Dinner went smoothly, and I sat back mesmerized as Harry and my grandpa did most of the talking. I'd always thought someone like Harry meeting someone like my grandpa would be awkward, but I was surprised to see it wasn't. Two completely different people from opposite ends of the earth almost, and yet they found many things in common to talk about.
They went on for a couple hours at the dinner table, and I'd chime in now and then. But mostly, it was them. They talked about the Eagles, Fleetwood, and everything great about music in the 70s. Then they got on the topic of the 60s and everything great about the cars then. Grandpa talked about old vehicles he had, some of which were still out back. Harry told him about the 60s Mercedes Benz convertible he'd bought recently and showed him pictures, my Grandpa literally salivating over the car. I was, too, honestly. It was a beautiful car.
Harry kept telling me his trainer was going to kill him for the millions of carbs he was eating. That didn't stop him from eating everything he put on his plate, and then seconds... and then thirds.
"Did you make all of this?" He asks me, taking a bite of the apple cake I'd made earlier.
I nod, watching him inhale the cake, trying not to laugh.
"God, I'm not going to be able to move for days." He says, leaning back in the old wooden chair and putting his hands on his stomach.
My grandpa laughs.
"How do you think I feel after all these years? I have to work, work, work just so I don't get fat." He laughs, and I roll my eyes.
"You don't have to eat it..." I smirk to both of them, and they both scoff.
Grandpa starts to pick up the dishes and I dismiss him. I notice his back making him strain to lean across the table.
"I'll get these Grandpa," I say, taking the dishes from him, watching him intently. "Besides... Harry can help. I'll make him work for his dinner."
Harry's seemed to notice my grandpa's ailing back, as well, and he's already helping me before I even notice.
"Now, Annie, you don't need to make him do anything." My grandpa starts, but Harry shakes it off.
"I grew up with my mum and sister," He explains, smiling. "I'm very used to pulling my weight."
So, my grandpa walks up the stairs and once I hear the shower running, I know he's done for the night.
I walk back into the kitchen, where Harry stands against the counter, facing me, leaning on his arms. A literal reimagining of Adonis, posed just perfectly... waiting on me... in my Grandpa's kitchen... and he loves me.
"What?" He asks, noticing me staring.
"It's just weird, still," I explain, watching his scoot over so I can put the dishes in the sink. "Having you here, in my grandpa's kitchen, in Alabama."
He moves behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist while I wash dishes. I'm sure it's an odd sight.
"It is weird," He says, bringing his face down to my shoulder. "I like it here, though."
"I do, too." I agree, rinsing the last dish and putting it in the dish drainer on the counter.
"I've missed you so much," He tells me, placing kisses all up and down my neck. I shiver. "I swear you're like heroin. And I'm an addict."
"I think you've got that backwards," I tell him, shivering again at the feeling of his hands traveling up my sides under my shirt, his fingertips barely brushing my skin. "I can barely think when I'm around you."
I feel his lips smile against my neck. I yawn involuntarily.
"C'mon," he says. "I'll see you off to bed."
We walk up the creaking stairs and I can tell my grandpa's already in bed downstairs since his light is off downstairs.
"You could just sleep in here," I suggest as I lead him in my room.
He raises a single eyebrow at me.
"As much as I love the idea," He says, sitting on the old desk chair in the corner of my room. "I don't want to lie to your grandfather. He's under the impression that I'll be sleeping in the guest room."
I nod, agreeing with him. I excuse myself to the restroom to change into pajamas, brush my teeth, and wash my face. When I walk back in, I climb into my bed, watching Harry still sitting at the desk chair, looking through my old things. He gets up and walks across the room, grabbing a guitar from the corner, handing it to me.
"Play me something," He says. "I've been wanting to hear you play and sing again since LA."
I groan, not really wanting sing in front of him again.
"Please," He begs. "I'll let you go to sleep after."
I roll my eyes and tune the guitar, which is in bad need of new strings.
"Don't mind the guitar," I tell him. "It's a bit old. And it needs new strings."
"Just play me something, babe." He laughs, and I feel my heart flutter again.
I play the first thing that comes to mind.
"Love me tender, love me sweet;
Never let me go.
You have made my life complete,
and I love you so.
Love me tender, love me true;
All my dreams fulfill.
For my darling, I love you,
and I always will."
He just gazes at me, not saying a word as I set the guitar down.
"Harry?" I ask him. "I told you not to mind me. Not all of us can have a voice like you."
I laugh nervously.
"That was perfect," He says simply. "Nothing short of perfect."
I roll my eyes.
"Really," He says. "Your voice is incredible, actually. I loved it. I love you. Thank you."
"Love you," I reply. "But, it's only fair now that you sing me a lullaby."
He sits on the side of the bed as I climb under the covers.
"What would you like to hear?" He asks, and I ponder.
"Whatever you want." I say.
"Wise men say only fools rush in, but I can't help falling in love with you."
_______________________________________________
June 13, 2015
I woke up thinking the previous day had been a dream. But after running across the creaking wood floor to the guest room and seeing a messy mop of hair under the quilt, relief washed over me. So, I hopped in the shower and quickly washed off, putting my hair in a braid so that it would dry by the time we had to leave.
