The cold drink explodes against my skin, soaking my jumpsuit in sticky, lemony alcohol.

I already know who did it.

I slowly turn around, and there she is—grinning like she just won the lottery. All sparkling white teeth (courtesy of an expensive dentist, no doubt), watching me like she's expecting me to break down.

Oh, honey.

Not gonna happen.

"Stay away."

She says it slowly, relishing the moment.

I let out a light laugh, shaking my head. "Ohhh, now I get it!"

She frowns, smug confidence wobbling just slightly. "What?"

I tilt my head, plastering on the fakest smile I can muster.

"Harry's not into girls."

Confusion flickers in her eyes before victory sweeps back in. "That's right," she smirks.

I lean in.

"Oh, no, I mean—Harry's into older skanks like yourself."

Her smirk vanishes.

"So don't worry," I continue, my voice sickly sweet. "I could never meet his standards. I mean, if he's into married, desperate, vain women, then I clearly don't qualify."

And then, just to twist the knife, I gesture to her huge wedding ring.

"Speaking of desperate—nice rock," I say. "Reminds me of my mom's ring. Maybe it was fashionable... back in the day."

Her mouth falls open.

Game, set, match.

I squeeze the excess liquid from my jumpsuit, kick off my sticky shoes, and walk away with the biggest smile on my face.

But deep down, I am picturing myself ripping her extensions out one by one.

Show class, Ella. Show class.

I glance back just once—to wave goodbye.

She's still standing there, mouth open.

Take that, you stupid, stupid woman.

As soon as I step outside, my bravery vanishes.

I'm freezing.

Where the hell is Ed? I am so giving him a piece of my mind tomorrow.

At least, I hope he scored with Blondie—because otherwise, I just got drink-assaulted for nothing.

Thankfully, there are taxis lined up outside. I shove my shoes back on, signal one over, and hop in.

Once inside, I text Ed:

Me: Thanks for leaving me to die. Hope it was worth it.

Ed: Sorry, El. I'm at a friend's. Call tomorrow.

Way to go, Gingerhead.

Then, another text pops up.

Harry: Are you up? I'm so sorry about before. Please call me.

Call him? For what?

It's not his fault. Well... partially his fault for sleeping with married psychos, but whatever.

I'm exhausted.

Let him sweat a little. I'll deal with it tomorrow.

"Hello?"

My voice is scratchy, sleep still heavy in my bones.

"Ella?"

Who the hell—

"Who is this?" I rub my eyes, barely awake.

"It's Harry. Did I wake you?"

I groan. "No. No. Yes."

He chuckles. "I did, didn't I?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

He isn't sorry. He's amused.

"It's fine," I yawn. "What time is it?"

"Ten."

"Ten?"

"Yes, Ella. Ten."

I groan louder. "Isn't there a rule that bartenders don't wake up before noon?"

Harry laughs. "Good looking and has a sense of humour."

I smirk. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Styles."

"I told you—bartending requires stamina."

"Oh, I thought you got your stamina in... other ways," I tease.

He laughs. "What are you doing?"

"For a second, I thought you said, 'what are you wearing?' and I almost fell out of bed."

He wheezes.

"Oh my God, you're hilarious. Noo, I said—what are you doing? Want to grab coffee?"

I sigh, finally cracking my eyes open.

"I don't want to seem like I'm avoiding you..."

"Well, too late for that. You pretty much confirmed it when you ignored my text last night."

"Shut up."

He snickers.

"I was saying that I need to finish my article and study."

"Then bring your laptop. Meet me at Corner Café. Free Wi-Fi. Breakfast. You do your work, I get to apologize properly."

"...So that's what this is. You want to bribe me."

"Absolutely."

I smirk. "Fine. Bribe me with a cinnamon bun and a cappuccino."

Harry laughs. "Done. See you in forty."

I walk in, and there he is.

Sitting in a corner (how appropriate), wearing sweats and trainers, long hair tied back, sunglasses on, reading a newspaper like he's some kind of mystery man.

In front of him—a tray. Cappuccino. Tea. Two cinnamon buns.

"Well, well, well... he knows how to read."

Harry looks up, smirking. "Haha. Very funny."

I sit across from him, taking my coffee. "Peace offering, I see."

"Forgiven?"

I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of caffeine. "Damn, they should give the guy who invented coffee a Nobel Prize."

Harry grins.

"I mean, he wouldn't know what it was," I continue, rambling. "He was just this shepherd from Ethiopia—his goats—"

Harry's just staring at me, utterly entertained.

"If you think I'm weird," I sigh, "I'm usually worse."

He chuckles. "You're something else, Ella."

"I told you—I don't take shit."

He smirks. "That, you don't."

Just then—

"Good morning to two of my favourite people!"

Jimmy arrives.

And within ten seconds, he's stolen Harry's cinnamon bun.

Life is good.