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.
"You can't or you won't?"
"I can't." I stepped inside the elevator and hit the close button but Harry followed me inside. "What are you doing?"
"Riding the elevator."
I sighed and rested my head against the metal wall. It was an awkward silence where he stood there staring at me expectantly and I stood there staring up at the ceiling. I was beginning to understand why people avoided eye-contact. Harry's uncaring way of staring was unnerving.
"Are you really going to just stand there?" he finally asked, breaking through the quiet with his loud accent. "I mean, really? I thought you would've taken it as a compliment that I wanted your assistance. I don't usually do this on my own."
I considered it for a minute, choosing to break my gaze to check his expression for sincerity. It was there in spades. "It would be taken as a compliment if I was legitimately interested in dressing you," I replied ruefully, making an effort to be gentle as I spoke. If he could play nice then so could I. "But I'm not interested, Harry. I'm a computer person. I like the peace and the quiet of it all, and playing stylist to a celebrity heart throb doesn't exactly fit into those criteria."
"Not the celebrity thing again."
He hit the red button, jilting the elevator to a halt with enough force that I almost lost my balance. When it dawned on me what he'd done, I felt a wave of nausea rise in my throat. Much like crowds, I didn't do small confined spaces.
"Harry, let me out."
"Not until you agree."
I felt my face flush and swatted my hand in the air, trying my best to keep my irrational fear at bay. You're okay, Claire. This is a sturdy elevator. The walls aren't closing in. You won't fall to your death and die in a blazing fire.
"So, what do you say? Are you up for the job?"
"I'm g-going to k-kill you." I took in a deep breath, feeling the action of my chest rising and falling as I tried not to hyperventilate. "Seriously, h-hit the b-button. Let me o-out of here."
"No."
"H-Harry." I was pleading this time, looking at him with true fear in my eyes. I know because I could see the wideness of my eyes reflected in the metal. "I'm n-not k-kidding. I'm going to p-pass out."
He shook his head stubbornly and I had to restrain myself from lunging at him. You are not that red-headed woman at the press junket, Claire. "If you pass out then I'll make sure to get you to a medical team as soon as possible," he taunted, clearly not grasping the severity of the situation. "Don't worry. I think Marsha keeps one on hand. It shouldn't take longer than a few minutes."
"Why are y-you d-doing this t-to me?" I choked. "What's in it for y-you?"
"Honesty," he replied simply. The answer made my head spin. "You could clearly care less about what I want, and that's exactly what I need." I furrowed my brow at him. What? "I want honesty when it comes to my clothes, Claire, not a team of well versed individuals who are going to feed me a load of shit about what I do and don't need to wear. You think I didn't get what it was you were doing with the converses last night?" I shook my head, doing my best to feign innocence. I was already up a creek as it was. "You wanted me to advertise them," he stated. "That's not the first time a stylist has tracked me down at an event. I wasn't born yesterday."
"Then why d-did you wear t-them?"
"Because it was you." He leaned against the wall and watched me seriously. "I figured you probably had a legit reason for asking, given your stance on the matter hours earlier, and you looked like a deer caught in the headlights. I didn't have the heart to tell you to fuck off." So sympathy had been the emotion of choice? He'd pitied me. "Either way, I'm not feeling all that generous anymore. Even if you look like you're about to dry heave in the middle of an elevator."
"How n-nice of y-you," I replied, doing my best to sound sarcastic. I was seriously going to die in here. Harry Styles was going to kill me.
"Anyway," he said, "the way I see it you've got two options. Number one: you agree to be my stylist for the duration of the time I'm here, or number two: you deal with the consequences of pissing me off. But before you answer, let me tell you what that entails." He held up his hand as if checking off a list. "First, I'm a persistent bugger. I'll annoy the hell out of you. Second, I'll make it a point to let your boss know that you think her shoes are not wardrobe ready for this time of year. Third, I'll refuse to let anyone else at Wright Fashion House help me which will end in them losing the entire One Direction account. My mates and I stick together on these sorts of things." I quirked a brow and he shrugged. "And our team likes to keep things organized. They won't want us using two different stylists because I can't get along with everyone. It's happened before."
This time I did move, ready to attack with whatever energy I possessed. This bastard was blackmailing me. "Not completely out of energy," he quipped. "Good, that means you can give me an answer."
"H-harry." I lunged, more like stumbled forward into the wall as he moved out of the way. At least that freed up the red button. I reached for it as if my life depended on it, which it kind of did. I was starting to get lightheaded.
"Not so fast, love." He swatted my hand away and moved himself back into the line of fire, catching my wrist as I attempted to claw at him. "Well somebody's feeling better."
"Let me go." I pulled at my wrist but he shook his head determinedly. "What do you want from me?" I was almost crying now, trying my best to subdue my anxiety whilst using the rest of my strength to fight him off. I'd had enough.
"You know what I want."
"Fine," I relented, shocking myself almost as much as I'd shocked him.
"What?"
"I-I'll do it. B-but, hit the b-button b-before I pass o-out."
He obliged, pressing the button like I'd asked and letting my wrist go. "Great. Now was that so hard?" I would've smacked that damned smile from his face had it not been for the fact that there was a crowd waiting outside the door as it slid open.
"Did the elevator break?" Cole Wright asked, quirking an eyebrow at us as I moved through the doors. "We've been standing here for ages."
"Only for a little bit," Harry replied smugly. "We'll be in touch, Claire."
I moved down the hall, anxious to be as far away from the bane of my existence as I could be. All I wanted was a good job. I hadn't asked for this, and one thing was most definitely clear.
I hadn't asked for Harry Styles.
~~~===~~~
(Please don't forget to vote. Thanks!)