Inherent

Alexander got me the job at the bookstore and usually I’m grateful for it because, as Jameson pointed out, it’s quite literally straight across the street from the building where most of my classes are held. I don’t have to take my car out of student parking and drive across the city for my part time job. But Alexander got me this job because he was friends with Caleb, and now Caleb is dead.

So I don’t like to see Alexander, even though I have to at least three days a week, and even though we work together on some of my side jobs. Even though we used to be friends, too, through Caleb.

After I cross the street and really get a taste for the wet, chilly weather, I can’t quite believe how cold it is for late April. To further enhance my dreary mood, it’s raining too. A light rain, but one I feel through my pullover school hoodie. I don’t have grandma around the house to remind me to dress warm for the weather any more.

The lobby is already set up with a long folding table covered with a white tablecloth and a banner depicting the name of the book. Several smaller tables and chairs are set up at each side of it, ready for the author and all the guests. Already there are people lining up and purchasing copies of the book to be signed, and I wonder how it is that I haven’t heard about the event until today. Finals took up all of my time over the last month. I hardly left the house, not even to hang out with Vivian at least once a weekend like I usually do. My head had been stuck so far into statistics and useless business jargon that I didn’t really follow much in regards to upcoming non-fiction.

But I really wish I paid more attention in Jameson’s class these past few days, completed finals or no. If I’d been able to answer his question today, I could have avoided the little added stress—stress I so don’t need. I could have continued to ignore the British man and I wouldn’t have been on the receiving end of one of his persuasive winks.

On the way past the tables, I swear I feel someone watching me, but I don’t allow myself to dwell on my own paranoid tendencies. My anxiety stems from elementary school, after Dad, and the hard time I had thereafter. In my mind, someone is always looking at me. Judging my appearance—whether it be my lack of makeup or perhaps my frumpy clothing. There used to be a part of my mind that dwelled on how overweight I was as a chubby-faced child, but I can’t allow myself to think about that either. My baby fat melted off in middle school and if I get too worked up over it, my heart will start with its usual hiccups and I just can’t take it. Not today.

I slip into the employee’s office with no sights on Alexander, though I hear his sharp voice bounce off the walls further back in the building. After I pull my hoodie off and straighten my long, unruly dark hair from its wet frizz, I check in and pin my nametag to my nondescript black work t-shirt.

Just a few days. Then Friday will come around, I’ll pass in my business report, and I’ll be done with the semester. With a deep breath, I let go of the tension in my shoulders and do my best to appear presentable and set my lips with a slight smile. Alexander is back at the main desk situated in front of the employees’ room. I catch sight of his dark head of hair through the glass window overlooking the lobby before I go out, and he turns around as soon as the door falls shut.

“You’re late,” he accuses, even though he’s smiling. Yes, Jameson held me up before I could fully make my escape from the presentation to rib me further about losing focus in class. But at the end of his speech, he smiled and told me I accomplished a great deal this semester past and that he was honoured to have had me as his student.

I still don’t know what to take away from that.

“Won’t happen again, boss,” I reply, smile growing. Sometimes it’s easy with Alexander, and sometimes it hurts to even look at him. Alex looks a lot like Logan Lerman, except he has blond hair and always looks rough around the edges with the scruffy beard he’s sported for the past while.

“The line up’s getting a little angsty,” he observes, elbows braced on the edge of the counter while he looks out onto the floor. The small crowd looks no different to me than how it did when I arrived three minutes ago, if only for more people. I can tell already Alex is about the only person here who’s ‘angsty.’ “Can you get some refreshments ready and bring ‘em out?”

Minutes later when I emerge again from the back room while balancing a large tray stacked with cups of water, juices and soft drinks, I see Mr. Styles. The fact that I just know I’m blushing because he’s staring at me, too, makes me feel like a tool. I avert my eyes and focus on not spilling the drinks until I set them down on one of the side tables, and I don’t think about how attractive he is.

With him are two men and a woman; they stand in a half circle around Mr. Styles and it looks as if they hang onto his every word. There are too many people to understand what they’re talking about, but I suspect it’s all in the cliché business lingo I’ve grown to hate. One of the men laughs and slaps him on the back—the hefty smack would have sent me sprawling forward, but Mr. Styles remains solid—calm. He even laughs back.

I wander back to the main desk. Alex is missing again, and I can’t even entertain the idea of socializing with the author and guest speakers like Professor Jameson suggested. But the desk acts as a sort of barrier between me and the crowd, and I find myself staring unwittingly at Mr. Styles again. What’s so special about him? Why did he choose to become an entrepreneur? I almost want to read the book, or at least the section where he’s featured, to see if he really does hold the secret to success.

