Brandon
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“SLOW HANDS” — NIALL HORAN
Six Years Ago
I’m absolutely reveling in the idea that the untouchable, independent Johanna Harris actually needs my help with something. Whatever this opportunity is, it must be huge—because Johanna would sooner walk across a river of broken glass than admit she needs anyone, especially me.
I’d gone to bed after our little talk the night before knowing the universe had just handed me another perfect chance to show Johanna something she’s never really believed:
Someone gives a fuck about her.
Someone will show up without making her feel like a burden.
Someone can care without conditions or a hidden agenda.
If Grayson had been here and she’d asked him, the eye-rolling would’ve been Olympic-level.
The dramatic huffing and sighing? Legendary.
He would’ve driven her, sure—but he’d make sure she knew what a huge inconvenience she was the entire time.
I plan on making this experience the exact opposite—making her feel like driving her to this shoot is the easiest thing in the world for me to do.
By the time the sun starts to creep in through the blinds in my bedroom, I’m already up.
Even more so than usual, I didn’t sleep for shit. I want to make sure today goes perfectly for Johanna, and I spent most of the night tossing and turning thinking about how to make that possible.
It’s not surprising, but the whole house is still quiet when I make my way to the kitchen to brew the coffee. Eric and Tony had loudly stumbled in at about two this morning—the stink of cheap tequila and victory wafted through the house, even through my closed bedroom door.
When we’d gone to Target yesterday, I’d snuck some of that vanilla sweet cream stuff into the basket so I could make Johanna’s coffee exactly how she’d ordered it at Starbucks while she’s here.
As the clock ticks closer to seven, I put the finishing touches on her coffee before heading down the hallway.
I knock softly at her door.
“Johanna?” I call when there’s no response to the knock.
Still nothing, at first. Then, a slow, sleepy groan followed by the ruffling of sheets and something thudding on the floor.
“What?” she whines with sleep still covering her voice.
If she sounded any more annoyed with the existence of the outside world, I’d laugh.
“It’s seven,” I tell her. “Time to get up.”
Even through the door, I hear her mumble, “I hate you.”
She can’t see me, but I still smirk. Zero surprise that she’s not a morning person.
“I have coffee.”
There’s immediate movement—as if I’d just said the three magic words to resurrect her from the dead.
“You can come in, then,” she orders.
I push the door open and step inside. It feels a little like I’m crossing a forbidden threshold into somewhere I shouldn’t be.
She’s sitting upright in the bed, pulling her silky black hair into a knot on the top of her head.
Besides the little bit of mascara smudged underneath her eyes, her face is bare and beautiful.
She’s soft and unguarded in a way that only comes from catching her first thing in the morning before she’s had time to paint her armor on.
Fuck. Me.
I’ve got to focus on something else so the blood doesn’t rush straight to my dick. She’d rip me to shreds over getting hard at just the sight of her, and truthfully? I’d almost let her.
“Here,” I say, passing her the coffee.
I swear she intentionally brushes her fingers against mine as she grabs the mug. It’s just barely a touch, but it’s enough to send a bolt of heat rocketing down my spine.
She takes a long sip, and her eyes widen a little.
“Is this… vanilla sweet cream?” she asks, flicking her eyes up to meet my gaze.
“Maybe,” I shrug.
Her lips curve up as she takes another sip.
Success.
I lean against the wall, watching her wake up. I hope she doesn’t notice how entranced I am by the process.
“We need to leave in about twenty minutes,” I tell her. “I’ll wait in the kitchen for you.”
She nods in understanding and I push off to leave the room, closing the door softly behind me. I release a breath I didn’t realize I’ve been holding and close my eyes.
It’s ridiculous how keyed up I am, and I know I’ve got to get a handle on it before we get to this shoot. The last thing I want is to embarrass her—or myself.
As promised, I wait in the kitchen sipping my own coffee. When she emerges, she’s wearing simple black leggings and Adidas slides with a cropped dark gray hoodie. Her hair is still up, her face still fresh and makeup free, but her blue eyes are sharp and awake.
I feel my heart skip a beat and hope she doesn’t notice my breathing becoming uneven, because she looks… angelic.
“You ready?” I ask, hoping I sound as collected and cool as I’m trying to be.
She nods as she slings her backpack over her shoulders and gathers her purse from the counter. As we walk to the Bronco, I can tell—she’s nervous. She thinks she’s hiding it well, but I see right through it.
The way her fingers fidget with the strap of her bag.
Her teeth grazing her bottom lip.
The slight tremor when she lets out an exhale.
Johanna Harris isn’t scared of much—not confrontation, not fighting, not even men twice her size. To most, she’s invincible. That’s how I know this shoot means something to her. Something more than what she’s letting on.
The fact that she trusts me to get her somewhere so important?
Yeah, it hits me harder than I’m ready to admit.
She climbs into the passenger seat and pulls the door shut carefully behind her. I circle around to the front and slide into the driver’s side, turning the engine over.
As the low rumble of the engine fills the silence between us, I rest one hand casually on the wheel and the other on my thigh. I’m giving her a beat to breathe, but I can’t stop thinking about how much I want to put my hand on her thigh instead.
“You doing okay?” I ask—gently, because I need her to know she can tell me if she’s not.
She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. “Yeah. Just… It's a big day.”
I still don’t know exactly what I’m taking her to, but she doesn’t have to say anything for me to know the big day comment is true.
“You’ll crush it, Johanna,” I tell her with no hesitation. “I don’t think it’s possible for you not to.”
She shoots me a sideways glance like she’s trying to figure out whether or not I actually believe what I’m saying.
I do.
I really fucking do.
More than she even knows.
She shifts slightly in her seat, but another tiny smile tugs at her lips.
“Ready?” I ask.
She gives a single nod. “Ready.”
As I back out of the driveway and exit the neighborhood to pull out onto the Pacific Coast Highway, I realize something dangerous:
I don’t want this to be the last time I help her.
I want to be the one that she runs to… again, and again, and again.
Even if it fucking ruins me.