𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐋! | harry styles

𝐗𝐈𝐈

"YOUR room won't be ready until four. May I suggest you leave your bags with the bellman and enjoy the day exploring the town?" says the evil cockblocking front-desk clerk.

"Sounds good," Harry answers with a tight smile. Small comfort this is as difficult for him as it is for me. "Should we go check out those bikes, Sophie?"

Hey, if Harry wants to hop on a bike seat right now with that... situation going on? I'm game.

After ten minutes of fiddling with my bike's seat height until Old School is sufficiently satisfied that everything is safe and comfortable enough for me, and another five for helmet strap adjustment, we venture onto Main Street. Napa is exactly how I've always pictured it: scenic, quaint, romantic as hell. I'm dressed more appropriately for side-saddle than straddle, but Harry pretends not to notice. The perfect gentleman. Shocker.

He leads me to the river, where we glide to a stop, hop off our bikes, and walk hand-in-hand down to the bank. Harry leans in to kiss me, forgetting our helmets in the heat of the moment until they crash together with a skull-rattling clack. The straps he so painstakingly fitted to my chin are thrust apart; helmets are tossed to the ground. He laces his fingers through my hair and pulls me hard into his body, making no attempt to hide his desire. His kisses are sloppy and desperate. Ever since our car-talk and roadside pounce, Old School is not his carefully-controlled polite self. You sure as shit won't hear this girl complaining.

He breaks away long enough to wonder aloud if he can bribe the maid to get our room ready early, and I burst into giggles.

"Is this what happens when you tell the boy he can eat dessert first?"

He breathes hard against my neck and leaves one last kiss behind my ear as he regains his senses. "You know, lunch wouldn't be a terrible idea. If we stay here, I might tackle you to the ground, and that would not be very gentlemanly. Besides, I don't want to get grass stains on your pretty white dress."

"Okay, fine. But I think we should have a rule this weekend-dessert first at every meal."

Harry's chuckle echoes along the riverbank. "I knew there was a reason I liked you."

━━━━━━━

With nothing better to do and nowhere more private to go, we drop our bikes at the hotel, grab Harry's camera from the car, and hoof it to lunch. Per our new rule, we start with a thick slice of devil's food cake we take turns feeding each other, then gorge ourselves on briny oysters and a local Merlot that goes down way too easy. We need the extra aphrodisiacs about as much as a fourteen-year-old boy with his first Playboy, but man, are we having one hell of a good time sucking them down.

Harry watches the time like a kid on the last day of school. How ridiculous is it that two grown adults are hostages to the housekeeping schedule? I have no doubt Harry will have us in our room no later than 4:01.

Our walk back to the hotel is more of a mutual lean against each other's shoulder that propels us forward only by sheer will. Our joined hands swing into a decreasing space we're more and more reluctant to leave between us. Harry snaps a few pictures on the way, but his heart's not in it; honestly, I don't think he likes letting go of my hand to hold the camera. We've waited a long time for this, and the wine has lowered any lingering inhibitions not already overridden by our oyster fest.

I'm close enough to absorb Harry's smells-the laundry soap he uses on his soft cotton T-shirt, the shampoo lingering in the silver and brown tips of his hair, the scent of some manly soap on his skin. The wine and chocolate and oysters and horseradish and lemon I cannot wait to taste on his lips.

His lips, which are smiling at me right now. "What are you thinking about?"

My answer slips right out. This is what he does to me. The Harry Effect. "Kissing you."