50 shades of Styles

Chapter 3: The photo shoot

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“And the boy I met yesterday, at the store. He’s not your boyfriend?”
“No. Paul’s just a friend. I told you yesterday.” Oh, this is getting silly. “Why do you ask?”
“You seem nervous around men.”
Holy crap, that’s personal. I’m just nervous around you, Styles.
“I find you intimidating.” I flush scarlet, but mentally pat myself on the back for my candor, and gaze at my hands again. I hear his sharp intake of breath.
“You should find me intimidating,” he nods. “You’re very honest. Please don’t look down. I like to see your face.”
Oh. I glance at him, and he gives me an encouraging but wry smile.
“It gives me some sort of clue what you might be thinking,” he breathes. “You’re a mystery, Mr Tomlinson”
Mysterious? Me?
“There’s nothing mysterious about me.”
“I think you’re very self-contained,” he murmurs.
Am I? Wow… how am I managing that? This is bewildering. Me, self-contained? No Way.
“Except when you blush, of course, which is often. I just wish I knew what you were blushing about.” He pops a small piece of muffin into his mouth and starts to chew it slowly, not taking his eyes off me. And as if on cue, I blush. Crap!
“Do you always make such personal observations?”

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“I hadn’t realized I was. Have I offended you?” He sounds surprised.
“No,” I answer truthfully.
“Good.”
“But you’re very high-handed,” I retaliate quietly.
He raises his eyebrows and, if I’m not mistaken, he flushes slightly too.
“I’m used to getting my own way, Louis,” he murmurs. “In all things.”
“I don’t doubt it. Why haven’t you asked me to call you by your first name?” I’m sur­prised by my audacity. Why has this conversation become so serious? This isn’t going the way I thought it was going to go. I can’t believe I’m feeling so antagonistic towards him. It’s like he’s trying to warn me off.
“The only people who use my given name are my family and a few close friends. That’s the way I like it.”
Oh. He still hasn’t said, ‘Call me Harry.’ He is a control freak, there’s no other explanation, and part of me is thinking maybe it would have been better if Zayn had in­terviewed him. Two control freaks together. I don’t like the idea of Harry and Zayn. I take a sip of my tea, and Styles eats another small piece of his muffin.
“Are you an only child?” he asks.
Whoa… he keeps changing direction.
“Yes.”
“Tell me about your parents.”

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Why does he want to know this? It’s so dull.
“My mum lives in Doncaster with her new husband Dan. My stepdad also lives in Doncsater.”
“Your father?”
“My father died when I was a baby.”
“I’m sorry,” he mutters and a fleeting troubled look crosses his face.
“I don’t remember him.”
“And your mother remarried?”
I snort.
“You could say that.”
He frowns at me.
“You’re not giving much away, are you?” he says dryly, rubbing his chin as if in deep thought.
“Neither are you.”
“You’ve interviewed me once already, and I can recollect some quite probing questions then.” He smirks at me.
Holy shit. He’s remembering the ‘bisexual question. Once again, I’m mortified. In years to come, I know, I’ll need intensive therapy to not feel this embarrassed every time I recall the mument. I start babbling about my mother – anything to block that memory.
“My mum is wonderful. She’s an incurable romantic. She’s currently on her fourth husband.”
Harry raises his eyebrows in surprise.

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“I miss her,” I continue. “She has Dan now. I just hope he can keep an eye on her and pick up the pieces when her harebrained schemes don’t go as planned.” I smile fondly. I haven’t seen my mum for so long. Harry is watching me intently, taking occasional sips of his coffee. I really shouldn’t look at his mouth. It’s unsettling. Those lips.
“Do you get along with your stepfather?”
“Of course. I grew up with him. He’s the only father I know.”
“And what’s he like?”
“Mark? He’s… taciturn.”
“That’s it?” Styles asks, surprised.
I shrug. What does this man expect? My life story?
“Taciturn like his stepson,” Styles prompts.
I refrain from rolling my eyes at him.
“He likes soccer – European soccer especially – and bowling, and fly-fishing, and mak­ing furniture. He’s a carpenter. Ex-army.” I sigh.
“You lived with him?”
“Yes. My mum met Husband Number Three when I was fifteen. I stayed with Mark.”
He frowns as if he doesn’t understand.
“You didn’t want to live with your mum?” he asks.
I blush. This really is none of his business.
“Husband Number Three lived in Liverpool. My home was in Doncaster. And… you know my mum was newly married.” I stop. My mum never talks about Husband Number Three. Where is Styles going with this? This is none of his business. Two can play at this game.

