The Boy Wore Black || Harry Styles

The Boy Wore Black - Chapter 5

He stuck out like a sore thumb in the middle of a crowded room - messy brown locks, piercing green eyes, a smile that told everyone he knew he was a big deal.  Had it not been for the fact that I'd met him quite recently, and had been a firsthand recipient of his confidence, I might have swooned at the sight.  Might have being the key term there.

Swooning wasn't in the agenda for today.

"What are you wearing?" was the first question he chose to ask me, stopping me in my tracks before I'd entered into the lobby.  Really, was this shirt that bad?  "You look like you got in a fight with a thrift store and lost."

"Thanks," I answered dryly.

He was a fine one to talk.  He'd worn better outfits than the tattered pair of black skinny jeans, black t-shirt, and faux headband thing that he had wrapped around his head to keep his hair from his face. 

For a minute I thought I heard him mutter Macklemore lyrics under his breath, but when I scowled at him he cleared his throat.  "So, fancy seeing you here."

"I work here, Harry," I replied.  "What do you want?"  It wasn't the politest way to ask the question, but it was direct and to the point.  Celebrity or not, I wouldn't sugar coat it for him. 

"I'm here to see you."  He smiled smugly, the arrogant expression reaching deep into his eyes.  "You like clothes and I need a wardrobe.  I want your help."  I shook my head reflexively.  No, no, no.  The last time I'd helped him I'd almost landed myself without a job.  I didn't look to repeat the incident.

"I can't," I replied apologetically.

"You work in a fashion house," he stated, looking around the room as if asking for reassurance that he hadn't imagined that.  "What do you mean you can't?"

"I'm a fashion blogger.  I write stories about clothes. I don't pick them out for people.  That's what the stylists are for."  He scoffed and I quickly added, "If you'd like me to get you a professional, I'm sure there are tons here who would give their right arm to accommodate you in any way possible."

"But I want your help," he argued determinedly.  "It's you or it's nobody."

I rolled my eyes in response.  I knew this wouldn't be a fun interaction.  I wanted the fun Harry Styles you saw on television goofing around in interviews, not the one who wanted to stand in the lobby of my office and argue with me.

"Why does it have to be me?" I ground out.  "I'm neither trained nor capable of helping you.  I don't know anything about dressing people for a camera, and I work much better when it's my computer and I one-on-one."

"If that's your way of saying that you're lacking social skills, believe me when I say that it's not news to me."  I huffed and turned, not caring anymore about whether or not I made him mad.  "Did I say something?"  I heard him groan as a pair of feet shuffled across the floor. "Claire, wait a second."

I pushed the up button and tapped my foot irritably.  He was pushing the boundaries of my self-restraint.  I would have fared better dealing with Lilly's pretentious opinions of my clothes.  At least I could piss her off without fear of reprimandation.

"You didn't seem to think you were incapable of helping me yesterday when you were voicing your opinion upstairs.  Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you also make a concerted effort to track me down and continue pushing your opinions off on me when I was in the middle of a press junket.  Why are you playing possum now?"

"Because I can't help you," I answered, not oblivious to the merit in his statement.  I had done those things, and while the first was completely out of my own free will, the following wardrobe advice had been as a means of self-preservation.