He must. He’s got the crowd’s attention and he’s not even trying, lord only knows how successful he is when it comes to actual work. I don’t have it, that natural ability my father also possessed. I do well in the academics side of school but I still don’t believe, even after three years of learning, that I can apply it in the real world.

No, I’d rather squirrel away in my house and design advertisements for those businesses.
And why did he answer the question Jameson asked me?

I come back to reality when I realize Mr. Styles is staring back at me, and as soon as I focus on him again he shoots me a dazzling, full-teethed smile and a wink very much like the one he gave me at the presentation.

Oh, no. My heart stutters painfully and I all but fling myself away from the blasted desk, breathing shallow. Sufficiently caught, I don’t dare to look back at him. His colleagues seemed oblivious to our brief, bizarre interaction, but the damage has been done.

During times like these with book signings underway, things were actually slow for me. Since Alex is the manager and coordinates this sort of thing, however, I’d almost rather be the busy one than deal with his frustrations. If I’m lucky, I’ll sit around and wait until refreshments need to be brought in again.

For the next few minutes I watch quietly behind the sales desk, but my eyes don’t stray to Mr. Styles again. I watch everyone conversing and I wonder if it will be me, as it was my father. Mingling, with the fake plastered on smile everyone wears while they try to stomach through the nonsense. Dad loved the social side of business, of course, and the side where he created catchy slogans and thought up innovative new ways to sell products. But that’s not me. Next Fall I plan to focus even further on accounting. For now? For now I plan to use the summer to try and get ahead on my bills and maybe even save a little.

I wonder why I try so hard with this because I don’t want any part of the world I get so much of a glimpse into. None of it.

A good half an hour passes without complications and the crowd carrying copies of Boyd’s book begins to disperse. Right when I begin to hope all I’ll have is clean up duty after the signing and then I could go home and sleep, Alex calls me over to where he stands chatting with the author. About the only people left with him is the guest speakers and some straggling guests, Mr. Styles included. I approach the group in a tired, frazzled haze, arms crossed. I just want to go home, but my attitude won’t go over well with Alex if it shows through.

He hands me a list, and I take it nimbly without really looking at it, waiting for instructions. “Coffee run,” he says, and then stuffs a wad of currency in my free hand. Then, as if to convince me further, he smiles and looks a little bashful. “It’s for Mr. Boyd and his friends.”

I look down to the list, scribbled on a piece of notepad paper, and I want to roll my eyes when I see about ten different orders. Are they serious? Still, I try to keep my voice light and level and wear the same small smile. “I don’t think I can carry all this back at once. I might have to make two trips.”

In the cold rain wearing just my crappy hoodie. Today is turning out to be just wonderful. Hopeless, I look to Alexander for help and wonder why these people just can’t go get their stupid drinks themselves. My ‘friend’ doesn’t even volunteer to help.

Thanks, Al.

“I’ll come along with you,” my heart flutters at the sound of Mr. Styles’ voice—it’s still so out of place to me with his accent, and his deep baritone makes me unsteady on my feet alone.
A strange heat comes close to my back, and I stutter and lurch forward in my effort to create some space between his body and mine. He stands so close to me I swear I can feel his body radiate heat through his fitted suit jacket, but another part of me suspects I’m simply hyperaware of his proximity. The chairs we’re standing in front of block me from making an escape. Because he’s so close, I get a whiff of his cologne—a spicy, dangerous mixture of the woods and something more. It smells delicious.

“It’s fine,” my voice wavers like it did during the presentation except this time for a totally different reason. My panic must be comical to everyone else. “I think I can manage.”
“Don’t be silly,” he brushes me off in a gruff, off-handed way. I only wish I could exude the same calm collectiveness.

But I can’t and it will be one of the many reasons why I won’t make it in the business world. “I want to help.”

By then Alex brushed the situation off, back in a conversation with Boyd, so I slump my shoulders in defeat. I’m going to make a coffee run with Mr. Styles. In a deliberate, slow move, he reaches around me and pulls a black pea coat off the back of the chair I all but flattened myself against. I stiffen even further when I feel his curls brush against my neck when he leans down. Still close to me, he slips the coat on in one fluid motion.

Flustered, I try to steady myself. This man is potent, and I can’t become a useless mess over his mere presence. I think back to how he saved me from further embarrassment at the presentation with Jameson and I ask myself again why he even bothered. Surely he’s only doing this to me because he gets a kick out of watching me fall apart.

