𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐋! | harry styles

𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈

IF I burned the candle at both ends before Harry, at least there was a rest in the middle-a few hours between class and work to catch my breath and organize my thoughts. Now, it seems as if every spare breath and thought I have belong to Harry. Not that I'm complaining.

I can't help but muse that my mother would find this whole situation immensely amusing. She, who always loved to say, "Now, Sophie, a man won't chase a bus he's already caught," would get a good chuckle out of the fact that it is Harry who manages to stay just out of reach while pursuing me with remarkable determination. I'm not a game to him; he isn't playing hard to get. In fact, he's pretty damn clear that I've already "gotten" him-in every way but one.

And that one holdout is driving me nuts.

I know Harry wants me; he's told me as much. But there's some set of rules in his head about what should happen when, and I'm not privy to the particulars. All I know is that when a limit is approached, he cuts me off like a boozed-up bar patron.

Last night's incident in his studio set us back big time. Poor Harry, barely able to kiss me on the lips when he dropped me back home, as if he had to average out the "porn shoot" with a chaste kiss to set us back on second-date track.

The tortured texts I woke to this morning tell me Harry spent a rough night beating himself up further:

I confess I did look through all the pictures this morning, but only to copy all the photos to a flash drive for you and delete off my camera and the cloud.

Kept this one for my phone *wink* [Here, Harry attached a pure head shot of me.]

Can I see you before Thursday? Free after class today?

The only way I can figure to ease his mind is to go with his flow and not seem overly eager to move forward faster than he is comfortable. It won't be easy. Old School grows hotter by the minute, and his old-fashioned courting routine might just break me.

Holy hell! Did he have to show up here at the library entrance, wearing his Meatloaf Monday blazer and holding his cheer-up-Mom bouquet of the week? So not fair.

I rise slowly from the library steps, imagining my feet tied to massive stone blocks so I don't leap forward and tackle the man to the ground. Despite an early alarm and a boring-ass lecture on supply-and-demand curves, I am a lightning rod waiting for his spark-and there it is: that jolt of recognition when he first sees me. His gorgeous smile breaks across his gorgeous face, sending shivers up and down my spine. Will I ever not respond this way to him? I can't imagine it.

I'm giddy before he even takes my hand; his soft kiss on my cheek makes me swoon. "Hello, beautiful."

"Hello, handsome." I think I might be nauseating, and I don't even give a shit. "Those tulips are so pretty. Your mom is going to love them."

"They're not for my mom." Hello, dimple.

"No? You got another girl at Shady Acres?"

"I got another girl right here," he says, pressing the cellophane to my chest.

"These are for me?" He nods. "What's your mother going to say when you show up empty-handed? First, the umbrella; now, her flowers. She's going to think I'm just after you for your stuff."

He leans in and whispers into my ear. "I'm going to pick her up an orchid in the gift shop."

Did I just beat out Mother Styles for the choice bouquet?

"Ha! Good thing I'm not the jealous type, or I'd start to wonder about you and every florist in town!"

The way he says, "Mmhmm," confirms I have zero to worry about, florist or not.