A/N: This is part of a double update, so if you haven't read Cherry's letter yet, go back to the previous chapter! Also, the picture above shows their looks for the event.
____________
Harry has been nothing if not a generous host for the first three days I spent at his house. Despite my protests, he's been catering to my every need with way more enthusiasm than necessary.
To some extent, I understand that it's his way of dealing with my near-death in the fire—he did, after all, experience the entire thing with me in a way. Hence why no matter how hard he pushes to be around me, I allow him to do whatever's necessary to afford him peace of mind. At least that way, one of us has it.
However, I also need to be alone every now and then. Finding a moment of privacy with Harry tied to my hip at all times is a near-impossible task. In a way, the nights have become my 'me' time, but even those have been spoiled by the constant flood of nightmares.
Just like tonight.
Feeling tired, but mostly frustrated with my inability to sleep, I snatch the covers off my sweaty skin and stomp out of the room. Thankfully, I have become a pro at roaming this house at night; the way to the kitchen must be engraved in my muscle memory at this point.
This time though, my walk in the dark is interrupted when I bump into a rock hard body in my path. The memory of my attacker flashes before my eyes, much like a scene from some b-rated horror flick. No longer can I stop the panic from taking over—a shrill cry escapes my parted mouth as I collapse against the wall, cowering in fear.
"Love, it's just me, s'me." Harry's tone is soothing as he flicks the light on which illuminates the deep lines of worry on his face.
Angrily wiping off the few stray tears that fell out, I push his hand away with a snarl. "Why the hell are you walking around in the dark?"
"Technically, you were doing the same–" he begins with a chuckle, but as of right now, I am nowhere close to a laughing mood.
"Can you stop following me around? You're such a fucking creep!" A frown slides onto my face as soon the words leave my mouth, because I know that he doesn't deserve it. Not even remotely.
Yes, Harry has been getting on my nerves with his constant need to coddle me like a child, but the motivation behind his concern is genuine.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, stopping his retreating hand by lacing our fingers together. "I didn't mean any of it. I'm just scared, and sleep-deprived, and angry at those– those psychopaths."
"S'alright, you don't have to explain," he murmurs, "and you're right. I do need to give you some space."
"No, no," I take a few calming breaths before saying, "You can stay, just don't sneak up on me, please. I've been really… jumpy after it all."
He nods as he tugs on my hand to pull me up to my feet. His eyes roam my face, glistening with an emotion I'm not sure I want to read. Finally, he murmurs, "I can be a lot sometimes. I'm aware of it."
Chewing on my inner cheek, I shake my head in denial. "H, honestly, we're good–"
"No, listen to me," he insists, sounding determined, as if he was trying to prove something not only to me but mostly to himself. "I am an overbearing twat. Trust me, I'm aware of it. When things don't go my way, I spend hours obsessing over it, wondering what I could have done differently. More often than not, I don't know how to let the past go, but…" he pauses, pulling me into him, "I just want to make sure you don't get hurt on my watch, okay?"
"We're locked up here, silly. Your security guys are watching the house all day and night. Nothing's gonna happen," I smile gently as I play with the longer strands of hair at the nape of his neck. They've been growing recently, softening the sharp edges of his jawline and making him appear more…cuddly.
Oh God, I did not just think that.
I grimace at myself, a fact that does not go unnoticed by Harry. "What's wrong?" he asks with a frown.
"Nothing," I push his hand away from my cheek before he can feel it warm beneath his touch. "I was just going to get some air…" Biting my lip, I struggle to contain a smile when his expression grows hopeful. "Want to come with me?"
"Yeah," he responds eagerly, his hand flying up to scratch at the back of his neck with a timid cough. "I mean, if it's not too much of a bother."
"I've been dealing with your annoying self for weeks now, I think I'll survive one more night," I joke.
He chuckles at that, his palm closing around mine a tad tighter as he begins to lead me towards the living room. Leaving me behind at the foot of the stairs, he then goes to grab me a glass of water while I decide to wait for him outside.
Aside from the library, Harry's backyard is my favourite part of his house. It must be the memory of our first meeting, brought back with each glance at the hedges lining his fence that's making me feel so sentimental. If I look close enough, I can almost picture him dragging his chair closer to hear the girl on the other side better.
I don't realise I'm smiling until Harry's voice brings me out of my daydream. "Feels nostalgic, innit?" he grins as he hands me my glass. "Should we check whether anyone's lurking out there? You never know. There had been cases of fans and stray dogs in the past… not to mention gorgeous women."
"I hope that was singular," I quip, turning to lay down on Harry's double lounger that he loves to sleep on so much; it looks particularly inviting right now. "There can only be one Cherry."
"You are," he responds quickly, earnestly. "You're the only one."
For some reason, his choice of words has my heart fluttering in my chest… Even though he probably didn't mean it the way it came across.
A beat of silence passes between us before he lowers down to occupy the spot next to me, trying to act all sneaky whilst doing so. And, of course, failing spectacularly.
"You're such a flirt," I sigh, a fond smile stretching across my lips.
"What? Me? What have I done?" he tries to act all innocent, pointing a finger at anything but himself.
I roll my eyes. "No, Mitch."
"Wait, he's here?" he rolls over to his side, now facing me, then playfully pretends to look for his friend. Reaching an arm over me to check under the blanket, he then uses the opportunity to slide even closer. I say nothing when his hand rests on my waist, rubbing small circles into my skin. "I can't find him, I should search some more–"
I gently swat at his arm when he begins to lift the hem of my shirt, leaning down to sneak a peek. "You're unbelievable."
"M'cold, can we cuddle?" he murmurs then, not waiting for my answer before nuzzling his face into my neck.
"No, you're not. You're a walking, breathing radiator."
"But look." Before I have the chance to object, he's pressing my hand against his upper arm to drag it slowly up and down his skin. Suddenly, I'm hyper-aware of every taut muscle there, and I hate myself. Well, mostly I just despise what it does to my lower regions.
