r o a s t e d r o s e s

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a/n: the name is a play on words. 'roasted nuts', oh you will see further in the text. :P - dani xo 

c h a p t e r f o u r

Concentration is a key skill needed to fully involve yourself to Netflix.

The characters must be understood, felt for, and treasured until the series ends, with no regrets. I'm used to focusing on The Office in my free time, but there is no use even trying.

I've spent my only day off this week in front of my tv, washing in and out of the malicious thoughts of him. He has spoiled nearly every episode; a single dialogue from Michael and his subliminal jokes remind me of his faulty request to dinner.

I still can't believe he actually suspected I would accept. Ugh.

Regardless of this, his features won't remove themselves from my mind. Those piercing emerald orbs, reflecting his strong sense of confidence, while specks of chestnut float on the outer corners. His tousled brown curls, paralyzing me every time his fingers run through the unsorted mess. Everything about him appeals to the perfect potential boyfriend, but his personality sprouts obvious hassle in future altercations.

There is something seriously wrong with him.

I huffed in oppression, scooping up the leftovers of chow mein that were kept in a glass dish. With the help of my customized chopsticks, the noodles were being slurped and pulled to suit my appetite.

Jim was in the middle of timing Dwight for his personal disputes and breaks when a shattering knock collapsed into my ears. I shuttered at the sound, my eyebrows kneading together.

One last slurp of my noodles, and I was clutching the door knob of my apartment. I braced myself, the idea of checking the peephole slipped my mind.

"Ms. Blacke. Hello," His voice projected, my eyes widening at the sight of Harry Styles.

In this circumstance, there are several problems. One: why is he here? Two: how did he find out where I live? Three: who gave him my address without my permission?

While going through the possible suspects and pinpointing the nosy secretary, Katie, he invited himself inside.

I didn't notice before, but his attire was different than the usual suit that he has worn the last two encounters. His lower half was clothed with dark jeans, tightening around his thighs and knees. The gray, cashmere sweater was over a white tee, and to match the cold weather, his boots and brown beanie covering his curls were ideal.

He was parked in the center of my living room, holding a suspicious brown paper bag.

When I closed the door and secured its lock, he turned to me, a smirk appearing.

"How did you even get my address?" I questioned, hands on my wide hips.

"That part is not of importance, Ms. Blacke."

"Vegas."

"What?"

"My name is Vegas, not Ms. Blacke," His mouth tugged to form a smile at my assertiveness before he began to speak.

"Okay, Vegas, I've come to have dinner with you, since you do not want to go out," He strolled towards the dining room to place the brown bag down, unrolling the top to reveal its contents.

I said no more, wandering to the table next to him. I couldn't help but see what kind of food he brought. I am a die heart foodie, people.

"I have Zucchini noodles with vegetables, garlic bread, and a bottle of Petrus wine from France," He finished his detailed menu, rotating to face me.

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