the writer // harry styles au

chapter 2

Alexis

I stand by the granite bench top, next to the boiling kettle. My signed copy of 'In the Night' is open on the page Harry wrote his note. I'm still stunned by the idea of a successful author having some sort of interest in me. His note on Page 3 of my book is actually quite smart for something made up on the spot. What else would I expect from the youngest New York Times best seller?

The kettle has finished boiling and I start to make the cup of tea I had decided on to calm my nerves for the call I was about the make. It's currently 6:54 and the call should take place in 6 minutes. I'm repeatedly dunking my tea bag. In and out and in and out. I see that the bag is about the break from the string, so I slowly lift it from the steamy water. I cup my hand under it and move to the sink. In the midst of this activity, a boiling drop of water hits my hand and causes me to drop it and curse at the top of my lungs. The drop is cooling on my skin but where it hit is read and feels as if my flesh is retracting to show my bone.

I stifle a wimpy cry and walk at a high pace towards the sink. I turn the tap to it's coldest setting and put my hand under the water, cooling the burn. Once the burning feeling has subsided, I turn to pull a tea-towel from the oven handle. While drying my hands I look at the microwave in front of my face and see the time: 7:02. I drop the towel and jump towards my phone and, the now cold, cup of tea. I look at the book a type in his number, pressing call almost instantly. It rings and after two dial tones, he picks up.

"Alexis?" he asks. My heart is racing; he really did want me to call.

"This is she," I reply. My smile is spread from war to ear. Hearing his equally as desperate voice steadies me. I don't feel as much of a fool.

"I really was hoping you'd call. My mind was racing with the thought that you would think it was to forward, but I couldn't let you walk away," He starts off the conversation in a very charming matter, already flirting with me. We're on the phone and he's still as smooth as in the bookstore. Although, he didn't do much of the talking then.

"I couldn't let the opportunity of going on a date with a best selling author slip through my fingers, could I?" I tease. Hopefully he picks up the tone.

I hear a short laugh on the other line. I can imagine him smiling at the ground, then licking lips. He's like some walking turn-on. He certainly turned me on when we first bumped into each other, and he hadn't even said hello to me. Actually, thinking about the conversations we've had, we haven't even muttered the word 'hello' to each other; we get straight to the point.

"No, you couldn't. Who's going to buy you everything you want?" he jokes with me. I love the sound of his voice. So smooth and sexy, adding to the 'walking turn-on' exterior.

"Certainly not myself, I can barely afford my rent," I reply.

"So where is this expensive flat of yours?" Harry asks. I want to reply, and I do without hesitation or a thought as to why he'd want to know where I live.

"The Wade Building on Chesolm street," I expose.

"So, in Chelsea?" he questions again.

"Yeah, it's not that specky, but it's cute."

I don't know how to keep the conversation going. Do I ask him where he lives? No, I shouldn't. He probably lives in some up-market flat with two levels and a swimming pool. He'd hate my flat and how middle class I am.

"What flat number?" This time I'm going to ask him why he needs all this information. Maybe he's not the real Harry Styles and he's actually a gorgeous serial killer.

"Why is it that you need all this information?" I question.

"I want to see you again," he says.

That's all he has to say and I'm telling him my flat number and giving him directions while he drives. From what I've gathered, he's from a very up-market area, like I'd guessed.

A few minutes after the phone had ended, Harry was parking out the front of my building and pressing the intercom buzzer. I walk towards the button to let him in and touch my hand to it, not pressing it down just yet, so I can gather myself. I breathe in, shakier than expected, and let it out. The buzzer goes off again, startling me. I slowly press down on the button, letting the buzzing ring out for a few seconds after I know he's in the building.

He knocks on my door. It's a slow knock, reflects his personality, but I'm not exactly sure how. The door knob is cold on my hands as I twist it clockwise. I prolong the opening of the door. I don't feel like I should be letting him in; it's almost like this sinking feeling in my gut. I want to know him, kiss him, feel him; but I don't think I can. Why? I don't know. I don't know!

Maybe it's the rational side of my brain telling me to stop; telling me not to let this almost stranger into my house, but I can't back out now. The door is held ajar and Harry is literally two feet away from me, if you excuse the obstacle.

"Alexis?" Harry questions from behind the door. I pull it open slightly, peeking my head around.

"Hi," I say to him. My mouth is pulled into something close to a smile, but not entirely there.

"Something wrong?" Harry asks, smiling at me with this excited grin. His hand is pressed against the door, pushing it slightly.

"No, no. I just, um, come in." I pull the dork open, enough for him to step in. My heart is racing at the sight of him. I don't know whether it's because he looks immensely attractive, or because I know this is a bad idea; this... relationship.

He steps in further, his brown boots hitting the auburn floorboards. His hands are buried in the pockets of his black winter coat. He's analysing my apartment, his head moving from bookcase, to sofa.

"I like it," he states.

"What do you like, exactly?" I ask.

"I like a lot of things, but in this case, I was talking about your flat," he replies. His feet are moving around my living room, one slowly being put in front of the other.

I don't know what to do, what to say or how to act. I'm standing in the ugliest top I own, with short-shorts underneath that can hardly be seen. Though, he hasn't taken note of that yet. He turns around, smiling at me. I can see his eyes raking down my body, although he seems aware of his actions, pulling his eyes back up to mine.

"So," Harry begins, "I'm not so good at having actual conversations. Making them up is a lot easier. Maybe we need something to kick start the conversation with game?"

"What game would that be, Mr. Styles," I toy back with him.

"20 Questions?"