Buttercup [H.S]

Chapter Two

Of all the days to be confronted with my once secret-best-friend now person-who-hates-me-most-on-planet-earth, of course I would look and feel like a hideous troll creature. Urgh.

I hadn't managed to really take Harry's appearance in when we'd had our stare-off this morning. In my shocked state all I could focus on were his bright, lily-pad green eyes and the obvious distain that they'd held toward me.

Much to my despair, after the initial morning buzz had petered down, Harry had come over with to return the tray of empty coffee cups. I caught an amused glint in his eye when I noticed him approaching.

"Thanks for the coffee," he said, passing it over the counter to me.

The frown he'd greeted me with earlier had since been wiped from his face, and surprisingly I could detect little to no trace of hatred or desire to disembowel me.

And, Lord, his voice. It was deeper and raspier than I'd remembered, and it made a swell of anxiety well up low in my stomach.

As I stumbled for words I took in a better assessment of him, and what ten years had morphed him into.

When we were 17 he was already incredibly tall but he had always been slight and somewhat lanky. Yet, as he stood in front of me now, his shoulders were strong and broad, his box fresh white T-shirt that read "Islington Records" was tight against his upper arms and chest; I spotted a silver chain hiding below the neckline of his shirt. I tried not to spend too long scanning the black tattoos that scattered down his arms, or the loose, frayed blue jeans that hung from him, clinging to his ankles over a pair of worn black Vans.

His brown hair was shorter than when we were younger, it had once held tighter curls that hung well past his shoulders, but now it was thick and hanging just below his ears, his curls looser and softer. He drew his hand back into it, pushing it up and out of his face, making me swallow the pool of saliva that had been collecting in my parted mouth.

Okay, I'll admit Lucy's observation of him wasn't totally unfounded. Harry Styles, the once gangly and "uncool" music kid at school had grown up to be hot.

For fucks sake.

"Oh...uhm, that's fine, you're welcome," I'm stumbling and stuttering, the wobble in my voice making me cringe yet it seems to fuel Harry's amused smirk as he watches me crumble to pieces in front of him.

"Long time no see Buttercup," he grins, eying the large chalkboard sign behind me and then down to my apron. "Do I get royalties or something for that?"

Busted.

If I'd been blushing before then my face was now a scorching hot furnace of embarrassment.

See, the thing is - Buttercup may or may not have been Harry's nickname for me at school. Someone please, please kill me. Feed me to seagulls down the canal. Lucy could fire me up in her Kiln or Gavin could mince me up into one of his greasy burgers, I don't care, I'd take either fate over the look Harry is giving me right now.

"Oh, uhh, sure, I guess," I try to let out an easy laugh in an attempt to appear unfazed. I cross my arms over myself, wishing I could literally fold myself onto a neat little envelope and post myself somewhere far away from here. I clear my throat, "Yeah, it's been a while. How have you been?"

He shrugs.

"Oh you know, spent the last ten years rebuilding my life after being kicked out of school," he says almost nonchalantly, mirroring me crossing his arms and leaning against my counter. Still that same shit eating grin, squinting his eyes at me, "The usual."