50 shades of Styles

Chapter 3: The photo shoot

Zayn is ecstatic.
“But what was he doing at Clayton’s?” His curiosity oozes through the phone. I’m in the depths of the stock room, trying to keep my voice casual.
“He was in the area.”
“I think that is one huge coincidence, Louis. You don’t think he was there to see you?” he speculates. My heart lurches at the prospect, but it’s a short-lived joy. The dull, disap­pointing reality is that he was here on business.
“He was visiting the farming division of MU. He’s funding some research,” I mutter.
“Oh yes. He’s given the department a $2.5 million grant.”
Wow.
“How do you know this?”
“Lou, I’m a journalist, and I’ve written a profile on the guy. It’s my job to know this.”
“Okay, Carla Bernstein, keep your hair on. So do you want these photos?”
“Of course I do. The question is, who’s going to do them and where.”
“We could ask him where. He says he’s staying in the area.”
“You can contact him?”
“I have his  phone number.”
Zayn gasps.
“The richest, most elusive, most enigmatic bachelor in England, just gave you his phone number.”
“Er… yes.”
“Louis! He likes you. No doubt about it.” His tone is emphatic.
“Zayn, he’s just trying to be nice.” But even as I say the words, I know they’re not true – Harry Styles doesn’t do nice. He does polite, maybe. And a small quiet voice whis­pers, perhaps Zayn is right. My scalp prickles at the idea that maybe, just maybe, he might like me. After all, he did say he was glad Zayn didn’t do the interview. I hug myself with quiet glee, rocking from side to side, entertaining the possibility that he might like me for one brief mument. Zayn brings me back to the now.
“I don’t know who we’ll get to do the shoot. Levi, our regular photographer, can’t. He’s home in Sheffield for the weekend. He’ll be pissed that he blew an opportunity to photo one of England’s leading entrepreneurs.”
“Hmm… What about Niall?”
“Great idea! You ask him – he’ll do anything for you. Then call Styles and find out where he wants us.” Zayn is irritatingly cavalier about Niall.
“I think you should call him.”
“Who, Niall?” Zayn scoffs.
“No, Styles.”
“Lou, you’re the one with the relationship.”
“Relationship?” I squeak at him, my voice rising several octaves. “I barely know the guy.”
“At least you’ve met him,” he says bitterly. “And it looks like he wants to know you better. Louis, just call him,” he snaps and hangs up. He is so bossy sometimes. I frown at my mobile, sticking my tongue out at it.
I’m just leaving a message for Niall when Paul enters the stock room looking for sand­paper.
“We’re kind of busy out there, Louis,” he says without acrimony.
“Yeah, um, sorry,” I mutter, turning to leave.
“So, how come you know Harry Styles?” Paul’s voice is unconvincingly nonchalant.
“I had to interview him for our student newspaper. Zayn wasn’t well.” I shrug, trying to sound casual and doing no better than him.
“Harry Styles in Clayton’s. Go figure,” Paul snorts, amazed. He shakes his head as if to clear it. “Anyway, want to grab a drink or something this evening?”
Whenever he’s home he asks me on a date, and I always say no. It’s a ritual. I’ve never considered it a good idea to date the boss’s brother, and besides, Paul is cute in a whole­some all-England boy-next-door kind of way, but he’s no literary hero, not by any stretch of the imagination. Is Styles? My subconscious asks me, his eyebrow figuratively raised. I slap him down.
“Don’t you have a family dinner or something for your brother?”
“That’s tomorrow.”
“Maybe some other time, Paul. I need to study tonight. I have my finals next week.”
“Lou, one of these days, you’ll say yes,” he smiles as I escape out to the store floor.
“But I do places, Lou, not people,” Niall groans.
“Niall, please?” I beg. Clutching my phone, I pace the living area of our apartment, star­ing out of the window at the fading evening light.
“Give me that phone.” Zayn grabs the handset from me
“Listen here, Niall Horan, if you want our newspaper to cover the opening of your show, you’ll do this shoot for us tomorrow, capiche?” Zayn can be awesomely tough.
“Good. Louis will call back with the location and the call time. We’ll see you tomor­row.” He snaps my phone shut.
“Sorted. All we need to do now is decide where and when. Call him.” He holds the phone out to me. My stomach twists.
“Call Styles, now!”
I scowl at him and reach into my back pocket for his business card. I take a deep, steadying breath, and with shaking fingers, I dial the number.
He answers on the second ring. His tone is clipped, calm and cold.
“Styles.”
“Err… Mr. Styles? It’s Louis Tomlinson.” I don’t recognize my own voice, I’m so ner­vous. There’s a brief pause. Inside I’m quaking.
“Mr Tomlinson. How nice to hear from you.” His voice has changed. He’s surprised, I think, and he sounds so… warm – seductive even. My breath hitches, and I flush. I’m sud­denly conscious that Zayn Malik is staring at me, his mouth open, and I dart into the kitchen to avoid his unwanted scrutiny.
