"Hello... is this Harry?"

I immediately regretted how awkward I sounded.

"Speaking."

"Uh, hi. This is Ella—Jimmy gave me your number? About the interview for the uni newspaper?"

"Oh, right." His voice had that effortless warmth, a deep, smooth timbre laced with amusement.

"So, when can you meet?" I asked, already running through my schedule.

"How about this afternoon?"

I blinked. Wow. Someone's eager to get this over with. Fine by me—one less thing on my to-do list.

"Great! Where should we meet?"

"Come to my place. Six o'clock."

He texted me the address, and when I hung up, I was left oddly stunned. That voice. Jesus. It was like melted chocolate—slow, deep, and dangerously smooth.

I shook it off. Focus, Ella. It's an interview, not a date.

***

"You are not meeting Harry fucking Styles in that."

I rolled my eyes at Chrys's horrified expression. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

She pointed dramatically. "Everything."

I looked down at my fitted jeans, boots, and a perfectly fine low-cut shirt.

"This is casual. Comfortable."

"This is boring." She gave me a once-over, completely unimpressed.

"I'm interviewing him, not asking him to marry me."

She folded her arms. "I'm just saying... a little effort wouldn't kill you."

I sighed, knowing she wouldn't win this argument. Chrys understood that I wasn't interested in Harry—or anyone, really. My last relationship had been enough drama for a lifetime. And even if I were looking for something new, it wouldn't be with a flirty bartender-model who probably had women falling at his feet.

I grabbed my messenger bag, scarf, and keys. "I feel perfectly fine, thank you very much."

The building was easy to find—right in the heart of town, a block away from the best cafés, shopping centres, and trendy bars. It was prime real estate, and from the look of it, very expensive.

Parking cost me five freaking euros, which hurt my soul, but I didn't have much choice.

I pressed the intercom, and seconds later, the door buzzed open. The elevator ride up was quick, and when I stepped into the hallway, the door to his flat was already open.

And there he was.

Barefoot, standing on soft beige carpet. Loose dark jeans hanging just right. A plain white t-shirt that did nothing to hide his broad shoulders. His long brown hair was effortlessly messy, framing his annoyingly handsome face.

Then he smiled. Dimples. Of course he had dimples.

"Hi," he greeted, his voice just as smooth in person.

"Hi. I'm Ella."

I held out my hand, but instead of shaking it, he lightly pulled me inside before closing the door behind me. Not letting go, he briefly hugged me—casual, friendly, but blatantly observant.

"I'm Harry," he said, finally releasing me.

The flat was small but impeccable. A tiny white kitchen with a breakfast nook. A living room with warm, oriental-inspired décor, filled with cushions and deep colours. The TV was sleek, the coffee table clean, and the walls displayed photos from his modelling gigs.

It was cosy. And spotless.

"Have a seat." He gestured to a burgundy armchair while he took the dark brown sofa.

I settled in comfortably. Despite his reputation, he was surprisingly easy to be around.

"So, Ella, what would you like to drink?"

I smirked. "Always the bartender."

His grin widened. "I was referring to tea or coffee, but if you want something stronger, I'd be happy to accommodate."

His gaze flickered down to my cleavage.

Oh, Harry. You are so wasting your time.

"Tea would be great, if you're having one too."

"What kind?"

"Black?"

His brow lifted. "My favourite."

Of course it is.

I busied myself pulling out my notebook and setting my phone to record, doing my best not to watch how effortlessly he moved around his kitchen.

"Here you go," he said, setting my tea down.

"Thanks, Harry."

"You're welcome. So... you're a student at the university?"

"Yep. And I work at Shadows with Jimmy, as you probably already know."

"How come I've never seen you there?"

I shrugged. "You must be blind. I've been there since Jimmy. We were hired the same day."

He blinked, stunned. "Oh..."

"Anyway, may we start?" I asked, pointing at my phone.

"Shoot, sugar."

I hit record.

"This is an interview with Harry Styles—bartender at Alibi and model."

He grinned, watching me intently.

"How long have you been bartending?"

"Five years, give or take."

"What makes a good bartender, in your opinion?"

His gaze shifted, his mind momentarily elsewhere.

"Well, most people don't realize how physically exhausting it is. A good bartender needs stamina. You have to be fit."

He licked his lips, pausing briefly.

"Obviously, you need to know your drinks, but you also have to be creative."

I frowned. "Creative how?"

"A great bartender experiments. Creates their own signature drinks. But more than that, you need to read people. If a customer likes you, they'll trust your recommendations."

"So, basically... you're selling both the drink and yourself?"

His lips curved. "Exactly."

I took the mug in my hands and let him speak, watching as he got lost in his own world. He spoke about how customers could be amazing but also a nightmare. Some people were generous, some were outright obnoxious, and some just wanted someone to listen.

He laughed, recalling funny incidents—people trying to bribe him for free drinks, others getting too drunk to even order properly.

And I laughed too.

It was easy to see why he and Jimmy were so close. They were both flirty bastards—probably sleeping with anything that walked—but at the same time, they were performers. Fun. Charismatic. The kind of people who owned a room.

By the time we wrapped up the interview, I had everything I needed. I reached for my bag, preparing to leave.

"So, Ella, any last questions?" he asked, rubbing his palms together like he thrived on the attention.

"Yeah... just one."

His brows lifted. "What?"

I smiled sweetly.

"When are you going to stop staring at my boobs?"

He froze.

Busted.