As usual, I get to the café where I’m supposed to meet my client early. If nothing else, I’m punctual. I don’t have any classes after lunch, and it only hits me now that I’m done with school until next fall. I’ve earned my bachelors. It’s feels monumental—not because I can’t wait to embark on a career or for next year to start on my Masters, but just because I’ve made the effort and I’ve gotten this far. Despite the odds which have never been in my favor.

My spare ten minutes are spent in thought over the last few years, and very briefly over how wonderful it would be to have my father at my graduation in June, even though I’m still not sure if I’ll even go.

When it’s two minutes before one, I adjust my shirt to ensure my cleavage isn’t hanging out (my ultimate fear) and drape my jacket over the back of my chair. It’s an action done out of nervousness… this is, after all, the first job I’ve had in over a month.

If I don’t secure it, I have no idea where next month’s funds for Grandma’s care will come from. The state only pays for so much, and my bookstore salary sure as hell won’t cover the rest. It helps, though, that this seems like a good gig. Not too complicated, and it should be fun. How hard could it be to toss a few designs together for an upcoming hair salon?

Not very, I reason.

Still, I can’t help but to pull my cardigan tighter. The V-necked short sleeved shirt I have underneath makes me feel much too exposed, even though to others it’s probably a conservative pick.

I try not to worry over my choice of outfit, if it’s too casual for the appointment, and how I will go about incorporating a set of shears into the salon’s logo. I might enjoy this job—if the client is easy to work with. Most are, but then you get some who just can’t be satisfied even after you go above and beyond for them. Some look at me like a servant there for whatever whim they’re on with their next business venture.

Five minutes after one, a striking blonde approaches the table with a male barista close behind eyeing her. She is all smiles as she waves to me in excitement, and I stand up to greet her. In one hand—the one she waved at me with—she holds a snakeskin printed clutch. Her outfit is as unique as her idea for the salon’s design, from her skinny jeans to her sheer black top. If she weren’t wearing heels, she’d still be a good few inches taller than me. Her edgy clothing and immaculate hair screams salon owner, and I know just from looking at her that she has definitely found her calling.

“Hi, Ms. Teasdale,” I greet cheerfully and offer my hand for her to shake, but she surprises me by pulling me into a light and brief hug.

“Please, Julia, call me Lou. And I want to thank you for meeting me on such short notice—it’s hard for me to find a single moment to spare these days.” Lou speaks gratefully while we situate ourselves at the table and then we take turns ordering a drink each from the barista, who still makes eyes at the beautiful blonde next to me before scurrying off to get our drinks.

I raise my eyebrows. She’s friendly. That’s good; I’m getting a good feeling about this job. Maybe this will act as a release from the last few months of stress school, work, and Grandma’s care have put on me.

If we strike a deal, at least. I don’t want to get ahead of myself.

Since I don’t have any professional experience or education in the field, I’m not the most sought after graphic design artist in Chicago. I don’t expect to be. Usually I get smaller jobs, which I like, that none of the other big name designers in the area have time to do.

“Oh, it’s fine. No trouble. Why don’t we get started?” I ask.

“I’m so excited to finally get this show on the road. We need to start advertising as soon as possible.” Lou says in a rush. The salon is obviously something she’s very passionate about, and I wish that someday I have something I care so much for like Lou does.

“Have you taken a look at my portfolio? You want to be sure I’m the right person for the job.” It’s not as if I want this to fall through. My portfolio speaks for itself, and it’s usually what seals the deal during first meetings with clients.

I lean down to my bag resting by the chair for the manila folder and place it, open, onto the table in the space between us. Glossy sheets of photo paper depict some of my very best designs, only the ones which I am most proud of.

“Yep! I looked at it on your website. Did you design that too? It’s beautiful, and as soon as I saw your portfolio I knew you were the right girl for the job.”

I have to laugh—she’s everywhere all at once yet completely focused. I like Lou. “Thank you. As long as you’ve seen what I do.”

“No problem,” she pulls her glossy lips into a wide grin. “Now all we need is the go ahead from my partner and we’ll be set.”