God, I’m pathetic.

Why is he even helping me with this? I doubt he ever goes to get his coffee himself. He probably has an assistant, who is also probably female and very pretty, to do it for him.
My experience with men is limited even on its best day. I remember when I was sixteen I chickened out on even kissing a boy at a party Caleb dragged me to, and I decided then that boys are more trouble than they’re worth. So here I am, twenty one years old and still set in my ways.

It’s not worth the risk. If I had to suffer through heartbreak, I don’t believe my body could take it. Literally.

Carefully, I maneuver around Mr. Styles in such a way that ensures no part of my body comes in contact with his and perfect my mask. This is just a man. A cocky, all too close man with a presence that is all consuming in itself. But he’s just a man.

“Alright, Mr. Styles.” I manage.

He reaches forward and pulls the list from my grasp, and then I deposit the cash into the same hand when he continues to hold it out expectantly.

“I’m Harry,” before I can really think too much about having learned his name, his large hand encloses around mine and instantly warms my skin. He doesn’t look fazed by how cold my hand is—a side effect of my medication. I release a shaky breath and nod my head, unable to reply even after he lets go of my hand.

On my way to the office to retrieve my hoodie, I sneak a rattled glance back and I’m shocked once again to see him watching me with a smirk, and that puts a little extra heat to my step. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and I won’t give into his antics.

Nervous as hell I might be, but stubborn I am tenfold. My hoodie is about two sizes too big and goes down almost to the top of my thighs, swamping my body and hiding every asset I might have. I don’t know why I think about this, since before now that would be a good thing. Now I feel like a tool for covering up so much.

He opens the main door and allows me to leave first, chuckling when I force out an awkward “thank you.”

Today it’s cold enough to warrant Harry’s jacket, and I feel even more useless with my poor choice of clothing. Nearing six o’clock, it will be dark soon enough. Even though the rain’s stopped the streets and sidewalks are wet and the sky is grey and dreary. At first I intend to walk ahead of Harry, but his long legs easily catch up with mine and soon enough I have to increase my pace to keep up with him.

Two minutes into our walk to Starbucks and about when I think I can make it through the ordeal in awkward silence, he sends me a sideways look of dark green curiosity. “What’s your focus in school?”

“Business Administration,” I say, still quiet and forced and I can’t believe he’s actually trying to make conversation with me. What’s funny is I have to stop myself from talking further, sure that he’s only trying for small talk. He’s not interested in what I do. The topic of school, however, is easy for me, and about the only thing I can think of at this moment.

After all—if I hadn’t attended the presentation, I wouldn’t even have been so intrigued by this man in the first place.

“Bachelors?” he guesses.

“Yes, I’ve just achieved that. Next year I start on my Masters.”

“Both back to back?” He sounds surprised. I don’t like his attention, but I don’t dwell on the how or the why. He sets me on edge too much as it stands.

To protect my hands from the cold, I distract myself by burying them in the hoodie’s front pocket and nod in confirmation, suddenly feeling exhausted.

While his smile is infectious and dimples endearing, I remain stoic and awkward at his side. It’s only now I realize how much taller he is than me, and even though I can hardly walk in them I wish I wore heels. His elbow brushes my upper arm and I jump at the contact, even though the cold has numbed my skin and I could barely feel the exchange through my clothing. He smiles that crooked grin of his, eyes twinkling.

For the rest of the walk and while we order the drinks at Starbucks, Harry’s quiet except for when he asks what I’d like to drink. He requests the information so simply I rattle off my usual order of tea without really thinking it through. He doesn’t even ask whether I want it, he just makes the purchase after pulling out his own wallet. Alex, Boyd and the rest of the guest speakers must have been scientific when they calculated the cost of the drinks (and plus maybe a tip) down to the cents. It doesn’t help that I left my clutch in my bag back at the bookstore, so I wouldn’t have been able to pay even if I wanted to.

“You didn’t have to get that for me,” we both hold trays of drinks each as we make our way back to the bookstore—Harry volunteered to take to, while I steady just one. I’m still quiet and I’m sure I still seem shy as hell. While I appreciate his kindness probably more than he realizes, I don’t know him and I don’t like to feel indebted to someone. Even if it’s something as small as a tea.
I’m usually the one buying drinks for other people.

“It’s just a tea.” He sounds stiff with his reply, as if challenging me to argue with him further. I don’t bother because I know his type, and he is always right.

