50 Shades of Styles

Chapter 21

Everything in it is entirely imaginary and intended only for entertainment; I created it for fun. I did not write 50 Shades of Grey or any of its characters, and I do not own them.

Chapter 21

There is light everywhere. Bright, warm, piercing light and I endeavor to keep it at bay for a few more precious minutes. I want to hide, just a few more minutes. But the glare is too strong, and I finally succumb to wakefulness. A glorious Seattle morning greets me – sunshine pouring through the full-height windows and flooding the room with too-bright light. Why didn't we close the blinds last night? I am in Harry Styles' vast bed minus one Harry Styles.

I lie back for a moment staring through the windows at the lofty vista of Seattle's skyline. Life in the clouds sure feels unreal. A fantasy – a castle in the air, adrift from the ground, safe from the realities of life – far away from neglect, hunger, and crack-whore mothers. I shudder to think what he went through as a small child, and I understand why he lives here, isolated, surrounded by beautiful, precious works of art – so far removed from where he started... mission statement indeed. I frown because it still doesn't explain why I can't touch him.

Ironically, I feel the same up here in his lofty tower. I'm adrift from reality. I'm in this fantasy apartment, having fantasy sex with my fantasy boyfriend. When the grim reality is he wants a special arrangement, though he's said he'll try more. What does that actually mean? This is what I need to clarify between us to see if we are still at opposite ends on the see-saw or if we are inching closer together.

I clamber out of bed feeling stiff, and for want of a better expression, well-used. Yes, that would be all the sex then. My subconscious purses her lips in disapproval. I roll my eyes at her, grateful that a certain twitchy-palmed control freak is not in the room, and resolve to ask him about the personal trainer. That's if I sign. My inner goddess glares at me in desperation. Of course, you'll sign. I ignore them both, and after a quick trip to the bathroom, I go in search of Harry.

He's not in the art gallery, but an elegant middle-aged woman is cleaning the kitchen area. The sight of her stops me in my tracks. She has short blonde hair and clear blue eyes; she wears a plain white tailored shirt and a navy blue pencil skirt. She smiles broadly when she sees me.

"Good morning, Mr. Tomlinson. Would you like some breakfast?" Her tone is warm but businesslike, and I am stunned. Who is this attractive blonde in Harry's kitchen?

I'm only wearing Harry's t-shirt. I feel self-conscious and embarrassed by my lack of clothing.

"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage." My voice is quiet, unable to hide the anxiety in my voice.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry – I'm Mrs. Jones, Mr. Styles' housekeeper."

Oh.

"How do you do?" I manage.

"Would you like some breakfast, sir?"

Sir!

"Just some tea would be lovely, thank you. Do you know where Mr. Styles is?"

"In his study."

"Thank you."

I scuttle off toward the study, mortified. Why does Harry only have attractive blondes working for him? And a nasty thought comes involuntarily into my mind – Are they all ex-subs? I refuse to entertain that hideous idea. I poke my head shyly around the door. He's on the phone, facing the window, in black pants and a white shirt. His hair is still wet from the shower, and I'm completely distracted from my negative thoughts.

"Unless that company's P&L improves, I'm not interested, Ros. We're not carrying dead weight... I don't need any more lame excuses... Have Marco call me, it's shit or bust time... Yes, tell Barney that the prototype looks good, though I'm not sure about the interface... No, it's just missing something... I want to meet him this afternoon to discuss...