A/N: I also updated yesterday, so if you haven't read that yet, please do so before going into this chapter.
After my complete meltdown on the street followed by Harry's hilarious but also very successful attempts to make me smile, he then ostentatiously shoved the watermelon into my arms before grabbing my bags and asking—or rather demanding—to be shown which house is mine.
Clearly, he's chosen to play it safe this time, which means no leaving until he's acquired a fail-proof way of contacting me. 'Just in case you insist on being stubborn again', he had explained.
Too tired to object—not that I even wanted to at this point—I led him through the gate and into Georgie's thankfully empty backyard. The last thing I wanted was to be dealing with her questions, and those would have been inevitable if she had had as much of a glimpse of my companion tonight.
It's hard to tell whether my neighbour knows who Harry Styles is, but she would undoubtedly have a lot to say about me leading any man—be it a famous singer or not—into my house so late at night. For someone who'd met me hardly a year ago, she sure acts like an overprotective parent sometimes...definitely more than my own, real, mother and father.
Once Harry and I finally make it to our destination, I set the watermelon down to retrieve the key from the pocket of my hoodie.
"What's wrong with your front entrance?" Harry asks, eyeing the little gate connecting Georgie's backyard to mine.
"This makes it a lot easier to avoid the paps. It's been a bit…crazy lately."
Crazy is an understatement of the century, but let's stick with that.
"You won't ever see me complaining about avoiding paps," Harry remarks. "This is quite clever, by the way. Using your neighbour's backyard-"
Grande and Bowie choose this exact moment to pop out of the darkness, meowing loudly which apparently is enough to scare the living shit out of the unsuspecting Harry. He lets out a small yelp and jumps back, pressing his entire front up against the fence. Dramatic much?
"Fuck me," he mutters, making a show of rubbing his free hand against his chest. "Did you see that? They came out of nowhere!"
"Relax, they just want to tag along."
Looking down, I easily recognise the youngest and also smallest of Georgie's bunch—one white, furry, and big-eyed ball of cuteness. I don't usually do favourites, but this little one had captured my heart from the start. No older than five months, Grande is the newest addition to my neighbour's ever-expanding family of cats.
"You know there's more cat food at my place, don't you? Smart kitty. My sweet little Grande, muah," I coo while making loud kissing noises. She purrs softly and rubs up against my leg, clearly satisfied with my show of affection.
"Grande?" Harry asks.
"Yeah, because she's all white like that singer's hair on one of her album covers," I explain.
He hums as if that makes perfect sense; like it's not weird at all that my neighbour insists on naming her army of cats after singers.
Yeah, safe to say that H and Georgie are going to get along just fine.
I'm still stuck trying to locate the keyhole in the darkness when Harry bends down to grab the kitty with his free hand, holding her at his eye level. The palm of his hand is so big that it nearly swallows poor Grande whole, but much to my surprise, she stays completely still unlike all the other times when I had unsuccessfully tried to pick her up in the past.
Looks like there isn't a single living creature that would not fall victim to this man's charm.
It takes some more blind poking and prodding, but I finally manage to insert the damn key into the right place. The gate flows open, allowing the second cat to slip between my legs and into my garden.
"Stay away from my flowers, Bowie!" I yell in a futile warning.
Harry saunters in after me, regarding me with a look of mild amusement.
"Wait, it was the cat lady's house!" he bellows triumphantly as if he's just discovered some deeply hidden secret.
"Wow. You're a genius," I deadpan.
"Hold up," he mumbles with a pout. "I talked to her the other day, asking 'bout you…she completely misguided me! Not nice. Now we have beef."
I'm momentarily confused until it dawns on me that he must be the man Georgie had spoken of the other day. Still reeling over the whole stalker problem, I instantly assumed that it must have been some fan looking for me. But, of course, it was Harry… which is, admittedly, a huge relief. At least this means one item off my long list of problems.
"She knows not to speak about me, cause, y'know…" It's so weird to be able to discuss this with him now. "Fans."
"Smart," he remarks. "I guess I'll have to forgive her, albeit reluctantly."
"You still found me regardless of her lies. How did you manage that anyway?" I finally word the single question that's been bugging me since he had spotted me on the street earlier.
He shrugs. "Well, to be fair, you didn't give me much to go on. All I knew was that your house was about thirty minutes jogging distance down the beach, though you did mention living close to The Hideout once. It narrowed my search significantly."
