Delicate

Chapter 36

HAVEN MCQUEEN

It's awfully strange to be back in Rome on a business trip with Harry, because the last time we were here, the thought of us being anything but associates and maybe friends was preposterous. Now we're waking up in the same bed in our beautiful hotel, brushing our teeth side by side and getting ready for his early photoshoot call time.

"It doesn't feel like we were in London yesterday," he yawns heavily, waiting by my side for me to finish rinsing my mouth.

"Tell me about it," I have to yawn now that he did. "I feel delusional."

"Well, you look stunning," he stares me down in my cut-off denim shorts, appropriately chosen Gucci sneakers that I've had for a couple of years now, and a plain white linen T-shirt to keep cool in the late August Italian warmth. It's such an average look, but he's eyeing me as if I'm wearing a ball gown.

"Thank you," I rise on my toes to kiss him. "We gotta go before we're late, and you know Jeff."

Speaking of which, he knocks on our door just as I tuck my phone in my back pocket and grab my tote in preparation to leave. Harry makes sure he has his own phone before we leave the room and ride the elevator fifteen floors down to the lobby.

The paparazzi are waiting for us outside, but it's a quick interaction from the hotel doors to the SUV. I've learned to mostly just tune out what they're saying when it doesn't usually pertain to me anyway. Sometimes they'll ask me to smile for them or they'll say hi, but I don't think I've ever opened my mouth for them and I can't imagine I ever will.

It's a strange thing, not to return a simple hello when someone says it to you, but I don't want them to think I'm happy to interact with them when I just wish they weren't around. I also don't want Harry's fans to think that I'm enjoying the attention of having my photo taken. I haven't said it to Harry in so many words, but I fucking hate it.

Luckily, his photoshoot location today is on private property, unlike the first part of the shoot at a fish and chips shop in London yesterday morning. He had quite the audience for both the photographs and videos that were taken, but it was harmless and mostly people who were just curious as to what was going on. It didn't seem like too many people even knew who he was, but instead just thought he was a model.

What I'm really excited about, however, is to plan his Met Gala look tomorrow. Gucci's creative director was elated when Harry told him he wanted to go in a fully custom Gucci look, and I've already been roughly sketching ideas based on what Harry told me he wants to wear. It's somewhat similar to the outfits he's worn before in terms of silhouette, but I think it'll also have something of a shock factor to it. It's a great marriage of masculine and feminine, which was important to him when we were discussing the design, and I have no doubts Alessandro Michele will be able to deliver.

On the hour-and-a-half drive from Rome to Villa Lante, he laid down with his head on my lap and slept the best he could after having so much trouble doing that last night. I had offered him melatonin to help him sleep after taking it myself, but the little pill didn't do much to help him. He was tossing and turning all night until he eventually just got on his phone to try and distract his thoughts. On the upside, he said he wrote another song, so maybe it wasn't all bad.

"We're here, H," I gently scratch my fingers through his hair and feel so guilty as he strains to open his eyes and keep them that way. Still, he closes them again for just a second before he sits up and tries to rub the sleep out of his eyelids.

The crazy thing is that, apart from his undeniably tired eyes and slightly scratchy voice, none of these people on the set would be able to guess that he's as exhausted as he is. While he shakes every single person's hand, from the art director and photographer to the assistant stylists, he smiles and thanks them for having him. I know I joke about it sometimes, but he's the furthest thing there is from being a diva.