"What am I supposed to be looking at exactly?" I ask weakly.
"Goosebumps. Told you I'm cold," his eyes flit between mine intently. "Although, to be fair, it might be your fault."
We both go still for a moment, quiet and unblinking, until our loud snorts break through the silence.
"Jesus, H, is this how you usually try to seduce a woman?" I ask with a wide grin.
"Nah," he drawls, "With you, I gotta go the extra mile."
"That was the said extra mile?" I teasingly pat his bicep, the same one he was just trying to employ for distraction. "Solid effort, hun."
"Did it work?" he inches closer with baited breath. "Are your knickers off?"
"Nope," I deadpan.
"I think it did, though," he notes, using his finger to poke my cheek once. "You're finally smiling."
My mouth parts wordlessly as I feel my face grow warm. It's infuriating. Any possible responses get stuck at the tip of my tongue, all for one simple reason—this is uncharted territory for me. I've never had to deal with someone making their interest in me so blatantly obvious; anyone who's ever tried it faced immediate and brutal rejection.
And yes, I could go into detail about how my childhood coupled with my parents' joke of a marriage moulded me into the person I am today, but the point of the matter is: I don't do relationships. Setting my inability to stay committed to one person aside, there's also the fact that no one sane could handle the circus otherwise known as my 'life'.
So, I do the one thing I do best: escape. In this case, it simply means rolling over to my other side, creating a sort of barrier between us. Anything to stop me from jumping Harry's bones, right here and now.
"I love it when you get all flustered 'cause of me," he murmurs, his head propped up on his elbow as he hovers over me. "You're always so blunt and confident, but whenever I try to butter you up, you suddenly go all quiet. It's so endearing."
I angle my head to the side, a deep flush overtaking my cheeks at the sight of his face so close to mine. "You never give up, do you?"
"I will give up," he says seriously, "but only if you look me in the eye and tell me to stop. No messing around this time. If you truly don't want me, say the words."
My eyes meet his as he continues to stare at me with a cocked eyebrow, the confidence radiating off him in thick waves. He's not worried. The attraction is mutual; even a blind man could see it.
Despite myself, the corners of my mouth quirk up into a smile. Laying back down, my voice is half-muffled by the pillow as I mumble, "You're annoying."
Annoyingly cute. Annoyingly charming. Just annoyingly everything.
The answer seems to satisfy him, judging by the way his chest is now shaking against my back in silent laughter. "And there you have it."
Kicking his bare foot lightly, I huff, "Stop being so smug, damn it."
"Do you like it when I'm the big spoon?" he mumbles into my hair, throwing his leg over mine to stop it from hitting him again.
"Yeah, s'fine, I guess."
"Mm, it's fine," he mocks me in a small, feminine voice, which earns him yet another embarrassed groan in response. "Why are you so nervous, pretty? You can relax around me."
"I'm trying, okay?"
My entire body tenses up when his hand creeps up my body, stopping at the spot where my heart is trashing widely in my chest as if trying to fly out.
"Are you scared that it could be more than just sexual attraction between us?" he asks softly. "Is this why you keep me at an arm's length?"
Part of me hates how hesitant he sounds, as if a single misused word could set me off. Given my track record with dipping whenever things get heavy, his wariness doesn't surprise me. But, it also makes me realise something: I don't want to make him feel like this.
The changes may be small, but something in me has shifted. It makes me want to try to be honest for once. It makes me want to be better.
"You're right about me," I finally respond. "I am scared."
"That you'll get hurt?" he checks.
"No," I correct him, "that I'll hurt you."
"Alright." He seems to be mulling over my answer for a moment, and just when I think that's it—the end of this subject for good—he finally asks, "So, you're afraid that there may be feelings involved. You're afraid because… I like you?"
I look up at him again, my mouth parting slightly but no words coming out. For a twenty-one-year-old girl with a great amount of sexual experience, I am completely clueless about how to deal with this situation.
What is it exactly—a confession of attraction? Friendship? God forbid… love? I'm so lost.
Much to my surprise, Harry seems to be just as nervous, his next words coming out in a frenzied rush, "I don't want any declarations. You don't have to say you love me. It's not about that."
"Okay…" I hesitate before asking, "What do you expect from me, then?"
"Honestly? Trying to fight it is exhausting." His fingertips run across my jaw. "I think we can both agree there is something between us. We could let it unfold naturally, see where it leads us…" At my continuous silence, he brushes his hand down my cheek and adds, "I can feel you trembling, love. Stop being so afraid of me. I'm not asking you to say you're mine."
"Okay," I let out a breath I didn't even know I was holding. "I'm just not girlfriend material, Harry. The last thing I want is for you to wake up months from now and realise you're getting nowhere with me. Just like Emil did." There's a short pause before I admit something that's been on my mind for a while now. "You deserve someone less problematic. A nice girl, or guy—whichever you prefer. Someone interested in more than just the physical, or at least free of the bad rep like mine."
The last part of my confession seems to upset him the most. "You think I care about that? We live in the same world, Cherry."
"With me, you'd have to hide," I say with a sigh. "Always."
"I do it anyway, with or without you," he counters.
For a moment, I hesitate. Not due to being out of counter-arguments, but because there's no use trying to sway him. Harry will not accept defeat; it's not in his nature. So, instead of entertaining this conversation any further, I simply decide to give him one last warning, "You'll end up hating me."
I can feel him smile against my skin. "Why? You won't feel the change. I'll still text you good morning and goodnight, even when you're sleeping in the room next to mine. The flowers will keep coming, and you won't stop helping me with my songs. The baking sessions, the lunch dates, the binge nights while sharing a blanket—it will all stay the same."
I know exactly what he's implying—that we've always teetered on the fine line between friends and lovers. Crossing it won't take much effort on our part.
"Just think of it as an added bonus…" he murmurs into my ear, pulling me out of the mess of my thoughts I succumbed to. "The fun stuff."