“Partner?” I sound shocked, and I am. I lean forward on the table slightly; this is news to me. Until now, I was under the impression that Lou was opening the salon by herself. I’m sure she hasn’t mentioned anyone else—oh, lord. Please don’t let them be an uptight ass and ruin what would otherwise be a perfect deal.

“Oh, crap. I forgot to mention that, didn’t I? Well, he’s really the main investor and a close friend. He’s given me full reign on the start-up but I really value his opinion, you see.”

“Lou is always so flattering.”

For a moment I think I’ve finally lost it, that Harry’s voice is in my head and I should check myself into a mental facility. But then I feel a familiar presence behind me, and I refuse to turn around. Of course I recognize his unmistakable bravado—it’s not in my head, my mind could never put together such an attractive voice on its own. Lou laughs happily and stands to greet him while I remain seated, frozen, still in shock. I want to prolong the inevitable.

He sits across from me. It’s him—even though he looks a little different, it’s Harry Styles. The guy who I’ve been ignoring for the past two days. Brought with him is the familiar aroma of his woodsy cologne and under it, the scent of his dark brown leather jacket. As he braces his elbows on the table the leather creaks at his biceps, and the look he sends me is of pure accomplishment.

In shocking me, in fooling me into thinking I’d never see him again. While I think of this nightmare as a coincidence, I’m transported back to the presentation in school on Wednesday when Harry talked about how he plans to open a salon next autumn.

Lou’s salon. Lou is his partner. My stomach drops in disappointment. I can’t take this job.
I sneak a heated glance toward Lou even while I know it’s not her fault, and she’s still smiling and oblivious. I can’t even look at Harry.

He looks different—he axed the suit for the leather jacket (which looks undeniably good on him) and what I’m sure is a pair of fitted jeans. His dark curls, which had been reasonably tamed into a quiff yesterday, are much wilder.

“Julia, this is Harry Styles, my partner slash investor.” Lou laughs cheekily, oblivious still to the tension between me and the cheeky bastard sitting next to her at the table.

“Nice to see you again, Miss Townsend.”

While I want to glare, I’m too flustered to put forth the effort. Harry knows. He’s probably known since the presentation, and from the mischievous glint in his eye to the amused smirk, he enjoys my shock. I really, really, wish Lou would have enlightened me to the identity of her partner before now. Subconsciously, I reach for my bag.

“You two know each other?” Lou unfortunately only looks a little surprised.

When I remain speechless, Harry releases a deep chuckle that jolts my nerve endings into a frenzy. He’s too much—I have to get out of here. Since I’m sure he’s aware that he’s rendered me speechless, Harry speaks up. “Yes, we met yesterday at the book signing.”

Screw the good feeling. I can’t work for Harry Styles—not when he asked me for my number, I rejected him and he took it anyway. Oh, and then I ignored him for two days. What a great start to our business relationship.

To the two partners across from me I’m sure I look at least semi-collected, but in reality one of my hands is still reaching underneath the table clenched around the strap of my bag, ready to bolt. When I’m very close to actually doing so, a pair of long, nimble fingers come into my line of sight and slide my portfolio across the table. He looks at it and I watch, anticipating his reaction, while he analyzes it. My heart begins to hammer and I swear, in that moment, it’s bent on breaking free from my ribcage altogether.

“Yes, but I didn’t know we’d be working together,” I manage and look to Lou. She has the decency to look at least a little bashful.

Harry smirks, and the sight of his lips tipped into that knowing smile should annoy me and boil my blood—and it does—but another larger part of me finds it endearing. “Yeah, well I figured I’d surprise you.”

Of course he knew. He knew all along, and I bet he only went through all this trouble to gain a reaction from me. Is that what he did back at the presentation on Wednesday—is that his game? To try and pick up the weird quiet bookstore girl and then fluster the hell out of her when she says no?

As soon as I figure it out, I feel a rush of determination while I set my jaw. No, I’m going to do this job for Lou, and I won’t let Harry Styles get in my way while I do it.