Since I had woke fairly early, I decided to pack in my spare time and let Harry rest. It didn't take me long. Maybe half-an-hour. I peeked back in and he was still asleep. It was about 7:30 now. Grandpa had already been up for at least a couple hours and had his breakfast, so I figured I'd make something for Harry and I.
I figured on a long day of traveling, so I decided to make a not-so-heavy breakfast. I got some fresh eggs, ham, green onion, green pepper, tomato (I had to get the onion and tomato from the garden since we were out) and made omelets.
By the time I had them on the plates, I heard footsteps from the stair case and couldn't help but laugh.
"So that's all it takes? Food?" I laugh, sitting the two plates on the table.
"In my defense," He says, his voice low and groggy. "It smells amazing."
"I made omelets... I hope that's fine with you." I say, watching him sit down at the table. I grab my plate and mason jar of orange juice and sit beside him. I offer him a glass of orange juice and he takes it, smiling at the fact that it's in a mason jar.
"It's perfect, thank you," He says, smiling at me. "You didn't have to cook for me."
"Actually, I did," I say, watching him eat. "The closest place to get food is about 15 minutes away. And my grandpa's not really one for cereal or poptarts, so we never have any of that 'in stock'."
"I noticed that, driving in yesterday," He says. "I like it, though. It's calm. And, it's beautiful out here."
By the time I finish not even a third of my omelet, he's finished his. I look down at my plate and feel terrible that I'm already full.
He looks at me questioningly.
"That's all you're eating?" He asks incredulously. "No wonder you're losing weight!"
I just roll my eyes.
"I'm full." I laugh.
"Well, in that case," He says, grinning, he takes my plate and begins to eat what's left of my omelet. "More for me."
I laugh loudly, almost child-like.
"I swear," He says, shaking his head playfully. "If you keep cooking for me, I'm going to get fat."
After breakfast, Harry showered and then gathered his things and mine and put them in the Range Rover (which looked rather odd in my grandpa's driveway) while I quickly cleaned up from cooking. It felt a bit nostalgic, like it was the last time I'd be doing something so simple for a while. But, I missed my job. Truly, I did. And, I missed Harry.
After saying goodbye to my grandpa and promising to call more often, we were off to the airport. About five minutes into the drive, however, I demanded that Harry pull over and let me drive or we'd never make it in time. After realizing I was quite serious, he obliged.
I climbed in the driver's seat and we sped off.
I periodically looked over at Harry, to see if I was scaring him any. To be completely honest, I was showing off. I knew exactly where the cops would and would not be in town, and even if they stopped me, they'd let me go with a warning since they know my grandpa. So, I drove like I normally would. Making an hour-long trip in about 35 minutes.
Both of our windows were down and Harry had maneuvered the sun roof to where it was open. It was late summer-time in Alabama, so it was hot. I had on a pair of fairly short shorts and a tank top. Harry, on the other hand, was in all black. Black skinny jeans and a black tee.
I heard him chuckle under his breath, so I looked over quickly.
"What?" I ask him.
"Are you comfortable?" He asks, laughing.
I was sitting somewhat oddly. I had my left leg propped up on the edge of the seat, my left hand loosely holding the bottom end of the steering wheel, while my right hand alternated between holding my head up while my elbow rested on the divider or sitting on the gear shift.
"Yes," I reply snarkily. "I am, thank you."
"I'm not making fun, I promise," He laughs, placing his hand on my right thigh. I try to keep my poker face on. "It's actually very attractive."
I swallow. "The way I'm sitting?" I ask.
"That," he begins, his hand wrapping around to the inside of my thigh. "What you're wearing, the way you're driving, your hair blowing in the wind, your accent..."
I feel his hand squeeze my thigh gently, moving upward.
"My- my accent?" I choke.
"Yes," He coos, his hand resting at the top of my thigh. "It's much thicker when you're home. I love it."
I try to keep my focus on driving and not killing us, but with his hands on me, I'm not sure if it will be possible.
"Baby," He says, and I look at him quickly. "I need you to pull off here, I'm gonna drive now."
I don't question him. I pull off the first chance I get and we switch sides once more. After he gets out on the road, his hand assumes its previous position on my thigh.
"Prop your leg up like you had it earlier," He commands, his eyes still on the road. I obey. "Good girl. Now, I need you to unbutton your shorts."
My eyes widen and I hesitate.
"Please, baby." He begs, so I do, feeling my cheeks heat up.
"Now," He says, his hand traveling to the waistband of my underwear. "This is going to have to be quick. We're almost to the airport."
"Okay." I stutter quietly, keeping my eyes out the window to make sure no one can see us. He seems to notice.
"Windows are tinted. No one can see in unless they're within three feet of the car." He explains.
He brings his hand away from me for a moment and I watch as he licks his fingers. My mouth pops open and my eyes bulge from their sockets. He takes his hand and snakes it under the waistband of my underwear once more, his wet skin touching my soaked core.