"Oh." So it was my favourite café, located just minutes away from my street, that gave me away. "What were you even thinking, H? Were you going to knock on every single door in the area asking about a nameless redhead, hoping one day, I would be the one to answer?"
"I had to do something," comes his sheepish response. "Desperate times call for desperate measures."
Suddenly I'm giggling, hit with a hilarious vision of what could have happened had Harry Styles been recognised while asking around for some girl.
"I just realised…" I shake my head in disbelief. "Imagine the headlines if anyone spilled that story to the paps. Harry Styles: gone off the rails again? Fans spotted the popstar creeping around the streets of Malibu."
We send a fleeting glance at each other, both snorting out a laugh.
"Still can't believe you got so lucky," I add.
He hums, a smile playing at his lips. "I reckon there must be some higher power watching over me… Or rather, us."
I scoff at the incredulous and utterly romanticised notion.
Eventually, we enter my house through the backdoor, Harry finally setting Grande down on the floor. She makes a straight beeline towards my bedroom, no doubt in pursuit of any stray socks laying around.
Suddenly remembering to double-check the lock, I turn around only to bump into Harry whose arm instinctively shoots out to steady me. Our eyes lock for a split second; an odd energy passes between us as we're both obviously having the exact same flashbacks of the last time he had embraced me, during our dance at Kendall's yacht.
I stare up at him wordlessly, trying to appear unaffected when in reality, all my senses are wrapped up in the fact that this is H. My H. It's the same person I've been hanging out with for weeks, but at the same time, he's also Harry Styles whom I had foolishly chosen to engage in a flirting game with.
Dear lord…I have no idea how to act around this man now.
"Uh, the door," I motion behind him.
"Right."
His arm pulls away as if in slow motion, moving to scratch the back of his neck instead.
"Just, uh," I turn around abruptly to hide my face, which I know must be pink, and not just from all the crying I'd been up to earlier. Or even worse—it may be redder than my crimson Gucci lipstick. "Just make sure it's locked, okay?"
He's fidgeting now, clearly trying to regain some of his usual confidence…and failing spectacularly. "Sure."
Awkward.
So, here we are, Harry and I. After a very tumultuous recent turn to our relationship, we're finally, physically, in each other's presence. We've essentially been talking for weeks, learned a lot of each other's secrets, and yet, this feels like fate has dealt us an entirely new card.
Harry's thoughts must be similar to mine judging by the way he's nervously lingering in the doorway, clearly unsure whether he should proceed forward or wait for a verbal invite.
Graciously, I decide to put an end to his misery. "You can leave the groceries in the kitchen," I point to the door to our far right. "There's a guest bathroom at the end of the hallway if you want to… Yeah." An uneasy cough. "Um, I'll be back."
'I'll be back'? Really? What the actual fuck, we're in my house.
My nervousness seems to be what finally gives Harry a much-needed boost of confidence.
"I'll be sure to send a feline search party if you're not," he says with a coy smile, pointing to Grande who is back and—surprise, surprise—pawing at his bright orange shoes. Looks like her heart has been stolen in a record time.
I send H a nasty yet playful look before stomping away towards my bedroom, the sound of his quiet chuckles following me the entire way.
Closing the door behind me with a quiet click, I lean the back of my head against the door heavily. Now this is certainly not the kind of development I had been expecting tonight. I was supposed to head back home, have a drink or two, maybe succumb to some other unholy temptation... Instead, Harry had found me—at the worst, but also admittedly, the best possible time.
My thoughts are cut short when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My eyes are puffy and red, dark streaks of mascara run all the way from my eyes to my chin, and I'm pretty sure there's snot hanging off my nose. In conclusion, I look no short of grotesque.
Great… just great.
It takes me about ten minutes to make myself presentable. I don't bother with fresh make-up, simply leaving my face clean, then change into the most comfortable, baggiest hoodie I own with a pair of tight yoga pants.
This is my house. I'm in my territory; I will not be trying to impress Harry Styles tonight. Or ever, for that matter. Nope. Absolutely not.
Speaking of the devil: he's still waiting patiently in my kitchen when I get there, his hoodie now off which gives me a rather appetising view of his tattooed arms propped against the counter. But, that is not what captures my attention. Much to my absolute horror, Grande is sprawled out on the very same counter, and by the looks of it, is currently receiving a belly rub courtesy of Harry's long ringed fingers.
"Lord give me strength," I waltz into the room with a huff. "H, I prepare food here. This is no place for a cat!"
"She just wanted some love. Needed me to scratch an itch… Isn't that right, baby? Yeah?" he coos to the kitty. His voice is way too deep though, so it comes out sounding more like a porn voiceover than anything else.