His intentions must be less than savoury, anyhow. I’m not stupid. There’s no other reason for him to take an interest in me.

“These are impressive,” he comments as he thumbs through the sheets, spreading them across the cover of the folder. Lou’s grin widens, and she begins to look even more excited.
“See. I told you so.”

Underneath the table I shift my legs—out of panic, I ended up twisting them together almost painfully. But when one of my flats brush against what I’m sure is Harry’s own booted foot, I pull back as if the slight contact alone has stung me. Harry pretends not to take notice. He flits his eyes up to look at me, and I freeze under his attention. “In your bio, you haven’t listed any formal education in graphic design.”

“Yes,” I begin in a defensive rush, although I can’t help but notice how Lou nudges his arm with her elbow, as if in warning. “While I have lots of qualified experience I do this in my spare time. My rates are conscious of that, and I guarantee work to be done within a specified timeframe.”
Usually I remain cool when the inevitable question is posed, but there’s just something about Harry that sends me into a bluster.

“I wasn’t being judgemental. Your work speaks for itself.” He speaks quietly and in that gravelly tone I’d only heard from him a couple of times, and he looks at me in a new, different way. I swear I see interest spark in his jaded eyes, but I tell myself it’s only because this is the most he’s heard me speak since we met. And without a single embarrassing stammer.

Deep breaths, Jules, Caleb always used to tell me whenever I got myself worked up. When we were younger, he’d always been so conscious of my disorder. Not that he treated me as if I were some fragile doll, but in such a way that comforted me to know he was there for me when I need to calm my leaping heart, and that I could depend on his support.

Recalling easier, happier times with Caleb before his addiction always manages to do some good in calming myself down. I inhale a steadying deep breath before turning to Lou. “Alright, then. Would you like to discuss what you’re interested in having designed? You mentioned in your last email that you wanted a custom website.”

Harry leans back and waits for Lou to decide. A website is a job in itself. I’ll have to get Alex on board to help me with some of the more complicated coding—while he’ll have a small cut in the earnings, it will be worth it. Lou shrugs and exhales through her mouth, blowing her bangs out of her eyes. “I definitely want that. But I don’t even know where to start with everything else.”

“It can be a little overwhelming,” I manage a strained smile, ever aware of Harry’s presence across from me. Talking to Lou, however, almost allows me to forget he’s here. Almost. “But that’s what I’m here for. My past clients with similar businesses have chosen packages of flyers, business cards, a few brochures. Aside from a website and logo of course.”

After looking to Harry for guidance, who only shrugs, Lou nods giddily. “Sure. Sounds like a plan.”

“I could have the flyers finished within the next couple of weeks so you can start advertising soon. With my schedule, the website can be done within a month.”

And that’s giving myself some time to spare and really put any effort into this for Lou. I want the website to not just be pretty and aesthetically pleasing, but for Lou to love it too. If things go well and my hours remain the same at the bookstore, hopefully I’ll have it done sooner than my offered timeline.

Harry readjusts his posture and once again his foot brushes against mine, probably thanks to his legs being too long to fit comfortably underneath the small table, but I don’t jump away from the gentle contact this time. To my dismay, Harry keeps his foot there, snug against mine, his knee in close contact with my calf. Judging from his knowing smirk, he knows exactly what he’s doing. Again.

“We have six months until opening, anyway. Lou tends to rush these things.”

A hint of color tinges Lou’s cheeks while she laughs. “You’re right, you’re right. There’s no huge rush. I’m just so excited since we started remodeling the space.”

“Oh, before I forget—do you have a final name in mind for the salon?” If I want to start on the logo tonight like I hoped, I’ll need at least that piece of information.

“The Orange Room,” Lou says the name in complete confidence and shoots a daring look to Harry, as if asking him to challenge her on this. In this moment, the two look like close friends—not business partners. Or proprietor and investor. Whichever.

“I still think you should have named it Lou Teasedhair’s,” Harry cracks the stupid joke with a cheeky laugh, and Lou giggles along with him after she smacks his arm. I smile at the two.