It quickly becomes obvious what 'fun' he's referencing when he dips his head lower to nibble on my ear, pressing his thigh between my quivering legs. With a soft whimper, I use the last of my self-discipline to gently push him away.
"So, to conclude–" I half-whine, trying to ignore my basic instincts.
"–we'll keep it casual. For now," Harry finishes for me.
"And if one of us wants to end it?" I attempt to set the ground rules.
"Already looking for a way out?" Harry chuckles, only half-joking. "Can't say I blame you, what if I turn out to be shit in bed?"
"Oh, shut up, Mr Dirty Talk," I smirk into my pillow. Harry's skillset is the last thing on my list of worries, not after his exceptional performance the other day.
"To answer your question: no, there will be no hard feelings if you want out at any point. I promise," comes his assurance, this time delivered in a deathly serious tone. "You don't even have to give me the answer now. Take a few days to think about it, alright?"
All I can do is give him a soft, "okay," as I stare blankly forward, my throat closing up. This can be either the start of something great—as cheesy as it sounds—or the makings of a true disaster. Either way, I hope he won't make me regret it. Unbeknownst to Harry, he has his sights set on a literal ticking bomb, one that doesn't require much to explode. Let's just hope he never gets to witness the worst side of me.
__________
The following morning my eyes peek open to the feeling of warm sun rays hitting my skin. The heat isn't the cause of my abrupt awakening though, but rather the repetitive sound of a buzzer indicating someone's presence at the door.
Sluggishly, I roll over to my other side only to be met with the sight of Harry, one of his arms still thrown over my waist, the other lazily tucked beneath his head. Watching his bare chest rise up and down in a regular pattern nearly puts me to sleep once again, if not for the irritating and unrelenting noise.
"Harry…" I delicately brush my fingers against his cheek. There's nothing worse than being rudely pulled out of your sleep, and I can't find it in me to disturb him when he looks so damn soft.
Once again my face heats up—this has become a regular occurrence lately. But, how can it not when our current position seems to be plucked straight out of the cheesiest romantic comedy? The girl wakes up to see her lover's face inches away from hers, plants a sweet kiss on his lips, and bam! His eyes open, they make out… cut to the sexy parts.
I'm pretty sure I've even filmed a similar scene once.
Just as my desires are about to get the best of me, the sound of the buzzer breaks through the silence again. It's like the universe is warning me that taking the next step with Harry is a bad idea; that I should take his advice and wait a couple of days before making any rash decisions.
With that thought in mind, I gently peel his arm off me and climb to my feet, turning to glance at the sleeping man one last time. He sighs deeply, rolling over onto his belly with his face buried into the pillow I left behind as if needing to linger in my scent and warmth. What surprises me is how much I crave to be wrapped up in him again—it's not something I've ever needed before. And yet, with Harry, I repeatedly catch myself wanting it.
Whoever's at the gate is clearly getting more and more impatient, so I quickly make it to the front door and check the camera feeds. For some reason, Harry's team is not letting this person in, which means it must be an unfamiliar face or someone who didn't make the free pass list.
It takes a single glance for me to recognise the bright yellow convertible. "Guys, it's okay, let her in," I say through the intercom.
I walk out of the house just in time to see the car pull up to the door.
"Georgie!" I don't even try to hide my confusion as she climbs out of the driver's seat. "What are you doing here?"
"Such a warm welcome," she huffs, kissing my cheeks as she taps the car window twice. "Come on out, she doesn't bite. And don't forget the boxes!"
Only then do I realise that she's not alone, but rather with her grandson whom Harry and I met briefly a few weeks back in my backyard. What is his name again—Billy? Barney?
"Benny!" Georgie shouts with the hint of irritation shining through. "She's just a girl. A pretty infuriating one, at that. I'll make her sign your posters, just get out of the car."
The boy finally relents, his face resembling the crimson shade of his grandmother's beloved roses.
"Hi, it's nice to see you again. Did she employ you to be her bag carrier for the day?" I greet him, trying to ease his nerves a little bit.
He nods sharply, his eyes flicking up to mine for a split second before he skitters off to the back of the car to pop the trunk open.
Georgie sighs theatrically as if dealing with her grandson was the most exhausting task ever. "I don't know what it is with all these boys losing their wits around you. You're an absolute menace."
"Wow, thanks," I respond dryly. "What are the boxes for anyway?"
"Outfits for the charity event–" her words make my eyes widen in panic, "which you've clearly forgotten about."
"Oh, shit!" I curse.
She's not wrong—it has in fact slipped my mind that the event's happening tonight. I've been dodging my parents' calls all week, practically burying myself in this little safe haven with Harry… The same Harry who's probably forgotten all about it as well.
Much to my surprise, Georgie's next words prove me otherwise. "Harry called me," she explains. "He knew you'd get mad at him if he asked his stylists to work on you, so he found the next best option. You've really hit the jackpot with this one. He's a keeper."
She looks at me pointedly, although I never get the chance to tell her that no, Harry and I aren't dating… yet, because Benny chooses that moment to reappear next to us. "Gran, I got them!"
With his face completely blocked from our sight, he looks like he's about to keel over from the heavy boxes he's currently balancing in his arms.
"Here, let me help," I offer, but when my hand accidentally brushes against his arm, his reaction is immediate—he flinches away from my touch as if I burned him.
All I can do is stare at him, utterly baffled by his reaction.
"Don't mind Benny, he's a bit shy," Georgie laughs, "as well as entirely obsessed with you. His bedroom is filled with your posters–"
"Gran!" the boy yells in embarrassment for being called out. "Can you please not?"
I shake my head, giving him an amused smile as he struggles to squeeze the boxes through the narrow front door. "It's fine, I'm flattered. I gather you're a fan then? Pixie or my earlier works?"