"Go give her love somewhere else," I shoo his little plaything away, who jumps off the counter with a very displeased hiss.
"But you can never know the time or place one may be in a need for some lovin'," Harry wiggles his eyebrows but I shut him up by shoving the bag of groceries at his chest.
"Since you decided to invite yourself into my house, you may as well make yourself useful. You can start by unpacking these."
He smiles good-naturedly, entirely unbothered by the hostile tone of my voice. My behaviour is no more than a ploy to cover up the truth—I actually love having him here—and I'm sure he's well aware of it.
"What are we baking?"
"Why are you under the impression that you will be staying around long enough to bake with me?" is my response.
"Because I will be," he responds matter-of-factly.
"Oh really?" I quirk an eyebrow in a challenge.
"You're not getting rid of me tonight, Cherry."
I purse my lips, setting the bowl on the counter with a clatter.
"There's no need for that anymore." This earns me a curious look, so I quickly clarify, "Drop the nickname. You know who I am now."
He shrugs, his easy grin still in place as I continue to set up the ingredients for our first cake of the night. "I know Cherry quite well," he finally says, "You on the other hand…"
My head snaps up to look at him. "But we are one and the same."
"Are you?"
"I could ask you the same question," I counter, immediately wary.
"Fair enough," he speaks up after a moment. "And if you did ask that question, I would tell you that besides the fact that my confidence has waned drastically then yes, I am very much the same person."
I must admit I find it very reassuring that he, too, is feeling nervous in this new, uncharted territory.
"Well…" I glance up from under my lashes to find him with a nervous half-smile. "If I remember correctly, you said something about having worked in a bakery back in the day. So, here you go. This is your time to shine."
He groans, throwing his head back. "I was a cashier. A cashier, for fuck's sake."
"Cashier or not, I'm sure l can find something suitable for you to do," I look at his large hands pointedly. A single glance, and I can already tell that they are perfect for some kneading…
With that thought in mind, I set the wooden baking board in front of him.
And this is how it continues for the next half an hour. H is very good at following instructions, I discover, and doesn't mind doing what I refer to as the 'dirty work'. Baking is my love, but one thing I've always hated is getting my hands sticky with the dough constantly slipping beneath my fingernails.
Whenever Asa and I had our baking sessions, we would always play 'rock, paper, scissors' for clean hand rights. With Harry, there's no need for any of that; he's eager to do my bidding everytime.
Unfortunately, there's always a flipside to any coin. In this case, it's the unbelievable mess he makes. I don't think anyone has ever introduced this man to the concept of cleaning after himself. A few minutes in, there had already been spilled batter on the floor, egg shells all over his black joggers, and flour everywhere from his white t-shirt to my hair.
"You know, the common courtesy is to clean up right after you spill something; especially if there are animals in the house," I mutter under my breath. Bowie and Grande have already caught whiff of the raw egg Harry had accidentally cracked onto the floor, and so I'm forced to use a rag to scare them away before they actually inhale it whole.
"Why clean up now if we can do it after?" Harry comments, the muscles in his arms flexing as he continues working the dough into a round shape.
"Because then I'm way too tired to do it… end up leaving it as it is. There's nothing worse than trying to make your coffee in the morning only to find your kitchen in complete disarray."
"I'll bring you coffee," he's quick to answer.
"No," I snort, "Don't try to bribe me."
"Coffee and donuts from your favourite café?" he bargains.
I watch him with a smile, resting my chin on my hand as I lean on the counter opposite him. "No."
"No?" he's pouting now. "Does this mean I can't bring you coffee?"
"It means you can't get away with leaving your mess behind, H," I say firmly, watching his hands move around the dough at an excruciatingly slow pace. "And for the love of God, can you please hurry up? I swear I'll be turning gray by the time you finish."
"I think we've once discussed the benefits of taking things slow," he remarks with a smirk.
"This isn't about shagging, Harry," I roll my eyes playfully while mixing batter for our second creation: pumpkin muffins.
"Damn, and here I was getting turned on by all the verbal abuse from you," he laughs, setting the finished dough aside.
I don't know why, but something inside me snaps then, and I end up scooping a dollop of the batter in my hand before reaching over the counter and running it down his cheek.
The expression on his face is hilarious—half shock, half amusement, with a bit of playful anger thrown into the mix.
"Mhm… Someone's gettin' it," he threatens. Gathering up some of the gooey substance into his palm, he begins to slowly advance towards me. Each step he takes, I take one back.
