Chasing Melody (A Harry Styles Fan fiction) - Chapter 1

I hid my surprise. His gaze was still laser-focused on his beer mug, and the vibe he sent off was leave me alone. “What’s your name?” I asked, pouring a drink for myself.

At that, he looked up, and for a moment I was gobsmacked.  Surprise registered in his intense, blue-green eyes. Jesus. The force of his gaze nearly bowled me over. And his cheekbones . . . men weren’t supposed to have cheekbones like that, high and angular like they’d been carved with a chisel. On its own, his nose was a little too broad but it was balanced by his heavy eyebrows and full, kissable lips.

I did not just refer to his lips as kissable. Jeez.

Belatedly, I realized he’d spoken. “Sorry, what was that?” I asked. He started to laugh.

I folded my arms under my breasts. His gaze dipped down and up, spots of pink forming in his cheeks. Did he just check me out? Shaking my head, I asked, “What’s so funny?”

He held up his hands. “Nothing,” he said. “I said my name is Harry.” And then he smiled.

Holy crap.

I think I died. Those perfect white teeth and red, kissable—yes kissable, damn it—lips hit me with the force of a mack truck. And my God, those dimples!

His forehead wrinkled. “Are you hard of hearing?”

Hawd of heyah-ring, he said. I love British accents.

I needed to stick my head in a cooler. Or, more realistically, dump ice down my back. Easy access. We had plenty of ice at Iggy’s.

“Sorry,” I said again. “Not hard of hearing. I was . . . distracted by something.” Your kissable lips, I didn’t say.

He grinned. “Your name?”

“It’s Melody.”

“Pretty.”

“Thanks. My parents are musicians. Guess they thought I’d be one too.”

He raised a thick eyebrow. “Are you?”

I gestured at the bottles of liquor stacked behind me. “I’m a bartender.” I’d given up on becoming a singer, except for when I sang on Karaoke Thursdays.

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

I sighed. “I sing. Sort of. I used to sing, anyway.” I’d been the darling of my university’s opera program. I was supposed to be the prima donna at the Met by now. Instead, I was doling out tequila and limes at Iggy’s.

 “Yeah,” he muttered. “I used to sing, too.”

I wasn’t sure what caused his change in mood. “So,” I said brightly, “you going to perform a song for us? Only twenty minutes left before we close.”

“No.” He said the word with the finality of a gavel.

I flinched. “Whoa there, buddy. It’s just karaoke.”

Harry scrubbed at his cheeks. “Sorry. I’m just . . . tired of girls asking me to perform.”

I choked on my beer.

He blushed bright red. “I didn’t mean it like it sounds.”

“Suuure you didn’t.”

He hid his face with his hands, but he was laughing. “God, no. You have me all wrong. Perform as in sing.”

“You’re a singer, then?” I asked. He had the rangy build and grungy style I associated with artists.

Harry tilted his head at me, curiosity in those mesmerizing eyes. “You really don’t know?”