Many teenage boys are still obsessed with the show I starred in between the ages of fifteen and seventeen. Netflix purchased the rights to it sometime last year, and it's been consistently getting views, even four years after it wrapped up. Despite the Oscar nomination I received for a different movie, the role of Pixie is what truly elevated me from a child star to an up-and-coming actress. Well, that and carrying the Doherty name on my back.
"Uh, all of it," Benny admits awkwardly.
That's my cue to put him out of his misery and stop pressing. "Thank you. If you want me to sign anything or take a picture, let me know. I'll be happy to do it."
He nods whilst setting the boxes down on the living room floor, both of us switching our attention to Georgie who's currently looking around the room as if she'd lost something.
"Where's the boy?" she finally asks.
"He's outside, let him sleep–"
Georgie, of course, completely disregards my words—I'd expect nothing less from a nosy lady like her. I curse under my breath whilst following her into the backyard, where the said man is still sleeping peacefully in the very same position I left him in.
"Oh, honey…" Georgie sighs, cocking her head to the side with her eyes fixed on Harry's backside. "You absolutely must marry this man."
Rolling my eyes, I attempt to force her back into the house but she's surprisingly strong for her age. "Are you hearing yourself? Me and marriage in one sentence together?" I intentionally lower my voice to avoid disturbing Harry. "Let him rest, Georgie."
"Rough night?" she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. "Tired the poor soul out, did you?"
"No! Besides, didn't you lecture me about not sleeping around just a couple of weeks ago?" I point out.
"He is not some random man. This is your future husband, mark my words."
Now completely fed up with her antics, I angrily stomp over to the door when a small movement of Harry's arm makes me stop in my tracks. What's more, he then proceeds to snuggle deeper into the pillow, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a tiny smirk. The bastard's awake... and enjoying this. Immensely.
And just to add salt to the wound, Georgie chooses that exact moment to say, "What a glorious bum this man has."
"Ugh," I groan, stopping next to Harry to rip the pillow from under his head.
"Wha?" he lets out a raspy groan, pretending to be half-asleep as I repeatedly smack the pillow into his smug face. "What's goin' on?"
"Stop acting like you weren't eavesdropping, you bloody arse!" I huff.
"This glorious arse?" he checks, shimmying his hips left and right with a chuckle.
At this point, I can't even tell whether I'm more annoyed or turned on. Probably both. "Oh, now you're getting it."
I then fully deliver on my threat by jumping onto his back, my legs on either side of him. The force of our bodies colliding has him huffing and grunting in pain, but when my pillow connects with his ass, he instead starts to laugh, "I kinda like where this is going."
A low whistle sounds from behind my back. "Well… I'll leave you two to sort this out on your own."
Glaring at the spot where Georgie just stood, I force myself to roll off the still chuckling Harry. His cheeks are pink, pupils blown out wide as his stare lingers on me. Feeling weightless and effortlessly happy for the first time in days, I return his smile with my own, tentative one.
However, our moment is ruined when Georgette once again calls out for us to come over. In the commotion that follows, I end up squished between Benny and Harry on the latter's living room sofa.
"You three," Georgie announces, "are going to vote."
"On what?" Benny is the first to ask.
She absentmindedly waves her hand in my general direction. "On the best dress for this one here, of course."
"But why are they voting too?" I complain, trying not to sound too whiny. I hate dress-ups. Well, maybe not as much the dress-up part, but rather the judging that follows. It makes me think of the countless times my mother complained about my posture, the redness of my freckled skin, or simply put, any imperfection she could find. "I'm the one who'll wear it."
"Because I say so." Clearly, it's not up for discussion. "But before we do that, I have some exciting news to share."
My hand clutching the water bottle freezes halfway to my mouth.
"Nicks is pregnant!" she exclaims, throwing her arms out merrily.
"Oh, for fuck's sake." My dejected groan gets drowned out by Harry's cheering, although he quickly backtracks after noticing my sour expression.
"What?" he visibly shrinks into himself. "A new life is always a cause for celebration…"
I eye him warily, my gaze dipping down to my clenched hands before they focus on the woman before me again.
"Georgie, animals require care. They are real, living creatures, not some records you can hang on your wall." Or drop them off at my place whenever you get bored of them.
"Before you have my head—yes, I am aware that not all of them can stay with me," she answers, "but it's hardly a crime to choose just one, is it?"
"Yeah, s'pose so..." I find myself mumbling, still unconvinced.
"I've even chosen the name already," she continues, unperturbed by my less than enthusiastic response. "A perfect one for the love child of Nicks and Jagger."
This time an incredulous scoff leaves my lips. "You can't even know for certain who the daddy is!"
"Ah, but they've been sneaking around," Harry quips with an exaggerated nod as if he had just figured out one of the biggest mysteries of life.
Playfully, I tap my finger against his bare chest. "You're meant to be on my side. Besides, sneaking around doesn't automatically mean–"
"You two… Focus on the important part," Georgie butts in. "The name."
Her knowing gaze then falls upon Harry, whose lips instantly stretch out into the largest grin possible.
No.
"No," I say out loud just as Georgie booms, "Styles!"
Everything seems to be moving in slow motion as Harry shoots out of his seat, nearly knocking me over into Benny amidst his excitement.
"Cherry, baby, did you hear that?" he throws his head back whilst knocking his clenched fist into the spot where his heart is. "Mum, I've finally made it. Cats are being named after me."
"Oh, god…" I'll never hear the end of this.
Feigning annoyance is impossible though, not when Harry's eyes are sparkling with innocent joy over something as small and insignificant as a cat's name. His happy-go-lucky attitude is infectious; it's high time I admit to myself that it has spread on to me as well.
This joyful atmosphere lasts throughout the next hour. Georgie keeps pushing different dresses into my arms, forcing me to try them on so that she and the boys can judge whether they're good enough for the event. It's not a surprise that Harry's input proves to be valuable—after all, he really is a very fashionable man. Plus, I have long discovered that our tastes in clothing are very similar. Even his friends noticed that we share the love for vintage outfits, and often find ourselves accidentally matching between my hippie sundresses and his flowery shirts.