"Wait, that's too much," I whine in reference to his handful of batter.
"Now, now… I'm the one who decides when it's too much," he all but purrs at me, quickening his pace.
I circle the dining table before running out into the hallway, Harry's heavy footsteps echoing behind me. He's not even running, clearly drawing immense pleasure from this game… Looks like it's the chase part that he loves most.
"I'd say 'here, kitty, kitty' but there's more than just one kitty in this house," he yells after me, trying to gauge which room I have chosen to hide in.
"Shut up!" I snort loudly, thus betraying my position.
When he saunters into the living room, I simply stand behind the sofa, bracing myself for the inevitable.
"Just give up already," he holds up his messy hand, some of the goo sliding off his skin to splat onto the floor.
I gasp loudly. "You're being so messy—"
Suddenly he's jumping over the sofa, and before I even register what had happened, he has me pinned to the cushions with his right arm, his lower body pressing my legs down. I buck against him, trying to free myself but it's no use—he's way too strong. His eyes are the picture of mischief as he wiggles his dirty fingers right above my nose.
"No, please, don't. It's disgusting!"
To this, he laughs. "It's just batter. You eat this later anyway."
"When it's ready, not like this—"
He taps my nose with his wet finger once, to which I squeal loudly, but it's too late and soon his hand is mashing the gooey substance all over my face. Weakly, I stare up into his eyes that are now slightly dilated, a dazzling grin still in place as he leans closer to me.
"Kinda suits your freckles," he comments thoughtfully. "A little bit of that here," he trails a finger down my neck, "and a bit there," he moves lower to eventually stop at my collarbones.
"You're a monster," I pant out, feeling completely limp and worn out from his assault.
We hold each other's gaze for a while longer, a sort of uneasy tension settling between us. It's like when the laughing is over, we suddenly remember who and where we are. Harry must be having the same realisation because he quickly sits back on his feet, finally affording me some freedom to move. His arm shoots up to push a stray hair off his forehead, only to realise that he's accidentally used the gooey hand to do it.
I burst out laughing, "Thanks for doing my job, you dork."
"That was not meant to happen." There's a sheepish grin on his face as he finally climbs off me. "Shall we finally put our cakes in the oven?"
I just nod numbly, a bit overwhelmed for reasons that are hard to understand just yet.
__________
"I vote for the sweet potato brownie," Harry announces, licking his fingers clean. "Then the pumpkin muffins, then the cake."
"Are you for real? The watermelon cake wins, hands down."
"You are biased, anything that contains fruit is an automatic winner in your book," he reminds me, quite accurately, too.
"That's so not true!"
After our little episode earlier, we had finally set the stove, after which Harry begrudgingly agreed to help me tidy up. It was no longer just the kitchen that needed cleaning, but also the hallway floor smeared in batter due to H's dirty socks, as well as my poor sofa that had gotten mixed in the middle of our impromptu food fight.
"What's the next step in your usual post-baking ritual?" Harry asks as he sets his empty plate on the coffee table.
There's a sort of expectant, slightly nervous look on his face; almost like he's trying to gauge what my next move would be. Despite the fact that the tension has worn off significantly since the initial awkwardness, there's still that underlying strain in our interactions… and we both know why.
It's the damn elephant in the room—the fact that I blocked him, but still stupidly continued to text him as 'A_Doherty'. Arguably, it's the most contradictory way I could have gone about this entire thing.
"Um… Should we just search the recently added shows on Netflix, and then see what we find?" I suggest nervously.
Harry goes quiet at that, his mouth slightly parted in a look of surprise. Once again, I'm left reeling and wondering what the hell I've just done. "Um-" I start nervously, only to be caught off by his rather loud exclamation of, "Okay, woman."
"Riiiight…" I force out in response to this rather odd outburst.
We spend the next few minutes scrolling through Netflix, which inevitably turns into a bit of a bickering match. Harry insists on watching some old rom com, while I make my case for 'The Haunting of Hill House', which he adamantly refuses. We then almost settle for 'Narcos: Mexico' until a recently added show catches our attention.
"Bodyguard," I read out loud, "It's a new show with that guy who plays in 'Game of Thrones'. Oh wait-"
"Yes, that's it! Have you watched it?" Harry butts in eagerly. "Game of Thrones. 'Cause I still haven't, but I need to do it fast, otherwise some of my friends might actually murder me if I don't catch up in time for the final season."
"No, but I've read the books," I admit.