“So, Julia, what’s your last name again?” I recall all of the sudden that I didn’t even think to introduce myself to him, having been too caught up in my thoughts and Harry’s hand on mine. My cheeks sting from the cold, and I suspect that I’m probably blushing like hell.

I mumble my last name, and I nearly drop the tray of hot beverages all together when he leans closer to hear. “What’s that?”

“Townsend.”

“Julia Townsend.” I ignore the fact that my name coming from his mouth sounds undeniably good. Too good.

“Can I call you Jules?”

My feet stop their robotic pace and my stomach twists at the mentioning of my nickname. Paused in the middle of the sidewalk with Harry Styles looking back at me innocently, all I can think about is how Caleb was the only person to ever call me that.

“I don’t care.” But I do. I just can’t bring myself to say it or get into why.

“That’s good. I like Jules,” his dimples pop even further and I finally start to walk again, except slower, and I’m disappointed when Harry slows down too. I want him to go ahead without me to deliver the drinks, to forget about me, to not call me that. “So, Jules. What do you do for fun?”

“Nothing,” I stammer like an idiot, my hands clutching the cardboard tray so tight it buckles the sides. If he keeps this up, I’ll break the thing clear in half. The comforting, warm scent of the coffee drifting up to my nose does nothing to ease my nerves. Although I can’t even begin to believe it, I can sense where this is going.

Harry Styles is set on having me pass out right in front of him, just from his charm. Perhaps a little because of my disorder, but mostly because of his charm. I’m also sure of that much, so I make the conscious effort to focus on anything but Harry. I go from watching steam billow up from the holes in the drinks’ lids to watching my feet, counting each step I take so I don’t trip and land on my face from embarrassment.

He laughs. He actually laughs.

“Nothing? You do nothing for fun. I find that hard to believe.”

“I’m busy a lot of the time.” I say, even though it’s a half truth. Vivian manages to drag me to the scattered club a few times a year, tops. Usually it’s for a celebration of some sort, be it New Year’s Eve or our birthdays. Not ‘just for fun.’

Harry purses his lips and draws his eyebrows together, and his look of bewilderment is almost adorable. If he wasn’t quite so intimidating to me, he would be. “Everyone needs to let loose once in a while, Townsend.”

Brain fogged, I can’t come up with a response and opt to shrug noncommittally. He’s right, of course, but I refuse to admit that out loud. I don’t want to share any more with this stranger, as enticing as he may be. I have far too much baggage to consider dating or even be considered by a guy like Harry Styles, so I ignore the little voice in the back of my mind that whispers you don’t even know him.

When we turn the corner and the bookstore comes in sight, I speed up to a brisk, quick walk, eager to escape the awkward situation I put us both in. Perhaps Harry can sense how much I don’t want this to go any further, because he doesn’t try to talk to me again. He pushes the door open with his shoulder and I go ahead of him again. His eyebrows remain pinched and lips set in a line; I can’t help but to wonder what he’s thinking about. What he thinks of me.

As soon as the drinks are doled out, I waste no time in scurrying back behind the main counter. With my tea, of course. I wasn’t so rude as to not thank him for it, but as soon as he got back he was speared into conversation with an older man in a similar suit, though is doesn’t look half as good on him. Throughout the next hour our eyes meet at least once more, and I’ve never felt more awkward than I do right now. Not even way back when at Caleb’s friend’s party and I turned my head last second so that boy kissed my cheek instead of my mouth. I’m not used to guys taking any sort of interest in me—they usually can’t see past my baggy clothing and closed off, shy attitude. They’re smart, though, not to become involved with someone like me.

I’m too much trouble.

It takes fifteen minutes after the last customer leaves for Boyd to clear out, and I watch as a few people, including Harry, linger. I try to act casual when he approaches. Alex is nowhere to be seen on the main floor, so I have no other option than to sit there and deal. I busy myself behind the counter with rearranging and organizing the scattered office supplies, and I only look up when Harry clears his throat.

Don’t panic. Don’t panic. I take a deep breath and release it through my nose, but it’s all for nothing when I see him leaned over the counter, amused from having watched me work. My hands shake but I don’t pay any attention to them.

“Can I help you?” I ask, resolve softened by my nerves.

Harry still leans, bent over the counter, way too close. He seems to have a knack for that.
“I think you’re interesting, Miss Townsend.”

Only able to meet his dark, jade eyes for a single fleeting second before I look away like a coward, I staple a bundle of receipts together and pretend to not freak out as much as I am. “I’m really not, Mr. Styles,” I attempt to mock his offhand tone, but my voice is meek and soft in comparison and comes out faint. I don’t sound even half as confident.