After we finally succeed in choosing the dress—a beautiful, metallic silver number with eye-catching shimmery elements—Georgie surprises Harry with a box full of vintage clothing she had prepared just for him. From loose dress pants, through custom-made suits to colourful vests, it's clear that the designer in her is still stuck in her golden decade—the 70s. And, as expected, Harry's drinking it all up like an overzealous puppy.
At some point, Georgie cuts our little dress-up party short by reminding us that we both still have to get ready for the event. Three hours sounds like plenty of time, but when you're prepping for an event where you're supposed to be the main attraction of the night—which I definitely will be—you need to make sure your look is no less than perfect.
Thankfully, that's when Harry comes into play. It seems that whilst I was wallowing in my misery all week, he made sure to have his hairstylist booked for the afternoon. Bless him. What's more, his team arrives early which means we also end up being ready way sooner than necessary.
Left with some time to spare, I deliver on my promise and write a dedication for Benny. Hence why a massive poster with my face is currently spread on the hood of Georgie's car, with me hunched over it.
"Is there anything specific you'd like me to write?" I ask Benny who has just produced several multicoloured fibre pens from his bag, handing the red one to me.
"Uhm, not really," he ducks his head down, squinting at the two sleek black limos waiting to drive Harry and me to the banquet hall. "Anything you want."
Once again, I am amazed that Georgie's fiery and sarcastic blood runs in this boy's veins. With his bashful smiles and a meek temperament, one would assume that I'm her grandchild, not him.
As if on cue, Georgie stops next to me whilst appraising me with a critical eye. "Ah, you look absolutely stunning, but… I feel like we're missing something. Where's your jewellery?"
Instinctively, my hand flies to my bare neck. "My pearls got ruined in the fire."
I could, of course, choose any other piece from my big collection of diamond necklaces and other expensive pieces I have gathered throughout the years… if only it didn't feel like cheating. In a way, wearing pearls has become my brand. Whenever I made a public appearance, I'd wear them, a fact that the public picked up on straight away.
For a beat, I debate on whether to put something else on—my grandmother's heart-shaped necklace comes to mind. The golden shade would compliment this dress nicely...
"The common courtesy is to compliment a woman," Georgie's playful tone snaps me out of my thoughts. "Tell her how gorgeous she looks. In my experience, it works better than mindlessly eyeing her bum."
The skin between my brows creases in confusion. "What?"
"Well, shit," Harry's raspy voice sounds behind me. "I've been called out."
When I turn around, I need to use all the remnants of my self-control to reign in my reaction. He looks insanely handsome. Now, don't get me wrong, Harry Styles is one of the most attractive men I've ever laid my eyes on—that's an indisputable fact. Still, the most formal wear I've ever witnessed him in was a dress shirt, so to see him in a full suit is… new. And what an experience it is.
Harry runs a hand along his jaw, seeming a bit embarrassed for having been caught shamelessly ogling me. "Georgette is right," is what he says eventually. "This dress… Wow. It does wonders for your body. You look beautiful."
"Is that so? I quite like your suit as well," I flirt, teasingly running my hand along the collar of his plain black shirt that makes for a perfect contrast to the shiny suit. Clearly, he's opted for a more classic look with just enough blitz; suitable for the kind of event we're going to. "Is the matching intentional? You know we're not going there together…"
He smiles secretly. "Maybe it's a lucky coincidence. I'll see you there, yeah?"
"Just remember to behave yourself."
He huffs a laugh before climbing into the back of his designated car. We had agreed earlier that it would be best if he left a few minutes earlier, to avoid unnecessary rumours.
When his limo disappears behind the gate, I busy myself by finishing up the dedication I wrote for Benny. The poor boy has already hidden in Georgie's car—apparently spending half a day in my presence is his limit.
"It's sweet how close you are to your grandson." My comment is meant to come off casual, but as I finish rolling up the poster, I realise Georgie has never mentioned her family around me. Not even once.
How curious.
"Oh gods no, we barely know each other!" she chortles as if the mere notion of her and Benny being tight is hilarious.
A confused frown spreads across my face. "But, I thought–"
"My daughter and I have never been on the best of terms. It was only after my husband's death when she chose to reach out to me… That's when I met Benny. He's a good boy—a bit on the quiet side, but always eager to come over and help around the house."
"But… why? Why were you fighting?" I ask.
I can't think of one possible reason why Georgie's daughter could despise her. The side I know her from is all sharp wit, sarcasm, and tough love—which is still love, nonetheless. She may seem a bit rough around the edges, but the initial animosity wears off once you get to know her better.
Georgie shrugs. "My husband and I were both career-driven when she was a child; we simply had no time for her. I doubt I'll live long enough to earn her forgiveness. She still resents me, to this day."
For the first time since we've met, I find myself at a loss of words. Perhaps it's because of my own strained relationship with my parents, but I am not liking Georgie's tone. Not at all. If she indeed neglected her daughter, she should be the one trying to make amends, not the other way around.
This hits way too close to home, I realise.
"I'll see you later," is all I say, turning to climb into the car.
"Have fun!" she yells after me. "I'll be watching the online stream."
I wave at her half-heartedly, suddenly feeling a bit torn about her presence in my life. I've always believed her interest in me to be pure, fuelled by the intention to help the gloomy girl next door. Now, I am not the one to jump to conclusions and assume she's trying to make up for her failures as a mother by taking care of me, but the idea doesn't seem as far-fetched anymore.
___________
The drive to the event takes a good forty minutes, mostly because of the short break we take on the way. Our limo is then switched to a different one from my collection, just to make sure no one photographs me arriving at the event in the same car that has just left Harry Styles' house. It was Jeff's idea—one that I wholeheartedly agreed with. I wouldn't want to drag H into my mess anymore than he's already done it on his own.
