isabella [h.s.]

forty one

**couldn't take you home to mother
in a skirt that short,
but i think that's what i like about it**

ISABELLA

In the following weeks, Harry amps up the Christmas plans, booking the flights to Manchester and showing me festive events going on in his town or nearby which we can attend. It's definitely sweet, albeit a little transparent, because it's fairly obvious that he's just trying to distract me from everything that's been going on lately. I get the feeling he's trying to distract himself too, making a conscious effort to not bring his work home like he's prone to do. There's been less papers and files spread across the apartment, less evenings spent leaning over the kitchen table, less coffee pods used up to feed his late night coffee withdrawals. He's trying to keep his work away from me, keep me out of it, which would all be well and good if it wasn't for the fact that I've already been caught up in it. It's already reached me, but he's intent on pushing it away again anyway.

To be honest, I didn't know he was being so serious during his mini freak out when I showed him the message from the killer, but over this past week I've been realising how serious he was being. Although he hasn't exactly provided me with a full security team, he's been picking me up from work on the nights when he can, and when he can't, he sends one of the officers who's already out patrolling in the area to drive me home. Usually it's Carlos, a mid-fifties man originally from Mexico, who I've built such a rapport with that I've even been invited to his daughter's birthday party next month. As strange as it is to climb into the back of a police car in front of my other coworkers after our shift, the feeling of safety from knowing I won't have to walk hone alone means I can actually enjoy work again. And I'm not going to pretend like I miss shivering in the cold waiting for a cab or the subway, either.

Speaking of shivering in the cold, I spent most of my life doing just that back home in England, so attempting to pack for the Christmas trip turns out to be quite the difficult task once I realise I don't own many suitable clothes for that climate. Aside from my stripper clothes, which takes up more than half of my wardrobe, I mainly just own some cute sundresses, a few pairs of jeans, and going out clothes. It definitely seems like I thought my life in New York would be a lot more exciting than it is when I first packed my things to move here.

Just as I'm in the middle of this dilemma, sat on the floor amidst several piles of clothes, Harry suddenly walks into my room. He takes the time to scan my surroundings, first the ransacked wardrobe, then the clothes strewn across the floor, then to me, which is when he says, "I'm not even going to ask."

I let out an exasperated sigh as he walks further into the room, stepping between the piles of clothes as if they're land mines as he makes his way over to my bed. "I'm trying to pack for Christmas," I tell him as he sits down on the edge of my bed. "But I have no fucking idea what to bring."

Harry raises an eyebrow. "Isabella, you're literally English. I'm sure you know what the temperatures are like there."

"Yeah, but I don't have many winter clothes," I inform him, tossing aside one of my stripper heels once I manage to untangle it from a few shirts. "I donated loads of them when I first moved here. I must've thought that a New York winter would still have Los Angeles temperatures."