Grace's POV
I had no clue where Harry might had been taking me. All he had said was that it was somewhere we both will really like. We drive in his sleek range rover for about twenty minutes in dead silence, except for of course the petite noise of the radio. His hands grip the steering wheel, turning right onto Hollywood Boulevard where people had lined up, gathered at the sight of the famous walk of fame.
"Are you taking me here?" I giggle, tapping the window, pointing at the crowd of tourists.
"Uhum." Harry's voice rattles, "But I have something certain to show you."
"Keeping it original, I see?" I joke. "You know we are going to look like total tourists.
His mouth let out a puff of air, "At least I didn't take you to the Hollywood's sign."
"You are right about that one."
He reaches in the glove compartment, pulling out two pair of sunglasses.
"Disguise, my partner in crime?" He suggests, handing me a pair of black and brown Tom Fords.
"Thank you." I take them out of his hand, putting them over my eyes.
"It's kinda sad you have to disguise yourself from the paps, Harry." I point out.
"It is, but I'm more worried about them making a fuss about us going out together. I really don't want the press to ruin this." He sincerely interprets his thoughts.
"You're right. It's sunny anyway." I snigger. I swing the door open, sure to not bump it into the white ford escape next to us. He puts his head in his hand, laughing before following me to the curb to cross the street.
"Now, tell me, why is this something that we both will enjoy?" I query.
"It's not the whole walk of fame itself, it's a certain star that I'm sure you'll love." He implies.
"Now, what star would that be?" I laugh as we cross the street, approaching the golden star plaques.
"You'll see, it's just a few plots down." He turns right onto the sidewalk.
He hops on the stars like a child playing hopscotch. "Right here." He looks down, "Michael Jackson, recording artist." He reads from the plaque by his feet. It made me mushy for just a moment, thinking that he had thought of me and remembered how much I idolize Michael Jackson.
"Rest in peace Michael." I say moving my hand from my forehead to my chest, then to my left shoulder and over to the right, forming an imaginary cross.
"I'd this isn't too personal, what religion do you follow?" He asks, looking up from the ground.
"I'm spiritual." I giggle, "I don't really follow an organized religion, I just kind of believe what I believe." I explain, more in depth.
"That's kind of inspiring, just being your own individual." He nods. I didn't bother to ask him what religion he followed. I knew he grew up catholic, not practicing of course.
"Grace, what was your favorite thing about Michael?" He takes me by the hand, pulling me closer to him.
"His determination." I answer simply, telling the whole truth.
"What's your favorite thing about me?" He asks, smirking as if he had gotten away with something. He pulled me again, closer. I was now pressed against his warm, strong chest.
"That's something I have yet to find out, Mr. Styles." I smile, looking down.
"Really? You haven't got one thing you like about me?" He asks, offended.
"Well I have several things I like about you I just haven't found my favorite." I laugh, stepping from his closeness.
"Okay, tuche, Howard." He smirks, itching his head.
"But, if you could pic one." He implies.
"Well, if I had to choose one," I pause, "your respect."
He smiles, "That's not a thing!"
"Okay, smarty pants. What's your favorite thing about me?"
"Well, am I only allowed one?" He smiles, throwing his arms in defeate.
"I'll give you three." I hold three fingers in the air.
"One, your smile. Two, your eyes. Three," He pauses, "Passion, your passion."
"Well." I blush, looking down to the gold star beneath my feet.
"Well." His fingers tuck a small strand of hair behind my ear. "Shall we explore?" He places his hand in front of me, implying for me to take it.
I place my hand in his, "We shall."
"I wanna see Marilyn Monroe!" I exclaim in a bright British accent.
"You better not me mocking me." He imitates an American accent.
"Never, Harold!" I continue my front, we probably looked like psychological patience straight out of the looney bin.
"Thank goodness, Grace!"
