and I make note of the admission. I tuck it away in the mental file of things I know about him. The file is slim, nearly empty.
YOU ARE READING
Vice (H.S)
Romance1950s Hollywood is a time and town like no other. Glitz, glamour, fame, and fortune. But behind back doors and dark alleyways, the fear of failure clings to their brightly colored clothes, reeking of desperation... Harry Styles is a beloved Hollywoo...