The crowd goes wild the moment I emerge from the backseat of my limo. For a split moment, I am blinded. The flashes, the screams, the desperate hands reaching out through the security fences—it's been a while since I experienced a red carpet walk on my skin.
But then my pre-rehearsed instincts kick in. It's like my body is on autopilot, using all the techniques that had been engraved into my brain as a young girl. The half-smile, elegant stroll, head raised high above the crowd of spectators. Like an animal on a circus stage, I play my rightful part in this shit-show.
The paparazzi hired by my parents go especially hard on the pictures today; I'm forced to strike every pose imaginable before they finally allow me to slip into the crowd of guests. Harry's there as well—just a face among the countless celebrities, although his natural charisma garners him more attention than other A-listers. Judging by the loud screams of his name, a considerable number of fans have camped out just for him. No wonder my father was willing to let me stay at Harry's place just to ensure his presence tonight.
Our shoulders touch as I brush past him without as much as a glance his way, knowing we can't interact in front of the paparazzi. He, on the other hand, makes no effort to hide his appreciative stare. With a pointed look, I make sure the message is sent: stop gawking, you fool.
I don't wait to see his reaction, instead moving further down the red carpet just as the flashes blind me again. The safety of the door is in sight, but on the other side, a different force corners me—this one of the destructive kind. My mother.
"There you are," she coos, placing her hands on my shoulders as she eyes me head to toe. "Aren't you looking like my little starlet today?"
"Thanks, mum," I mumble. There's no need for me to comment on her outfit—it's no short of perfect, as it always is.
"Listen closely," she whispers in my ear. "There are several people I'm going to need you to talk to today, important benefactors…"
Drowning her voice out, I pretend to pay attention as she tediously points out various individuals around the room. Even when we make it to our table, my mind is still stuck on Harry—what he's doing; who he's with; whether he's going to keep his distance from me like Jeff had requested. Coincidentally or not, their seats are located right in my line of vision. So far, I note that they're empty.
It's only when I hear a call of my name that I finally re-focus on my surroundings. Apparently, someone thought it a splendid idea to sit me next to some random girl I've never met. It soon becomes evident that the said person was my mother when she informs me, "This is Mila. My… friend's daughter."
For a brief moment, I'm confused until it dawns on me that she is referring to her latest toy—the lawyer I got to represent Sally in her case against Baker.
No way. No way she came to the event with her lover.
"Relax, I'm here with your father," she accurately reads my thoughts, "but my friend asked me to bring Mila, as a favour of sorts. Could you look after her just for the night, please?"
"Mum, I'm not going to play babysitter. You told me to entertain guests, how am I supposed to do that with her tied to my hip?" I complain in a hushed whisper.
Looking over my shoulder, she makes sure to raise her voice as she says, "She won't be a bother, right Mila?"
The girl nods sharply. "Of course, I won't get in your way! Thank you so much for inviting me."
Just from a single look alone, I can tell that she's intimidated—not only by me, but also all the other famous faces around us. Her father may be a celebrity attorney, but she's clearly not used to frequenting events like this one.
The next hour passes in a blur of greetings, speeches, and what I refer to as the 'kiss-their-ass' phase. It would be somewhat bearable if not for two things: one, my mother completely ignoring me in favour of her new substitute kid, and two, Harry's continuous absence at his table.
The comfort of his presence is something I didn't know I needed until it was gone. Even a simple glance from the other side of the room would do wonders to soothe the nerves trashing away in my stomach, as silly as that sounds.
With a heavy sigh, I move to stand up from the table. "Right, I'm going to make my rounds. Tag along, if you want."
I don't wait to see if the girl follows me, secretly hoping she's more interested in my mother and their gossip about Gucci's fall bag collection. It's the kind of conversation I've always craved to have with Mum. The silly girl talk. Something to bond over.
But, unlike Mila, I'm my mother's starlet. Her beloved project. A prize on her award wall to flaunt to her stuck-up friends.
"Hey, wait up," Mila grunts, elbowing her way through the crowd to catch up to me. When she finally does, I'm admittedly a bit taken aback when she stops right in my path, a determined spark in her eye. "I'm sorry, but have I offended you somehow? I just wanted–"
"No, you haven't," I cut her off, trying to walk around her but she stands firm in my path. To avoid it looking like an argument, I plaster a big smile onto my face. "There's a lot of people I need to talk to tonight. Sorry if it felt like I was neglecting you, it wasn't my intention at all."
"Listen, I didn't ask to be here," she explains hurriedly before I can attempt to leave again. "Your mother insisted for us to meet. This is hardly the right place for introductions, I told her so, but she wouldn't listen. You know how stubborn she gets."
I do know. My apprehension easing just a bit, I allow my gaze to drift to her eyes, bright and seemingly genuine. A couple of months ago I would have automatically discarded her words as lies. There's a reason why I don't trust people easily. But now… Maybe I could find it in me to give her the benefit of the doubt.
"It's okay. I don't blame you," is the response I go for. Friendly, but still wary.
"I like your mum," she presses on, "but most importantly—my dad likes her."
I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
"And do you love your father, Mila?" I ask rhetorically. "'Cause you better ask him to stay away from my family. We ruin everything in our path. If he knows what's best for him, he'll run while he still can."
Her face falls into a frown. "I get that you want your parents to stay together. I mean, they're your parents, but–"
"Oh, please," I scoff mirthlessly. "Nothing would make me happier than them finally divorcing, but it's never going to happen. My father's too obsessed to let her go. And mum… She's a serial cheater, but there's a reason why she always runs back to Dad with her tail between her legs. Wanna know why?" I pause. "Because no one understands her lifestyle better than he does. No one truly gets her like my father."
Mila's face pales with each word falling from my mouth. "I think you're wrong," she says eventually. "I may have just met Marisa, but I believe she cares about my dad. I doubt she would be wasting her time trying to build a relationship with me and my little sister if she wasn't planning on sticking around."
