ever since new york || h.s.

three

I threw clothes out of my closet by their hangers, sifting through the different outfits, not thinking any of them were just right for the occasion. All I knew was that I was going to dinner, but I couldn't wear anything too elegant that outdid the professionalism that needed to match my job title. Nothing too casual, either. I needed to follow a dress code that was almost impossible that I might have only created in my own mind. Styles probably didn't even have a preference to what his interviewers wore since he wasn't used to being around any.

By 5:30, I had decided on a green dress that I had bought around Christmas time that I hadn't gotten around to wearing even though it was July, paired with a lipstick color that was about as pink as you could get without it being blinding.

I wasn't sure if I should bring my briefcase along or not, wondering if it would be rude since we were going out somewhere, but I decided to anyways since he knew that I was a reporter and that we were just meeting so that I could do my job. I threw his book in there, just in case I wanted to ask him about any quotations or refer to any page numbers, but I hoped I wouldn't need it. I wanted to ask him more questions about himself and less about what he had written because that's what people really wanted to know. They wanted to know the personal details of this man who refused to be anything other than a mystery.

A horn sounded from outside my building at exactly six o'clock so I knew it was him, but I still peeked through the window before heading down. He had sent a real town car, one like you would see the big businessmen on Wall Street driving, that had a chauffeur standing outside of it with a cap and suit and everything. My palms were already starting to get sweaty with nerves, struggling to keep a grasp on my bag as I made my way onto the sidewalk where the car was pulled up to the curb.

"Miss Chambers?" the driver asked to which I nodded. He smiled as if we were long lost friends being reunited after years before he swung the door open and motioned for me to get in.

Who I could only assume to be Styles was already there, propped up on the other side of the seat, wearing a freshly pressed black suit that looked rather expensive, which surprised me because his book covered the subject of the rich stealing from the poor in almost every section.

I would be lying if I said I didn't notice how handsome he was, his hair long and his body lean, enough to get my breath lodged in my throat as soon as I lay eyes on him. His face was angular, harsh like the deepness of his voice over the phone and his eyes were a shimmering green. I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to write a serious column about him or one of those romance novels that they kept at the back of the library.

"Styles," I said as I climbed into my seat, resting my bag on my feet in the floor as to not take up too much room. His legs were already folded tightly to fit into the small space of the backseat, so I didn't want to inconvenience him any more.

"Is it Miss or Mrs. Chambers?" he asked, extending his hand for me to shake it.

"Miss," I said, simply, rubbing my hands down the front of the tweed of my dress before greeting him with the handshake, his strong grip being something that I was used to since I interacted almost strictly with professional men.

"Have you ever been to the 21 Club?" he asked as if it was nothing, but it was so far from nothing.

The 21 Club was an old speak easy that since the 1920s, the owners had turned into a prestigious restaurant that only the richest and most famous could go to. Presidents and celebrities and people that I would absolutely not ever fit in with frequented there like it was their favorite rest stop and it had always been one of those places that I'd marked off as an 'if I ever get rich I'll go there' kind of thing. It had twinkling gold lights that lined the intricate black metal of the railings and it just looked too expensive for me, even on the outside.