The Shield (Prince Harry fanfic #2)

Chapter Thirteen

Harry wasn't sure what to expect, whether it was the obvious or the oblivious. Perhaps he thought that Lucy would smile when she saw him, look deep in his eyes and be happy. Perhaps he thought he would be happy. Perhaps this was what it was to be in a fairytale. Perhaps everything was meant to be perfect. But he only focused forward.

The shelves were high and thick with books, and he didn't know where to start. Books of other people's ideas clouded his way, and he was forced to wade through their thoughts. The overly used books toppled over, meant to give you a concussion. Some books laid around on the floor, meant to trip you. It was stuffy and hot within the bookstore, and he blinked as suddenly his heart became too quick. His breath was taken out of him, and he focused again. He looked for only some movement, but it was still.

Harry took another step into the bookstore, and the owner glanced over. With the lack of flashing cameras to blind the owner, he watched the Prince of Wales walk slowly in. The owner measured him but could've named Harry with ease. Then a smile pulled across the old man's face, a hint of mystery, something glittered within his eye. The owner recalled the quick conversation he had with the American when she walked in, and this was the famous man. "She's in the journal section, to the right."

Not knowing fully, Harry nodded. Thankfully, the journal section was pulled away from the windows, luckily for Lucy really. She was able to hide and shop there, when only one or two paparazzi were left outside. The rest had ran for the bigger story: Prince Harry and the flowers. To the right and back, small, was the journal room, tucked away beneath all the books. It took a small doorway to get through, which was lined with more books. The floor creaked under him as he walked, and Harry hesitated without looking into the room. He heard the shuffling of paper, the opening and closing of journals.

For a second, he thought, out of fear, it wasn't Lucy. She had somehow escaped before he had gotten to her. She was smart and probably would've exited quickly if necessary out the back. The fear took a hold of him. Perhaps Lucy wasn't here at all, and all the pictures were wrong. Had he gotten so close just to lose her? Whether she escaped or not, whether she was inside the room or not, he had to take the chance. He bent down to enter, and there she was.

One of the many reasons why Harry liked Lucy so much was that she was real, not some petite girl with a quick voice. She could be quiet, but she was quick with her tongue, like a sword. She was tall, coming to the same height as him, and she had the same weight, if not a little more. Her hair was let out of its normal ponytail and no longer was frizzy. But her clothes didn't match the clothes she wore in Africa. It was almost like she was fashionable but had this certain relaxation about her, with jeans, a nice shirt and Oxfords. Her purse was swung over her back. Her long fingers ran over covers of journals.

"It's not polite to stare," her American voice filled the room. Though American, her accent could've easily been claimed by Canadians, with the drawn out vowels and quickness of talking. Lucy hadn't a need to turn around but she didn't know who it was. It was rather she sensed someone was standing there. She realized a few scars, from her high school days of mass shootings, showed, and this was why someone would stop to stare. She knew it was an adult by the weight but gave it no more thought.

He thought she might turn around, but he wished she would've done it already. He thought she would recognize his voice. "My apologies." Harry was happily able to keep his voice calm.

Still, Lucy didn't look up. "Please, come in. There's enough room in here for the both of us."

The room was cramped, but a good five people could be in there with still some movement. Journals were laid out, without a specific place to be sat. There were many random ones, with some pages torn out because they were barely used. There were new ones, but he knew none of them compared in beauty to the one he currently had of Lucy's. It was leather and Italian, but filled with love and her secrets. These were just unkept lines to fill pages. It was hard for her to find a home in the story.

Harry took a step forward and paused. She looked at the back wall, and with the way she stood, she was tense. It was probably because of Harry; she didn't know who he was and then she was skiddish around him. She hadn't wanted to be rude and look at the stranger, but now there was a lack of personality about her.

He cleared his throat, and Lucy still didn't turn around. He fought for words to say about the subject, what to say to her. None of it seemed enough. What was he supposed to say? He couldn't just say hello. He couldn't admit to anything. He couldn't ask her why she never came. He couldn't ask her if she was okay or about the train. It was like meeting her for the first time again, because he suddenly found himself scared of a new situation. Her being here in London made her real.

Harry had the chance to run, and perhaps Lucy was doing that. Perhaps Lucy was giving him the chance to be free: to see her then leave. Perhaps Lucy knew the whole time, and he prayed she didn't.

Taking another step in the room, closer to her, Harry stopped. "Have you found any that you like?"

She shrugged. "I like them, but it's hard to move on." Her fingers danced on the journals, missing her own. Lucy knew she needed another one, to start over, but she didn't want to. She couldn't let go just yet. Picking up another journal, she paged through it, and already she felt the awkwardness laying down on her chest. Deciding it was good enough, or at least better than others within the room, she flipped her hair back and turned around.

Harry stood right in front of her.