.Perfect Fantasy. |H.S.|

Chapter 37. Pressures.

.Natalia.

"Coffee is good here," Harry reminded us in a cool tone as he smoothly aligned on the lonely street by the tiniest touristy shops, his hand shoving the shift into park. "Really good." His mood was lifted considerably, shoving his sunglasses on top of his wild hair creating some sort of a careless street-look that matched his grey hoodie and regular black jeans. I smiled as he reached with his left arm across my passenger seat headrest to talk to Sean, who'd been steadily texting on his phone since we left Harry's home.

"Americano, right sugar buns?" Harry confirmed, more than ask, and Sean stifled a smile, accepting the offer, "We'll be fifteen minutes tops, so you can keep texting your girlfriend." I gave him a look, and they stared at each other across the seats, some silent conversation that only they understood before Harry made an exaggerated wink and exit.

We crossed the sidewalk together; stepping into the currently deserted sidewalk café, where we welcomed the familiar aroma of beans and brews, the warm roast-scented air hitting me as I opened my scarf for a heavy indulging breath of sweets and the repetitive steady noises of the espresso machine behind the counter, where a woman was already smiling widely at him, obviously well beyond caring about acting appropriately, as she was easily twice his age. My lips parted in surprise, as I watched like a silent spectator how he grinned back and his brows rose in that charming way of his.

Harry was a cheeky little shit.
I noticed how hard people worked to please him, it never mattered whether they knew who he was or not, he was so complex with some of the things he liked and so very simple with others, the unexpected imbalance of both creating his perfect persona, his aura shining with the most sophisticated power.

So he asked and people pleased, even with the modest shit, like an Americano to-go.
I felt that deep down, already a mess because of him and his frequently frustrating highlights as a person.

"So did you tell your mom where we're going and all?" I asked him while we waited, my hand playing with the small display of sugar packets and napkins. I'd been meaning to ask him but the whole getting ready on time kept me from the how-and-what-to-tell-Anne subject.

"No, but I did send her with my aunt for a couple of days."

My brows furrowed and I narrowed my eyes at him. "And you think that's okay?"

"I don't want to alarm her."

"But you could've mentioned something—"

"I did say where we are going."

That was not enough, something about the way he said to keep her safe and oblivious to our plans scared me.

"What if something bad happens, Harry?" My eyes shifted from the coffee machine to him, wavering as I felt my heart catch in my throat from fear at the thought, that I didn't know what I'd do if anything happened to him.

"Why don't you just say what you wish to say," He stated as though he had rehearsed his answer, both his index and middle finger tapping the wood side of the coffee service section. His expression was blank, though his lips twitch and he did not dare to look back at me.

"I hate it when you're this... this secretive!" I verbally puked what I wanted to say ever since his nightmare and bedroom lockdown, my hand gesturing wildly at the air around me, trying to make my point which was clearly not going to happen. After the initial surprise of his eyes, he smirked back at me and my casual outburst in the middle of the almost empty coffee shop seemed like a stupid reaction more than a valid one. "You and your hidden plans and your mysteries with Sean, your private calls to Tate, your not-telling-your-mother-that-you're-meeting-the-psychopath... ugh, why are you like this?!"