Feigning nonchalance, I can only hope my voice isn't too shaky when I ask, "She's been spending time with you and your sister?"
Mila nods in response. It's only when I remain silent for a prolonged time that she speaks again, her tone much softer.
"She talks about you a lot, you know? She won't shut up, always going on and on about how proud she is of you and all you've achieved at such a young age. It's not any of my business, but I feel like you should know."
The knowing look in her eyes makes my anxiety spike up even more.
"You don't understand my mother at all," I let out a weighted breath. "She's a great actress; it runs in the family."
Surprisingly, she just shrugs her shoulders. "Even if she's indeed going to hurt him as you claim, who am I to tell my dad what to do? He's an adult, he can make his own mistakes and learn from them. It's his life."
"I wish I had your attitude," my eyes dart up to hers. "All I do is worry."
"Well, I happen to know just the best remedy for that," she reveals, linking her arm with mine. "It's called a drink. Preferably, a heavy one."
"We're in agreement at last, sister," I let out an airy laugh as we stop at the bar.
And I'm not lying. As soon as the first shot flows down my throat, followed by another, and the next one after that, all the worrisome thoughts are forgotten. My new 'almost sister'—as we've sarcastically taken to calling each other—turns out to be quite a decent companion for the evening. By the time we see other guests closing in on us, clearly fishing for a conversation, I almost wish we'd have more time to talk.
"Oh my god," Mila blurts out awkwardly, her eyes focused on something, or rather someone, behind my back. "You won't believe who's checking you out."
"Who?" I ask, feigning interest.
"Harry– Harry Styles," she whispers, a pink tinge gracing her cheeks.
My smirk turns playful. "Who's that?"
"You don't know– how can you not–" she rambles nervously. "Wait, are you messing with me?"
Her question pulls yet another laugh from my chest. "Okay, fine, I know who he is!"
"Wait," she's clearly trying to keep her voice breezy despite losing her shit. "You know-know him!"
"Yeah, he's a friend…" my words come to a rolling stop.
She waits a moment, studying my face fully before asking, "Are you two like–"
"Let me stop you right there," I scoff. "The answer's no. Absolutely not. But, if you want to meet him, that can be arranged."
"Are you kidding me? I'd make a fool of myself. Never!" she panics, much to my amusement.
"Shit," I mutter, eyeing the fast-approaching screenwriter that I recognise as my father's friend. "Duty calls. Can I leave you here for a bit?"
At her slow nod, I walk off from where we were tucked away at the bar and toward the crowd, sparing a single glance at Harry to see him deeply immersed in a conversation with Lenny Kravitz. My belly does a flip just from glimpsing his face alone, and I can't help but wonder—does he feel just as flustered? Because it sure seems like our conversation last night flipped a metaphorical switch in my mind. And now, I can't go back.
Ignoring the onslaught of butterflies in my stomach, I spend the next hour chatting up all the benefactors as per the request of my mother. It's boring, tedious, and just plain annoying, but necessary nonetheless.
When the fake pleasantries become too much to handle, I decide to retreat to the terrace, intentionally passing Harry's table on the way just so he takes the hint and joins me outside. However, it seems like he has no intention of moving. His eyes flit up to mine briefly before they drop to his lap, and I soon realise why.
H: You won't believe who I just saw
I smirk slightly at the text that's meant to be a throwback to that party on Kendall's yacht. The very day we bumped into each other, without realising that we had, in fact, already met… over Harry's fence.
Me: Oh, really? Who?
His eyes brighten just the tiniest amount as he continues to stare at the phone, his thumbs moving across the screen.
H: Quite possibly the most striking woman I've ever laid my eyes on
H: Quickly, I need a decent pick-up line!
Me: As long as you don't mention gingers being an endangered species for the umpteenth time, you should be good
H: Hey! That was a good one!
H: Don't make fun of me
His playful pout is visible even from across the room, making me smile.
Me: Just do your intense staring into their soul thingy and you'll be good
H: Yeah? Eyes up
My head whips up just in time to catch him looking at me with smugness basically radiating off him. My eyebrows raise as I bite my lip flirtatiously, hoping he'd finally get his ass over here, now. With the way he's looking tonight—and it may be the drink talking—but I could practically devour him. All of him.
Just then, a familiar smooth voice sounds to my right. "It's really hard to catch you alone. You're a wanted woman."
I nearly do a double-take when my eyes fall upon Brennan, his hair slicked back with a classic black suit adoring his tall, slim frame. The corner of his mouth curved smoothly into a half-smirk, he tugs at his tie as if trying to free himself from the restraints. How he manages to look so effortlessly cool, even in a formal get-up, is beyond me.
"Hi," I breathe, trying to match his stoic look.
He nods, arm propped against the railing as he takes a long drag of his cigarette. "We need to talk."
"Have you found out anything new?" I ask timidly.
Roy's poker face is unnerving, making me wonder whether he feels even a sliver of the nervousness I'm experiencing right now. For some reason, his presence sends my heart spiralling… and I'm not sure whether I like it.
He waits for a beat, studying my face carefully before putting out his cigarette and outstretching his now-free arm towards me. "Come on, before someone snatches you away again."
Without thinking I grasp his hand, allowing him to pull me with him until we're in the middle of the dancefloor, a softer tune just beginning to play. His arm finds its way to the middle of my back, resting lightly against the bare skin and pulling me just a fraction closer as we begin to sway to the music.
"Baker's alibi checks out," Roy's hot breath fans against my neck as he speaks. "So does Emil's. His parents swear he was with them the entire night. Do you think their words can be trusted?"
"I don't know. I've never met them personally," I admit, trying to focus on the steady beat of Roy's pulse—anything to take my mind off our close proximity and the accompanying thoughts.
"And would they be willing to lie for him if necessary?" he asks.
"As far as I know, their relationship is strained, but…" if it meant preserving their reputation, they probably would.
Roy goes quiet at that, the side of his chest pressing stronger against my body as he smoothly guides us deeper into the crowd of dancing couples.