"You're already wet?" He asks, incredulously, a smirk on his lips.
I roll my eyes and look away from him, my face reddening even further. He simply continues his torture, gliding his finger along my most sensitive area, making me jerk my legs together in response. He doesn't get the drift that I want more pressure, so I take my hand and place it on his on the outside of my shorts, pressing his hand harder against me.
"You could've just asked, babe," He smirks, grinding his hand even harder than I was showing him. "Don't quiet yourself, I want to hear you."
I whimper and moan quietly, but apparently it isn't enough to suffice him. He takes a single finger and inserts it inside me, twisting and rotating it while his palm still rubs against me roughly.
"Oh, God! Yes! Harry... more..." I manage to yell, the breath leaving my lungs.
A single minute more of torture passes before I scream his name one final time, trapping his hand between my legs. This is the third time he's made me feel this way, and it keeps getting better and better. He finally removes his hand from between my legs. His glistening hands make me blush once more. I lean toward the back seat and grab the only thing I have close - a bandana. I grab a pair of underwear from my bag to change into whenever I get the chance.
I grab his hand and clean him off, trying to think of how I can mask the smell of... me.
"In my leather bag behind my seat," He reads my mind. "I have a bottle of cologne."
I grab the bag and find a bottle - Tom Ford. I roll my eyes at the expensive designer name. I spray it on his hand and he smirks.
"That may hide it," He smiles, and I laugh. "Was that okay?"
"Okay?" I ask, rhetorically. He seems unfazed.
"It just gets better every time." I admit, cheeks flushing. I look down at my hands.
"Not to change the subject," He says. "But, if you don't change out of those soon, the smell's gonna put me over the edge, and I don't exactly have an extra pair of pants with me."
I look at his eyes and they're dark.
"Oh," I mutter. "Is there a bathroom nearby?"
"Babe, no one can see in here, I promise." He tells me, as he pulls off onto another street and we get closer to the airport.
I shimmy out of my shorts and underwear, feeling a bit embarrassed. I try to clean myself with the dry part of my used underwear, but I know I'll need to clean up more later regardless. I shimmy on the clean underwear, which unfortunately is an ostentatious pair of red lace cheeky underwear. As I button and zip my shorts, I see Harry peeking over at me, his jacket is now off and on his lap. I wondered when it was going to get too hot for him.
"Nice underwear," He breathes, and I look over to see his hands tighten on the steering wheel. "Fuck."
"What's wrong?" I ask, concerned, looking out the vehicle to see paparazzi everywhere.
"They are relentless." He huffs, driving behind some building into some lane that says "Authorized Personnel Only". We stop when a man in a fluorescent vest flags us down, coming to the driver's side window.
"Name?" The man asks, and Harry answers him.
"Your plane is ready when you are. You can follow me up the tarmac and we'll take your car back to the rental service." The man tells Harry, and we follow him in a little golf-car looking vehicle right onto the runway where a small plane sits, two attendants standing by the now opening door.
I open my door when Harry does, and we both stop in our tracks once we hear the distinctive clicking coming from somewhere we can't see. I know the sound because it's my occupation. Harry knows because he's been used to it for five years now.
"Dammit," He curses, opening the back driver's side door harshly, grabbing bags and holding them in front of him. "One day. Just one day without them."
A man in a uniform comes up to me, breaking me out of my concerned staring, taking my bags from me. I watch as Harry denies the man who asks to take his bags in his hands, leaving him just to get the rest of my things. He does it nicely, but I can still tell he's angry. I don't like it. Anger, even in the slightest, doesn't suit him.
Especially when I'm sure he's angry at me.
We finally get on the plane after Harry's shook the pilot's hand, his bag still in his other hand, held out in front of him. Once we're finally alone, I simply put my carry-on on the seat beside me and stare out the window, fighting back tears.
Stop crying. You're 21. Grow up.
I take a deep breath and it seems to help. We finally ascend, and I look over at the clouds.
Harry is sitting down directly in front of me. I peek up at him. His right leg is propped up on his left knee and he's looking directly at me. I decide to grow a pair, figuratively speaking, and ask him what's wrong.
"Harry?" I ask.
"Hmm?" He asks.
"Are you mad at me?" I ask with a small voice. He knits his eyebrows together in confusion.
"Of course not, love," He replies. "Why?"
"Well," I begin, rubbing my forearm nervously. "You seemed mad that the paparazzi were there... And, I don't know... I just thought you maybe didn't want to be seen... you know... with me."
"No, no, no..." He says, taking my hand in both of his hands. "That's not it at all. I'd rather them not be around right at this moment... Not because you're here."
I raise my eyebrows at him questioningly.
He clears his throat and uncrosses his legs.
"Oh," I say, noticing his... not-so-little problem. "So... that... is why you carried the bag."
"Yeah," He says, his face red. "Didn't really want that on the front page."
I look down... there... again, then back up at him.
"Are those doors locked?" I ask and he nods, confused.
"Good," I say simply as I reach over and undo his belt and unbutton his jeans.
"Mile high club... This'll be a first." He breathes.
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