Ghost Writer [Harry Styles][H.S. Fanfic]

22 - WALK ON THE WATER

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Just as Harry's lips are a breath's width away from connecting with mine, a raspy chuckle sounds from behind me. When John's hand lands on my shoulder with an elated thump, the little shake he gives jolts me out of my hypnotic state.

Releasing a resigned exhale from my nose, I pull away begrudgingly. Harry huffs from the interruption, a hint of annoyance flashing in his eyes. Even so, he keeps me wrapped in his clutches as he glances to Jeffrey for approval, ensuring that we didn't fuck up our public image in any way.

I paint a smile on my face and meet the curious stares of the guests swarmed around us. They're all applauding, sucked in, and thoroughly convinced on the narrative we've spoon-fed and shoved down their throats regarding Harry's and my engagement.

Then, looking towards Pat, John, and Jared, their questioning expressions on the authenticity of my relationship are replaced quickly with faux smiles to hide their doubt. It wasn't hard to guess that they'd seen the undercurrent of a false plotline brewing. I've never been one to hide my discomfort in situations where deception is involved. It's as though my whole essence rejects being outright deceitful.

Hiding is one thing.

Lying is an entirely different beast in itself.

As the crowd disperses, I exchange contact information with John and agree to arrange a meeting that works with their tour schedule, as well as Harry's and mine.

With the party drawing to a close, the guests specifically invited to stay in one of the Soho House suits gradually begin trickling out, making their way to their designated rooms. The others have left for the night. Our friends have all retired for the evening, while Harry and I venture down the long hallway towards our rooms in comfortable silence. With my arm looped through his, I admire all the artwork displayed throughout our disappointingly brief journey.

Approaching our doors, I can't say I'm surprised that Harry booked us suits right next to each other. Despite our "engagement," he's never tried to pressure me into doing anything that I'd deem "pushing the limits" on our relationship. Not since our talk in the bathroom a couple of weeks ago. That doesn't mean his kindness and the way he treats me doesn't make the idea tempting. I love being around him. He never fails to make me genuinely happy.

But now that we've arrived at our official parting for the night, I don't want the day to end quite yet. So, when he presses his lips to the side of my head to say goodnight, I pull away, peering up at him to assess his mood. Exhaustion is dense in his eyes, but there's also the slightest impression of gloom in his acceptance of us having to part ways.

Sprouting a knowing smirk and cocking my head to the side, I ask, "How's a nightcap sound? I think I saw some tequila in the minibar earlier, and we have no one to impress for the rest of the night."

Not sure if this is the smartest decision I've ever made—considering my blood has metamorphosized into 100-proof tequila—but I'm kind of totally excited to take a gamble on it and see where our poor choices take us.

His small frown converts into a smile of reprieve, and he nods his head. "Sounds perfect. I feel like I've barely had any time with you tonight, and that's completely unacceptable."

"Ugh! Hallelujer, praise the lordt!" I think to myself with an uncanny Madea accent.

"Somebody sounds like they weren't very good at sharing their toys when they were younger," I tease, unlocking the handle with a preposterous amount of difficulty. The heady scent of vanilla distorts my thoughts like a mind-altering drug, and my body shuts down every system it deems unnecessary—my brain being one of them, apparently.