Waking up after a weekend of sleeping in was the worst. Lucy had to throw about five pillows at me, pull off my comforter, and threaten to pour water on me to get me to even sit up. The rest of the morning was really just a daze.
I was nearly out of it-even forgot to grab myself a cup of coffee. When I walk into the elevator, down the hall, to my office, my mind supplies me with a series of nothing.
And then I see it.
Because when I'm actually in my office, I see the infamous Harry Styles sitting on one of my set up chairs, writing.
My mouth dries, and my feet are glued to the ground, holding my weight down, but letting me feel it in the back of my head. I look behind me, then inside the room, all around, all while I'm stood in the same spot. Nobody but this man. This very, very handsome man who's been on my mind for days.
And he knows nothing about me. Unless, of course, he's heard the rumors that went around the first day I was here, of me being a bitch, or whatever.
But why is he here?
And where's Louis?
"Hello," I say after my train of thoughts, but all of them coming at once made those trains crash, and my voice was a whole octave higher. I clear my throat, and I immediately feel stupid remembering he doesn't talk, let alone respond to me.
"Never mind," I add, ignoring him ignoring me and keep the door open before walking over to my desk and taking a seat. Nervously signing into my computer, I constantly look back at the man, almost asking for him to explain.
And then he stands up.
"Wait!" I exclaim when he approaches the door. His long and seemingly perfect body turn slowly to face me, and he looks down with a look I can't register fully. Annoyance, it's always annoyance.
Shit, I told him wait, and never gave a reason for him to, and now I'm standing like an idiot. Standing.
I look down, and sure enough, I've managed to non-intentionally get on my feet. I must look completely idiotic.
"I-I..." I trail off, fumbling for words. He turns back around, and the thing that makes me feel even more stupid is the fact that he doesn't leave, he closes the door. I swallow, stuck in my position once again. "Oh,"
He shakes his head, a smirk on his face, and picks up the papers on his chair, holding them as he sits back down. He catches me staring, but who wouldn't stare?
I clear my throat and sit back down, opening up my unfinished work with Louis. This was as far as I knew how to do, and I desperately needed Louis to help so I didn't have to sit here in front of this man without a single plan. I stare at the screen blankly, then turn to him.
And his eyes are on me.
I clear my throat, looking back to the screen. "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Styles, but I have no idea what I'm doing after what's just been done. I-um. Louis told me we'd discuss it today, and he isn't, um, here." My palms are sweaty, and there are three sounds in the room. The clock ticking, his pen scribbling something down onto a paper, and my heart pounding.
"What are you writing? Why are you here?" I question.
He stops writing, looks at me, and continues writing again.
"And if Penelope told you that I went into your office or whatever, I didn't."
More scribbling.
"And I probably look completely idiotic and,-" the scribbling frustrates me. Why won't he just listen?
"Would you quit writing and listen to me?" I practically scream. His pen stops, mid-word, and I watch as the ink under the tip soaks up the paper. He doesn't look at me as he puts his pen down (so it doesn't waste ink, I assume).
His eyes shift to me slowly, and unwanted goosebumps rise on my neck, then all through my body. His eyes.
There are no words in my head, none in my mouth. We sit there, staring at each other in the now closed in room. The entire city outside the window seemed to have stopped, waiting to hear what I have next to say. But I don't know what to say.
"Why don't you talk?" I idiotically ask. Of course he wouldn't tell me. He wouldn't tell anyone, let alone a girl he doesn't know, nor ever want to.
And I don't know if it's fate, or if I'm just going crazy, but my phone blares. I stumble to grab it, but I do so.
"Hello?" Perhaps I should be listening to what this person is saying, but I'm overtaken by the image before my eyes of Mr. Styles grabbing his stuff. "Yes, this is her."
He stands to his full height and walks to the door. One movement, he's facing me again.
"Yes, yes. I'll, um, be sure to tell him." Who was I telling what to, again?
The man on the other side of the end begins rambling about a phone number, and I nearly throw up from dizziness of grabbing a pen and paper as quickly as I can. Proud of having the number down, I look back up to see if he saw as well, not that he would care, but...
And he's gone.
"Yes, of course, thank you for calling."
The phone beeps, indicating the call has ended, but I hold it to my face still, in my same spot. Why was he here?
***
By the time I actually check my email, I notice Louis sent me an email explaining he was incredibly busy and that Mr. Styles would be examining my work. Shit.
I shoot a quick email to Mr. Hampton giving my apologies for being out of it today.
Take the rest of the day off.
Well, sir, if you insist.
I decide to go to where Niall and I planned to have lunch early, just to read a novel or something until then.
My favorite character, Jenson had just started running from the local gas station, after he had just stole about seven candy bars and a few cans of beer, when a figure appeared behind my book. Looking up, Niall had sat himself down across from me, letting relief wash over me that it wasn't some creep.
Time really does go by when you're reading, doesn't it?
"So?" He asked, with a tone that told me he expected me to know exactly what he was talking about.
"So, what?" I placed my bookmark in my book and set it down, giving him my attention.
"Did you listen to him?" Shit.
I groan, putting my hands on my forehead. "I completely forgot!" I was reading all weekend. I knew there was something I forgot to do.
He chuckles. It's nice to know my now-present-stress humors him. His eyes go from my face to the book. He slides it across the table to be just in front of him.
"Iced Steel?" He flips the book and begins reading the backside of it. "Iced steel. To be in frozen strength. What's that mean?"
I snatch the book, furrowing my brows. "Read it and see."
"I don't read. Can't you just tell me?" He whines.
"Nope." And the rest of our lunch is filled with telling stories and making jokes.
"Okay, but seriously," he begins when we're walking to my now-fixed-car and his, coincidentally parked right next to each other. "You've gotta listen to Elliot Smith. Absolute perfection. If he were still here, I'm sure he would be more popular. His kinda music's comin' back."
I assure him about fifty times that I'll try to remember, but doubt myself more each time.
We bid our farewells and I head home, whereas he heads back to work. The evening went fast, and Jace comes over for dinner with us, where we order a pizza. I suppress from asking Jace about Harry every two seconds, and calm my thoughts by reading a few chapters of Iced Steel.