“Err – we’d like to go ahead with the photo-shoot for the article.” Breathe, Louis, breathe. My lungs drag in a hasty breath. “Tomorrow, if that’s okay. Where would be convenient for you, sir?”
I can almost hear his sphinx-like smile through the phone.
“I’m staying at the Didsbury House Hotel in Manchester. Shall we say, nine thirty tomorrow morn­ing?”
“Okay, we’ll see you there.” I am all gushing and breathy – like a child, not a grown man who can vote and drink legally in the Britian.
“I look forward to it, Mr Tomlinson.” I visualize the wicked gleam in his green eyes. How can he make seven little words hold so much tantalizing promise? I hang up. Zayn is in the kitchen, and he’s staring at me with a look of complete and utter consternation on his face.
“Louis William Tomlinson. You like him! I’ve never seen or heard you so, so… affected by anyone before. You’re actually blushing.”
“Oh Zayn, you know I blush all the time. It’s an occupational hazard with me. Don’t be so ridiculous,” I snap. He blinks at me with surprise – I very rarely throw my toys out of the pram – and I briefly relent. “I just find him… intimidating, that’s all.”
“Didsbury, that figures,” mutters Zayn. “I’ll give the manager a call and negotiate a space for the shoot.”
“I’ll make supper. Then I need to study.” I cannot hide my irritation with him as I open one of cupboards to make supper.
I am restless that night, tossing and turning. Dreaming of smoky green eyes, coveralls, long legs, long fingers, and dark, dark unexplored places. I wake twice in the night, my heart pounding. Oh, I’m going to look just great tomorrow with so little sleep, I scold myself. I punch my pillow and try to settle.
Didsbury House Hotel is nestled in the downtown heart of Manchester. Its impressive brown stone edifice was completed just in time for the crash of the late 1920s. Niall, Sean, and I are traveling in my Beetle, and Zayn is in his CLK, since we can’t all fit in my car. Sean is Niall’s friend and gopher, here to help out with the lighting. Zayn has managed to acquire the use of a room at the Didsbury free of charge for the morning in exchange for a credit in the article. When he explains at reception that we’re here to photograph Harry Styles CEO, we are instantly upgraded to a suite. Just a regular-sized suite, however, as apparent­ly Mr. Styles is already occupying the largest one in the building. An over-keen marketing executive shows us up to the suite – he’s terribly young and very nervous for some reason. I suspect it’s Zayn’s beauty and commanding manner that disarms him, because he’s putty in his hands. The rooms are elegant, understated, and opulently furnished.
It’s nine. We have half an hour to set up. Zayn is in full flow.
“Niall, I think we’ll shoot against that wall, do you agree?” He doesn’t wait for his reply. “Sean, clear the chairs. Louis, could you ask housekeeping to bring up some refresh­ments? And let Styles know where we are.”
Yes, Sir. He is so domineering. I roll my eyes, but do as I’m told.
Half an hour later, Harry Styles walks into our suite.
Holy Crap! He’s wearing a white shirt, open at the collar, and grey flannel pants that hang from his hips. His unruly hair is still damp from a shower. My mouth goes dry looking at him… he’s so freaking hot. Styles is followed into the suite by a man in his mid-thirties, all buzz-cut and stubble in a sharp dark suit and tie who stands silently in the corner. His eyes watch us impassively.
“Mr Tomlinson, we meet again.” Styles extends his hand, and I shake it, blinking rapidly. Oh my… he really is, quite… wow. As I touch his hand, I’m aware of that delicious cur­rent running right through me, lighting me up, making me blush, and I’m sure my erratic breathing must be audible.
“Mr. Styles, this is Zayn Malik,” I mutter, waving a hand toward Zayn who comes forward, looking him squarely in the eye.
“The tenacious Mr Malik. How do you do?” He gives him a small smile, look­ing genuinely amused. “I trust you’re feeling better? Louis said you were unwell last week.”
“I’m fine, thank you, Mr. Styles.” He shakes his hand firmly without batting an eyelid. I remind myself that Zayn has been to the best private schools in England. His family has money, and he’s grown up confident and sure of his place in the world. He doesn’t take any crap. I am in awe of him.
“Thank you for taking the time to do this.” He gives him a polite, professional smile.
“It’s a pleasure,” he answers, turning his green gaze on me, and I flush, again. Damn it.
“This is Niall Horan, our photographer,” I say, grinning at Niall who smiles with affection back at me. His eyes cool when he looks from me to Styles.
“Mr. Styles,” he nods.
“Mr. Horan,” Styles’ expression changes too as he appraises Niall.
“Where would you like me?” Styles asks him. His tone sounds vaguely threatening. But Zayn is not about to let Niall run the show.
