Blueprint

P2 - Pendulum

George gets to everyone, even including the intern he has for himself, the one that had smirked at me. I prepare myself to hear that I'm with a rude, cold asshole who loves to make people suffer for fun. Apprehensive, I stare up at George as he sends me a warm grin. "And Miss Athena Sweet, you are with Mr. Harry Styles. He's a genuine soul. A little bad with the jokes, though, but force yourself to laugh. It'll come naturally the more you try to convince yourself he's funny. A bit of a workaholic, so expect a lot of work. He's in office C6, third floor! Get going, Miss Sweet!"

Standing to my feet, I ignore all the emotions and thoughts coursing through my body, tempting me to hurl the contents from my stomach. Biting my bottom lip, I leave the conference room and search for some clarity before I approach the situation. Walking gingerly towards the elevator, knuckles flushed white from the grip on my bag, I can't suppress the small curve in my lips. The sudden luck and yet misfortune of my circumstances, the sweetness of being in his presence and the bitterness of having to conceal my pleasure with it. I let out a breath, pressing the button for up. Waiting for the elevator, I feel my chest rising and falling a little steeper than I'd like, the nerves bubbling inside, curling in my stomach and accumulating in my clammy hands.

What I'm wearing is immensely embarrassing and now I'm worried about what he'll think, of this disgusting outfit that makes me feel and look like a bloated box. Cringing to myself, I curse my tendency to allow my mother to influence my appearance, having lived with her opinions and instance all my life. I didn't have any money to buy anything else, either. I suppose this was all I had, and it was going to have to do. Fiddling with one of the buttons on the shirt, the elevator chimes and I walk in, pushing in the button for floor level C. When its steel, glossy doors shut, I let out a breathless laugh, grinning to myself and shaking my head. My giddiness was a little naive, I had to know that. Nothing was going to happen, but now I get to stare and fantasize some more, and hopefully not become a distracted nuisance for him.

Focus, I beat myself up for indulging in this fortune. Floor level C had all the larger offices, and no Isabel-like woman at the center. I walk towards the office denoted as C6, furthest down the hall. My lips press together momentarily, trying my hardest to control myself and my reactions, reciting to myself a proper greeting. Which hand I'd use to shake his hand, what I'd say if he asked how I was doing. All in my head, the couple of seconds it took to arrive at his door, my knuckles knocking onto the deep wooden door.

A muffled tone calling me to come in is audible through the walls, his familiar voice drained out by the matter between us. Again, I inhale as much air as possible, but it feels that even if my lungs were filled to the brink, I never have enough. I shake my head and remind myself to get composed, and act like I have some sense.

I open the door, revealing him seated behind his desk, coffee in his ringed hand surrounded by a fortress of bookshelves and framed certificates. Fogged green eyes stationed on his black leather itinerary. Brown hair brushed back away from his face, though a late night set in his shadowed, unshaven jaw. I stand at his doorway, unsure of whether to walk in, staring at the man like a deer caught in headlights. He sports a light blue button up, and when he stands to his feet, I catch a glimpse of his black dress pants — when he walks around his desk, his pointed black shoes. Harry sets his coffee down at his desk, waving a hand and deeply muttering, "Don't just stand there, love. Come in. I don't bite."

My chest falters a bit and I swallow dryly, shutting the door softly turned around fully, before returning my previous stature to face him. "Hello, Mr—" I meekly attempted, startled when he interrupts me.

"Harry," he grins kindly, reaching out his hand for me to take. I do so without hesitation, thanking myself for wiping my clammy hands against my ugly skirt before taking it. Though it didn't stop my hand from going chilled. Harry's eyebrows furrow as he feels my hand, gently questioning, "Are you cold? I can turn up the heat in here."