Spotted [h.s]

Sixteen

Clary's POV

"Would you like some wine?" Harry asks me, dragging me out of my mind palace.

"I don't like to get drunk." I say, and dimples grow in his cheeks.

"You're no fun." He says, making puppy dog eyes.

                                 

"Actually, I'll have some."

"That's the Clarissa I love." He says and I'm completely lost at his words.

He smartly pours some white wine into a glass and hands it over to me. 

Just as I was about to drink , I lost control and now my dress was soaked with white wine.

"Christ." I said, getting up and wiping the wine off.

Harry rose to his feet and offerered  me some tissues which I took and managed to clean most of it, but I was still soaking wet."

It was not only embarrassing, but really clumsy of me.

"You okay?" He asks and I noded in reply.

"I don't live far from here, we could go there and you could change?" He     offers and I smile at his request.    

"I didn't get any clothes,"

"You could wear my shirt."

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Just come for a while, okay?” He pleads.

"Okay" I agree.

                                                 

The drive to his house is quiet. Harry keeps asking if I'm cold, and I assure him that I'm not.  

Was this a bad idea? We were going to Be alone, in his house.

I was going to be at THE Harry Styles’ house.

Ashley was going to love this.

We pulled in front of a huge bungalow and Harry said "That's my house." And I stared at the place in awe.

It was huge, and it was beautiful.

"Why do you have such a huge place to yourself? Doesn't it get lonely? " I say, getting out of his car.

"I like lonely." 

Sure he does.

"What if someone sees us? I don't want to be all over the tabloids-"

"No one comes near my property. Long Story."  I nod at him again.

"Welcome to my humble home." He puts his hand on the small of my back and leads me inside.

His living room is huge, you could play football here. The wall are covered with framed pictures of his mother and sister, a few of his dad and the other four boys.

“Who’s this?” I point at the small photo frame on the corner table.

“Who’s who?” He says, walking towards me and for a split-second, he looks scared.

“Her.” I say.

“An old friend.” His voice is angry.

“Girlfrien-“

“I don’t date.  She’s an old friend.” He says.

He doesn’t date? This man confuses the crap out of me.