And They Told Me I Couldn't Act

TAKE 18

WHY AM I TRANSFIXED on the smell of Harry? I hate it. I hate that I'm trying to pin that scent, bottle it up and wear it. It's just pass a day since I've smelt it and since then, call it frustration, agony or even morbid curiosity but I've made myself at home in his living room and I'm watching re-runs of American Idol.

The same American Idol that Harry won.

The same box set in his living room.

And to emphasis, I'm totally not at all watching it for Harry or Sarah Barbella. The girl Harry used to date. In fact, really, no one else save Harry and Sarah seem to know. It's almost frustrating how little on-screen time they both get together.

"Vanessa?"

I desperately grab the remote to turn off the television. "Yeah?"

"Were you watching American Idol?" He asks walking down the steps. His hair is still wet, a grey towel hangs around his shoulders. I hate how effortless he looks. He's wearing a gorgeous black sleeveless Adidas shirt with matching shorts.

"Of course not," I lie.

He doesn't bother, he heads straight for the kitchen opening his fridge. He scans it and then scowls at it. "I'm going to order in. Do you want anything?"

"Can we have tacos?"

"Yeah, I'll get burgers."

I try not to scowl. "I asked for tacos."

His green eyes turned to me, "Well we don't reward liars with tacos."

I roll my eyes. He's so aggravating sometimes. From his stupid musky pine perfume to the way he talks, I turn the television back on. Why should I be uncomfortable?

"Fish or Chicken?" He asks.

"Who eats a fish burger?" I shout back.

"I'm talking about tacos."

"Oh, fish then."

He nods. He walks towards the living room, eyes on his phone as he places the order. Then his eyes briefly glance at me before looking at the television. A small smile curls on his lips. "I thought you weren't my fan anymore."

"I'm not," I reply.

He sits on the other sofa, the one I'm not anywhere close to. "Alright."

I glance at him, a bit annoyed he's not badgering me for details. Then again, what does he care? What's another lost fan? I scowl. I'm annoyed. I'm annoyed that I'm thinking about his perfume. I'm annoyed I want him to sit next to me.

It's so unfair that I can't just -

Oh.

A slow smile creeps up my list. He thought he could play me for a fool. I stand up from the sofa, stretch then walk towards the sofa he's sitting on. Without so much as a warning, I fall onto the sofa, inadvertently falling on him.

"Ouf," He gasps as I gracelessly fall on his lap.

I turn to look at him smirking.

"You're not exactly convincing me that you're not a fan, Vanessa," Harry points out his hands placed carefully on his sides. When I'm sitting on his lap, it's the first time we are really face-to-face. I can see his green eyes reflecting the light on the television this close, I can see a few his freckles showing through, and the arrogant tilt of his lips.

Maybe I didn't think this through.

It felt simple in my head, squash him to death or make him feel a fraction as uncomfortable as I had felt when he'd unexpectedly closed the distance between us yesterday.