"None of the male suspects I've been looking into has a thigh wound," he mutters next, his mouth lingering close to my ear. "The cut you described had to be pretty deep. There's no way he would be able to walk around without limping, at least for a few weeks."
"So the guy I stabbed—it's not Emil, Baker…" I swallow nervously, "Asa? And they all have alibis?"
"Or the Styles guy. Yes," he confirms.
Right. I forgot he's looking into Harry as well.
"It doesn't mean that they're not involved somehow. I still stand by my original theory—someone you know gave them the codes," Roy adds.
"So, what now?" I panic. When Roy showed up, I was expecting good news. Meanwhile, it looks like his investigation is getting nowhere.
"Relax, I'm just getting started. Digging up dirt takes time."
Attempting to keep myself composed, I say nothing when his hand makes its way across my back to the back of my neck. His breath on my skin sends tingles all the way down to my toes, and even though I'd normally be all up for whatever it is that's transpiring between me and this attractive man, this time my mind runs to someone else. Someone who might very well be witnessing this lustful exchange.
But just as Roy's lips lightly graze my earlobe, the song comes to an abrupt end, seizing our moment with it.
My mind still fuzzy, all I manage is a weak, "Drinks?"
He nods, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips, thus confirming my suspicions: the tension between us isn't just a trick of my mind. Roy wanted to wind me up. Why? That remains a mystery.
"Look at all those rich bastards, comparing the sizes of their cocks," he drawls, tipping two fingers at the bartender to gain his attention. After placing his order, he once again focuses his attention on me.
"Careful," I quip, "I'm one of those so-called 'rich bastards'. Although I have no cock to compare."
His head drops with a small chuckle. "The difference is that you don't need to prove anything. You've already made them all jealous. Well, either that or horny."
Resisting the urge to ask which category he falls into, I instead say, "Why did you come here?"
He shrugs, hovering over my seat as he leans against the bar. "To observe. Your stalker is clearly hiding among your friends. Sometimes the easiest strategy is to let them expose themselves all on their own."
"Oh? And how's that been working so far?"
His gaze drops to my lips. "Good… until I got distracted."
And when my eyes flit to his again, somehow he's managed to move even closer—close enough for the scent of tobacco and whiskey to invade my senses.
But, as soon as he starts to lean in, it's over. I don't even get the chance to react before a different presence appears behind me, a familiar ringed hand pressing dangerously low into my back.
"Hi, I'm Harry."
Basically sandwiched between the two tall men now, I attempt to slip out from this precarious position—only to end up pressed into Harry's side even more. His knuckles brush against the dip in my spine, and if I didn't know any better, I'd say he was marking his territory.
But I do know better, and Harry Styles is not of the jealous kind. Or so I thought.
"Harry," I whisper, gently peeling his hand off my back. "Anyone can see us right now."
My words pull him out of his trance, apparently reminding him that he's essentially given himself away as the jealous type.
"Roy Brennan," the other man introduces himself, without making a move to shake Harry's hand—a fact that clearly pisses H off so much more. "Nice party, huh? You should try the dance floor, we had plenty of fun just now."
If not for my fear of getting caught, the current imagery would render me hysterical. There's Harry, his mouth downturned in a frown in an attempt to intimidate the other man, who's completely unfazed by it all. What's more, judging by the amused twinkle in his eye, Roy loves a challenge. And between the two of them—the most competitive duo I know—it's not going to end well.
"Okay, whew," I chuckle, smoothly inserting myself between the two. "As much as I'm enjoying this raw display of masculinity, it's time for us all to peacefully part ways. In other words: shoo. Both of you."
"It's fine, I'll leave," Roy shrugs, leaning down to place a chaste kiss on the apple of my cheek. He lingers there much longer than necessary, his eyes flitting up to Harry before he sends me one last lopsided smile. "We'll be in touch."
His retreating back is still in our sight when Harry leans down toward me, visibly distressed. "Who was that?"
"The PI hired by my dad," I respond calmly.
A smile timidly grows across his face. "That's him?"
"Who did you think it was?" I counter, taking a sip from my glass whilst eyeing him warily.
He shoots me a look—a begging one. "Don't make me say it."
"Harry." Exasperated, I allow the glass to slam against the counter a bit too roughly. "You really thought I was about to leave with him?"
Frankly, I'm a bit insulted that he expects me to hook up with the first man who shows any interest in me.
"I wasn't– I mean," he visibly gulps before continuing, "I wasn't trying to stake my claim–"
"Good," an annoyed voice chimes in, effectively pulling me from Harry's gaze. "You've already done enough damage for the night."
We both lean back to allow the visibly stressed Jeff to slip in between us. There is no need for explanations; a single glance at the phone in his hand tells us all we need to know.
The first things I see are mine and Harry's names, both trending on Twitter. A bad sign. Then there are the pictures, most of them catching H red-handed. His eyes drinking me up greedily on the red carpet. Our gazes locking briefly as I passed his table. Nothing too incriminating, but enough for the tabloids to spin a somewhat believable story.
But the absolute cherry on top is the headline on one of the popular gossip sites. Possible new couple alert: could #harrya be a thing?
They even pulled up that one picture we took with the girls trying to jump over Harry's fence weeks ago—I've been wondering when that would happen.
"Fuck," is all Harry says. And I couldn't agree more.
__________
That was the longest chapter yet, nearly 10k words! A lot of things happened—new bits of information, jealous Harry... Let me know whether you've enjoyed the longer chapter or if I should go back to the regular length (5-6k).
What do you think of Georgie now? Is she hiding something? What about Benny?
Is Emil's alibi a lie or not?
Who's the guy who attacked Cherry since, according to the sexy detective Roy, none of the main male characters have a stab wound?
Will Harry and Cherry finally share their first kiss in the next chapter? ...Yes. Maybe. I don't know! But love is in the air, for sure.
Until next time,
Cathy
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