“Mr. Styles – if you could sit here, please? Be careful of the lighting cables. And then we’ll do a few standing, too.” He directs him to a chair set up against the wall.
Sean switches on the lights, mumentarily blinding Styles, and mutters an apology. Then Sean and I stand back and watch as Niall proceeds to snap away. He takes several photographs hand-held, asking Styles to turn this way, then that, to move his arm, then put it down again. Moving to the tripod, Niall takes several more, while Styles sits and poses, patiently and naturally, for about twenty minutes. My wish has come true: I can stand and admire Styles from not-so-afar. Twice our eyes lock, and I have to tear myself away from his cloudy gaze.
“Enough sitting.” Zayn wades in again. “Standing, Mr. Styles?” he asks.
He stands, and Sean scurries in to remove the chair. The shutter on Niall’s Nikon starts clicking again.
“I think we have enough,” Niall announces five minutes later.
“Great,” says Zayn. “Thank you again, Mr. Styles.” He shakes his hand, as does Niall.
“I look forward to reading the article, Mr Malik,” murmurs Styles, and turns to me, standing by the door. “Will you walk with me, Mr Tomlinson?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say, completely thrown. I glance anxiously at Zayn, who shrugs at me. I notice Niall scowling behind him.
“Good day to you all,” says Styles as he opens the door, standing aside to allow me out first.
Holy hell… what’s this about? What does he want? I pause in the hotel corridor, fidg­eting nervously as Styles emerges from the room followed by Mr. Buzz-Cut in his sharp suit.
“I’ll call you, Taylor,” he murmurs to Buzz-Cut. Taylor wanders back down the cor­ridor, and Styles turns his burning green gaze to me. Crap… have I done something wrong?
“I wondered if you would join me for coffee this morning.”
My heart slams into my mouth. A date? Harry Styles is asking me on a date. He’s asking if you want a coffee. Maybe he thinks you haven’t woken up yet, my subconscious whines at me in a sneering mood again. I clear my throat trying to control my nerves.
“I have to drive everyone home,” I murmur apologetically, twisting my hands and fingers in front of me.
“TAYLOR,” he calls, making me jump. Taylor, who had been retreating down the cor­ridor, turns and heads back toward us.
“Are they based at the university?” Styles asks, his voice soft and inquiring. I nod, too stunned to speak.
“Taylor can take them. He’s my driver. We have a large 4×4 here, so he’ll be able to take the equipment too.”
“Mr. Styles?” Taylor asks when he reaches us, giving nothing away.
“Please, can you drive the photographer, his assistant, and Mr Malik back home?”
“Certainly, sir,” Taylor replies.
“There. Now can you join me for coffee?” Styles smiles as if it’s a done deal.
I frown at him.
“Um – Mr. Styles, err – this really… look, Taylor doesn’t have to drive them home.” I flash a brief look at Taylor, who remains stoically impassive. “I’ll swap vehicles with Zayn, if you give me a mument.”
Styles smiles a dazzling, unguarded, natural, all-teeth-showing, glorious smile. Oh my… and he opens the door of the suite so I can re-enter. I scoot around him to enter the room, finding Zayn in deep discussion with Niall.
“Lou, I think he definitely likes you,” he says with no preamble whatsoever. Niall glares at me with disapproval. “But I don’t trust him,” he adds. I raise my hand up in the hope that he’ll stop talking. By some miracle,he does.
“Zayn, if you take the Beetle, can I take your car?”
“Why?”
“Harry Styles has asked me to go for coffee with him.”
His mouth pops open. Speechless Zayn! I savor the mument. He grabs me by my arm and drags me into the bedroom that’s off the living area of the suite.
“Lou, there’s something about him.” His tone is full of warning. “He’s gorgeous, I agree, but I think he’s dangerous. Especially to someone like you.”
“What do you mean, someone like me?” I demand, affronted.
“An innocent like you, Louis. You know what I mean,” he says a little irritated. I flush.
“Zayn, it’s just coffee. I’m starting my exams this week, and I need to study, so I won’t be long.”
He purses his lips as if considering my request. Finally, he fishes his car keys out of his pocket and hands them to me. I hand him mine.
“I’ll see you later. Don’t be long, or I’ll send out search and rescue.”
“Thanks.” I hug him.
I emerge from the suite to find Harry Styles waiting, leaning up against the wall, looking like a male model in a pose for some glossy high-end magazine.
“Okay, let’s do coffee,” I murmur, flushing a beet red.
He grins.
“After you, Mr Tomlinson.” He stands up straight, holding his hand out for me to go first. I make my way down the corridor, my knees shaky, my stomach full of butterflies, and my heart in my mouth thumping a dramatic uneven beat. I am going to have coffee with Harry Styles… and I hate coffee.