Chuckling, he leans forward and levels me with a look that makes me weak in the knees. I’m lucky to have hold of the counter for support. “I want to find out for myself.”

I don’t reply, and Harry laughs again. It’s not a mocking laugh, but a good natured one that for some reason or another does a little good in calming my nerves. “Give me your number.”

Until words leave his mouth.

“What?” I gape.

What on earth does Harry see in me—what could he possibly want with my number? I can’t conceal my shock.

“Your number.” He slides his sleek back phone across the rosewood countertop.

“Why?” I can’t believe him—and his confidence. The question, asked in disbelief, tumbles from my mouth before I can think to stop myself.

He didn’t pose it as a careful, hesitant question like a couple guys had asked me out in the past. No, the way Harry worded this was borderline demand.

“Because I said so.” He’s kidding around because of my weird question, but it doesn’t help his case any better. Or mine, I should say. Staring blankly at the device, I’m afraid to touch it. I square my shoulders and shake my head—if he’s going to be so forward, then I’d have to be too. “No, I’m—I don’t think that would be a good idea.” I trip over my own words.

So much for being forward and confident like Harry.

“You owe me,” he smiles at that, as if he’s figured out something I can’t work my way out of.
“I do?”

“Yes. For the tea. And,” he holds his hand up when I open my mouth to protest, ready to fling a couple dollars in change at him. No way do I owe him. “And for saving your ass at the presentation today. I saw you freeze. Your professor wouldn’t have let up on you.”

I can feel my pulse begin to rise at my wrist as I flush. This is why I hate owing people—people take advantage of your debt when it’s best for them and least convenient for you.

Owe him. Right. But still, he did do both of those things, and it’s obvious even to my clueless, inexperienced mind that Harry won’t quit about this anytime soon. That’s even aside from the fact that I want to go home and exactly how much the man equal parts galvanizes and panics me. I take the phone, which has already been lit up, and pray I’ve made the right decision while I enter my name along with a string of numbers onto his contact list. When I set it back down, I make sure to place it back on the counter instead of into his waiting hand because touching him alone scares me. Especially on my own accord—I don’t trust myself and his warm hands.

“Thank you for the tea,” I say, genuine, because this is the last time I’ll talk to him. As interesting as he is and as interesting as he thinks I am, I can’t become involved in what he wants—whatever it even is. I look for an excuse to get out of dodge, but when I turn to leave, to haul ass back into the office to begin shutting the place down, Harry’s hand captures mine on top of the counter and he holds it there, still smirking.

Granted, I don’t put up much of a fight. Or any. The action alone shocked me into stillness. So I stand there, eyes wide, and watch forlornly as he presses something on the screen and then holds the phone up to his ear.

I realize what he’s doing. Of course. He’s smarter than the few other guys who’ve asked me for my number. I can feel his eyes on me, and I look up to meet them steadily. A dark but bemused look crosses his features while we wait. Stuffed in the front pocket of my jeans, the front face of my phone is clearly visible. Harry’s eyes are trained on it, and when it doesn’t ring or otherwise alert us to his call I want to smack myself.

“Check your phone.” He instructs.

Caught, I pull the useless thing from my pocket and sigh as I unlock it. He presses his finger to the screen of his own phone and when no missed calls or notifications appear, another smirk blossoms on his plump lips, except this time a little darker.

“Your real number, Jules. I don’t bite,” he passes his phone back to me and I feel nauseated from the embarrassment. I used that move a few times in the past, and never had I been caught.

It seemed foolproof—until Harry Styles came around at least.

“No tricks,” he chuckles. I enter my (real) number with unsteady fingers and thank whatever higher powers there may be that he seems to have gotten a kick out of this instead of becoming annoyed.

I stammer to come up with some kind of excuse. Anything. His fingers ghost over the screen of his phone again and my own, still sat on the countertop, dings with a received text. There’s no going back now—he has my number. Good lord. “I must have given you the wrong number.”
“It’s fine,” he grins skeptically, unbelieving as my crappy excuse sounded.

People share numbers all the time. I know this. I’m just not one of them—the only people who really have my number any more are a few classmates, Vivian, and Alexander. My mom, too, but we usually only ever have time to talk over e-mail.

After depositing his phone back into his pea coat, Harry hooks me with a soft smile and a knowing look in his eyes.

“I’ll talk to you soon, Julia.”

Notes

Here's a long chapter for you. :) Tell me what you think!