"Aren't you all spoiled then?"
"Yeah, but I've heard the newest seasons are very different from the original content. They kill off different characters and stuff."
"Wait, this show kills off main characters? I don't know if my heart can take this," he whines, pretending to stab an imaginary dagger into his chest.
"Oh dear," I smile secretly as I switch to HBO, starting up the very first episode of the show. "You have no idea what you've just signed up for."
The first three hours of our binging session go by really smoothly. Harry's a very keen watcher, which has many benefits. For example, he would digest every smallest detail of the show to then make up his own little theories; a fact I find very entertaining since I already know most of the upcoming events in the show.
However, there's also one downside, specifically how annoyed he would get whenever I spoke as much as a single word during the episode. A part of me finds his extreme dedication to the show amusing, but the more talkative girl in me craves his company. Which is really ironic considering how I'd been trying to avoid that very same man just a few hours earlier.
"Who's your favourite character so far?" I ask.
"Huh?" he mutters through a mouthful full of cake.
"A character. Which one is your favourite?" I can't help but smile at how wrapped up in the show he is.
"Ah," the corner of his mouth turns up, "Probably the girl with the pretty name."
"H, I'm being serious!" I roll my eyes.
"So am I," he laughs innocently. "Okay, fine. I reckon Ned seems to be the most interesting so far. Though I quite like all of the Starks."
You won't be too pleased with the season finale then. Or like… half of what's come.
By the time the third episode rolls into the fourth, Harry seems to have temporarily forgotten about his no-speaking rule, engaging in a feral fight over the show intros.
"You never skip," he insists adamantly. "Never."
"Why the heck would I waste my time on a boring intro?" I scoff in response.
"Because it sets the mood for the show!"
"Not if you've listened to the same damn thing for the fifth time in one night," I say stubbornly. "The HBO intros are so bloody long too."
It's quite amusing how heated he becomes over such a little thing. "What about sitcoms… Friends, or The Big Bang Theory? You can't just skim over these!"
As if on cue, the Game of Thrones intro fills up the room. My hand shoots towards the remote, but Harry catches my wrist before it can reach its destination. He looks at me intently, almost as if daring me to move, then starts to hum the melody.
"No," I whine.
He moves my hand up, shaking it around in the air as his humming grows louder and louder. He switches up between a high and low voice, and he's being so hilarious that I eventually cave in and chuckle… joining in his little performance soon after. Our duet continues until the very last note, his face showing a single emotion—satisfaction.
Yes, he's won and I bloody let him.
"Okay fine… I guess intros can be entertaining. But only sometimes," I amend, secretly thinking that they're indeed fun…if shared with the right person.
I lean back into my seat, fully expecting Harry to let go of my hand but he keeps clutching it tightly on his thigh. Even more so, he picks up the remote to pause the show, filling the room with deathly silence, which seems to drag on forever.
That is until he slides closer to me, bracing his free arm on the seat above my head. "I'm sorry," he says.
"Uh…" I look away awkwardly. "It's fine, you cleaned up the mess."
He gives me a ghost of a smile. "That's not the mess I'm referring to, Cherry… I mean the mess I created when I talked shit about you. I know now why you blocked me. You took a very extreme route, I admit, but I get it—I was a bloody asshole."
"It's fine," I mutter, avoiding his eyes as this is possibly the last topic I would want to be discussing right now.
"No, it's not fine, Cherry," he says calmly, trying fruitlessly to catch my gaze. "I did the one thing I hate when people do to me—I misjudged you based on what I know from the media. I don't blame you for dipping at all. I would have done the same."
It's clear he's waiting for my reply now, and I nearly cower under his intense gaze, trying to think of some clever response… Something that would work to both diffuse the tension, and take my mind off the way his hand is still holding mine.
"You were kinda right though," I finally say, recalling the exact words that had made me snap that day, and later on, forced me to make the decision to block him out of my life. "It would have been a tale to tell."
"What?" he asks, clearly confused.
"Taking me out… It would have been a tale to tell," I turn to face him with a coy grin. "Because I'm a real fucking piece of work… You'll see."
He throws his head back, matching my grin with his own.
___________
Guys, for all of you who's been confused by the previous chapter - the story takes place about three months after they met, and she's writing the letters about a year after they met. So she's referring to the events that haven't happened in the story yet. Sorry if I caused any confusion.
Leave your thoughts on the chapter here. Did anyone else sense the tension?! And what do you think is going to happen now?
Until next time,
Cathy xx