We walk together down the wide hotel corridor to the elevators. What should I say to him? My mind is suddenly paralyzed with apprehension. What are we going to talk about? What on Earth do I have in common with him? His soft, warm voice startles me from my reverie.
“How long have you known Zayn Malik?”
Oh, an easy questions for starters.
“Since our freshman year. He’s a good friend.”
“Hmm,” he replies, non-committal. What is he thinking?
At the elevators, he presses the call button, and the bell rings almost immediately. The doors slide open revealing a young couple in a passionate clinch inside. Surprised and embarrassed, they jump apart, staring guiltily in every direction but ours. Styles and I step into the elevator.
I am struggling to maintain a straight face, so I gaze down at the floor, feeling my cheeks turning pink. When I peek up at Styles through my lashes, he has a hint of a smile on his lips, but it’s very hard to tell. The young couple says nothing, and we travel down to the first floor in embarrassed silence. We don’t even have trashy piped music to distract us.
The doors open and, much to my surprise, Styles takes my hand, clasping it with his long cool fingers. I feel the current run through me, and my already rapid heartbeat accel­erates. As he leads me out of the elevator, we can hear the suppressed giggles of the couple erupting behind us. Styles grins.
“What is it about elevators?” he mutters.
We cross the expansive, bustling lobby of the hotel toward the entrance but Styles avoids the revolving door, and I wonder if that’s because he’d have to let go of my hand.
Outside, it’s a mild May Sunday. The sun is shining and the traffic is light. Styles turns left and strolls to the corner, where we stop waiting for the lights of the pedestrian crossing to change. He’s still holding my hand. I’m in the street, and Harry Styles is holding my hand. No one has ever held my hand. I feel giddy, and I tingle all over. I attempt to smother the ridiculous grin that threatens to split my face in two. Try to be cool, Louis, my subconscious implores me. The green man appears, and we’re off again.
We walk four blocks before we reach the Manchester Coffee House, where Styles releases me to hold the door open so I can step inside.
“Why don’t you choose a table, while I get the drinks. What would you like?” he asks, polite as ever.
“I’ll have… um – English Breakfast tea, bag out.”
He raises his eyebrows.
“No coffee?”
“I’m not keen on coffee.”
He smiles.
“Okay, bag out tea. Sugar?”
For a mument, I’m stunned, thinking it’s an endearment, but fortunately my subcon­scious kicks in with pursed lips. No, stupid – do you take sugar?
“No thanks.” I stare down at my knotted fingers.
“Anything to eat?”
“No thank you.” I shake my head, and he heads to the counter.
I surreptitiously gaze at him from beneath my lashes as he stands in line waiting to be served. I could watch him all day… he’s tall, broad-shouldered, and slim, and the way those pants hang from his hips… Oh my. Once or twice he runs his long, graceful fingers through his now dry but still disorderly hair. Hmm… I’d like to do that. The thought comes unbidden into my mind, and my face flames. I bite my lip and stare down at my hands again not liking where my wayward thoughts are headed.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Styles is back, startling me.
I go crimson. I was just thinking about running my fingers through your hair and wondering if it would feel soft to touch. I shake my head. He’s carrying a tray, which he sets down on the small, round, birch-veneer table. He hands me a cup and saucer, a small teapot, and a side plate bearing a lone teabag labeled ‘Yorkshire English Breakfast’ – my favorite. He has a coffee which bears a wonderful leaf-pattern imprinted in the milk. How do they do that? I wonder idly. He’s also bought himself a blueberry muffin. Putting the tray aside, he sits opposite me and crosses his long legs. He looks so comfortable, so at ease with his body, I envy him. Here’s me, all gawky and uncoordinated, barely able to get from A to B without falling flat on my face.
“Your thoughts?” he prompts me.
“This is my favorite tea.” My voice is quiet, breathy. I simply can’t believe I’m sitting opposite Harry Styles in a coffee shop in Manchester. He frowns. He knows I’m hiding something. I pop the teabag into the teapot and almost immediately fish it out again with my teaspoon. As I place the used teabag back on the side plate, he cocks his head gazing quizzically at me.
“I like my tea black and weak,” I mutter as an explanation.
“I see. Is he your boyfriend?”
Whoa… What?
“Who?”
“The photographer. Niall Horan.”
I laugh, nervous but curious. What gave him that impression?
“No. Niall’s a good friend of mine, that’s all. Why did you think he was my boyfriend?”
“The way you smiled at him, and he at you.” His green gaze holds mine. He’s so un­nerving. I want to look away but I’m caught – spellbound.
“He’s more like family,” I whisper.
Styles nods slightly, seemingly satisfied with my response, and glances down at his blueberry muffin. His long fingers deftly peel back the paper, and I watch, fascinated.
“Do you want some?” he asks, and that amused, secret smile is back.
“No thanks.” I frown and stare down at my hands again.