From there on we discuss further what Lou wants done for her Orange Room—I decide not to question the somewhat odd name, since I’ve heard much worse. It’s her business, after all, and it’s not too outrageous. In that time the barista finally arrives with our teas and Harry orders his own coffee. He opts for watching us, observing conversation between myself and Lou. Under his examination I feel so uncomfortable, I can’t even release the hold I have on my purse. Even so, I try to smile as best I can and speak animatedly with Lou. Lou I like. Harry? Harry scares me in the weirdest of ways.

When Harry’s drink arrives and Lou excuses herself to the bathroom, leaving me alone with Harry, I think now is a good time to run. It takes every ounce of my willpower not to do so. He leans forward toward me on his elbows and I focus on my tea, my hands on either side of the cup in an effort to warm them up. Since he’s holding his own coffee between his large hands, nearly making the mug disappear, the bitter smell of the strong brew comes with it.

He tilts his head down and looks at me through his thick eyelashes with that same smirk, speaking in a rumble. “Hello again.”

I shake my head and lean back against the chair away from him. My heart is really starting to annoy me with its constant hiccups and jolts whenever Harry looks my way, though mostly because I can’t even blame them on my disorder.

This has to stop.

“You’re something else, you know,” I reply, keeping my tone light and free of my annoyance.
Ignoring my comment, he teasingly brushes his foot up against mine again. I jump and lose my nerve, pulling my foot to the side and as far away from his as I can get.

His smirk is only doused when he takes a sip of his coffee, and then he looks back to me, still acting innocent. “So I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other over the next month.”

“For business,” I say firmly. “And not that much. I thought I was only working with Lou.”

“You are. But I am paying for it, and I want to be sure my money isn’t going to waste. Expect me to check in.”

Don’t take the deal, I beg myself. Then I remember my grandma, the rest of the bills piling up near forgotten and unpaid on my kitchen counter, and daily expenses on top of that. I know my part time job at the bookstore won’t begin to cover it, and this is the first job offering I’ve received in weeks. My shoulders slump in defeat. “Fine. That’s fine.”

What did I just agree to—really? I feel as if I agreed to see Harry, when just today I was caught up in ignoring his text messages and entire existence. One thing is certain, however. I can’t allow this relationship to be for anything but business. If not’s not about the job, I’ll refuse to interact with him. It’s as simple as that.

Right.

“One more thing,” I look at him only out of curiosity. “Will you go out with me on Saturday night?”
No! What did I just tell myself? I have to end this now, before it drags out and either one of us actually becomes hurt by our weird exchanges.

“Are you asking me or telling me this time?” I ask, and it comes out harsher than I had intended it to. Sighing, I don’t look at him because I know I’ve made a mess of things, and I ask myself why I can’t be normal and just go out on a date for once. With this attractive guy, who actually seems to be interested in me. “Look, I’m sorry, Harry. I just, I’m not dating right now.”

Or ever.

Fortunately or unfortunately—I haven’t come to decide yet—my rude response seems to do the trick. His jaw jumps as he realizes I rejected him, and all he spares me is a single nod.

Another awkward minute passes with me trying to avoid looking in Harry’s direction, pretending to be caught up in my tea, and I begin to wonder what’s taking Lou so long. Out of the corner of my eye I watch Harry check the time on his phone before he stands from the table. I try not to look up or wonder why he’s leaving, and if it’s because of me. Perhaps he’s given up on the weird little conquest of his with me—I try not to feel disappointed. It’s my fault.

“Work out the payment details with Lou,” all of the sudden he sounds stiff. He tosses a couple of bills down onto the table, and then he leaves. There’s no ‘I’ll talk to you soon’ like yesterday, no reminders of how shitty it was of me to ignore him. I watch as he strides out of the small café and his long legs carry him to a sleek black motorcycle parked by the front of the café, right at the curb.

In his quietest departure yet, which says something about him because it’s on a roaring motorcycle, Harry leaves.

Notes

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