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“Tell me about your parents,” I ask.
He shrugs.
“My dad’s a lawyer, my mum is a pediatrician. They live in London.”
Oh… he’s had an affluent upbringing. And I wonder about a successful couple who adopt three kids, and one of them turns into a beautiful man who takes on the business world and conquers it single-handed. What drove him to be that way? His folks must be proud.
“What do your siblings do?”
“Edwards in construction, and my sister is in Paris, studying cookery under some renowned French chef.” His eyes cloud with irritation. He doesn’t want to talk about his family or himself.
“I hear Paris is lovely,” I murmur. Why doesn’t he want to talk about his family? Is it because he’s adopted?
“It’s beautiful. Have you been?” he asks, his irritation forgotten.
“I’ve never left mainland England.” So now we’re back to banalities. What is he hiding?
“Would you like to go?”
“To Paris?” I squeak. This has thrown me – who wouldn’t want to go to Paris? “Of course,” I concede. “But it’s Greece that I’d really like to visit.”
He cocks his head to one side, running his index finger across his lower lip… oh my.
“Because?”

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I blink rapidly. Concentrate, Tommo.
“It’s history.”
All this talk reminds me that I should be studying. I glance at my watch.
“I’d better go. I have to study.”
“For your exams?”
“Yes. They start Tuesday.”
“Where’s Mr Maliks car?”
“In the hotel parking lot.”
“I’ll walk you back.”
“Thank you for the tea, Mr. Styles.”
He smiles his odd I’ve got a whopping big secret smile.
“You’re welcome, Louis. It’s my pleasure. Come,” he commands, and holds his hand out to me. I take it, bemused, and follow him out of the coffee shop.
We stroll back to the hotel, and I’d like to say it’s in companionable silence. He at least looks his usual calm, collected self. As for me, I’m desperately trying to gauge how our little coffee morning has gone. I feel like I’ve been interviewed for a position, but I’m not sure what it is.
“Do you always wear jeans?” he asks out of the blue.
“Mostly.”
He nods. We’re back at the intersection, across the road from the hotel. My mind is reeling. What an odd question… And I’m aware that our time together is limited. This is it. This was it, and I’ve completely blown it, I know. Perhaps he has someone.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” I blurt out. Holy crap – I just said that out loud?
His lips quirk up in a half-smile, and he looks down at me.
“No, Louis. I don’t do the boyfriend thing,” he says softly.
Oh… what does that mean? He’s not gay? Oh, maybe he is straight- crap! He must have lied to me in his interview. And for a moment, I think he’s going to follow on with some explanation, some clue to this cryptic statement – but he doesn’t. I have to go. I have to try to reassemble my thoughts. I have to get away from him. I walk forward, and I trip, stumbling headlong onto the road.
“Shit, Lou!” Styles cries. He tugs the hand that he’s holding so hard that I fall back against him just as a cyclist whips past, narrowly missing me, heading the wrong way up this one-way street.
It all happens so fast – one minute I’m falling, the next I’m in his arms, and he’s hold­ing me tightly against his chest. I inhale his clean, vital scent. He smells of fresh laundered linen and some expensive body-wash. Oh my, it’s intoxicating. I inhale deeply.
“Are you okay?” he whispers. He has one arm around me, clasping me to him, while the fingers of his other hand softly trace my face, gently probing, examining me. His thumb brushes my lower lip, and I hear his breath hitch.