I drove to Oliver’s in a fog, on autopilot, trying not to second-guess what I was going to do. My father was basically telling me to enjoy Finn—though not in those exact words—and why not? It isn’t like Finn and I have misaligned expectations. We’ve spent a combined total of maybe one full day together, and have been naked for most of that. Before this weekend, our most meaningful conversation occurred when I showed up at his house and he told me to help myself to anything in the fridge while he ran out to get condoms.

I smile at the R2-D2 knocker and rap twice at the door with it.

The house inside is silent, and all around me the ocean wind whips past the tall, willowy palms. Finally, I hear footsteps just in front of the door and it swings open.

Finn pulls a dish towel off his shoulder, using it to dry his hands. He’s shirtless, and his jeans hang low on his hips, revealing the black waistband of his boxers.

“Hey, Ginger Barbie.”

In one heartbeat I’ve gone from relieved anticipation, to hating this moment. I feel vulnerable and on the verge of tears, but there’s nothing particularly sympathetic about Finn. Drunk Finn was an anomaly, all soft expressions and playful. Daylight Finn is efficient and brusque, good for fishing, fucking, and—apparently—washing dishes.

“You know what?” I say, looking at my car parked at the curb. “This was a stupid idea.”

“Wait. You came here to see me, not Oliver?” He takes one step closer.

“Yeah . . .”

“Did you come here to finish what we started last night?”

I turn to leave, having no idea what to say to such a blunt question. I mean, yes, I did come for that. But it’s bigger than just wanting to fool around: What I want with Finn is the sex that absorbs me and shuts off my brain. I don’t want to play cat-and-mouse, I don’t want to discuss it. I just want to do it.

I can hear the playful mocking in his voice when he calls, “If that’s what you want, you just need to say it, Harlow.”

I stand, facing the street for several deep breaths. A car drifts by, its frame lowered so it almost touches the asphalt, stereo bass blaring, vibrating up through my feet. The car slows, and the man in the passenger seat lifts his chin to me.

“The next young freak I met was Red,” Too $hort raps from the car, his voice distorted through the crappy speakers.

I square my shoulders, staring down the guys as their attention moves past my face to my chest.

“I took her to the house and she gave me head.”

At the lyric, the man in the passenger seat smiles lewdly, raising his eyebrows at the next line as if to ask me whether it’s true, whether I like to freak, and the car stops, idling in the middle of the street as if the driver expects me to jump in and party with them. I want to walk to my car but feel trapped between these guys and the cocky asshole behind me.

Finn steps out of the house, pulling the dishrag off his shoulder as he comes to stand with one shoulder in front of me, and stares down the men in the car.

“The fuck are they looking at?” he growls under his breath.

I no longer care about the guys in the car. I’ve never had a man other than my father take a protective stance around me. The boys I’m used to would just pretend they didn’t see the car at all, or anxiously whisper-hiss that we should get back inside. Beside me, Finn is huge. I’ve never seen his skin in the sun, but the sun has seen him a thousand times. I’m tall, but he’s inches taller, and nearly twice as wide. His chest is tanned and bulky, clear of a single tattoo, but marked with the occasional tiny scar. A snag here, a cut there. He seems larger than life on this street full of salty surfer boys and skinny thugs.

The car accelerates with a rumble, driving off down the street.

“Those assholes wouldn’t know the first thing to do with you,” he says quietly, looking me over as if I’d been handled. And with that look, I see the same expression he gave me last night—possessiveness, interest, hunger—as if I’m not quite what he’d assumed . . . and that, maybe, he liked it.

My heart is hammering wildly and—with the pulse of adrenaline in my blood—even more than before I want to go inside with him and let him take over every single thought.

“Okay yes. I’m here to finish what we started.”

He waits, thinking. For the first time, I realize he’s not wearing a hat. I can see his eyes in the sun—really see them, without shadow or the diffused light filtered through the heavy marine layer. I find that I like the way he studies things, especially me.

His eyes seem so much smarter than his mouth.

Case in point: “A girl like you is way more trouble than she’s worth,” he says with a little smile.

God, he’s such a dick. But the twinkle in his eyes tells me he’s pretty fucking happy I’m here, and the truth is, he can think I’m a high-maintenance diva as long as he’s able to make me forget for a little while. “I see.”

“We can have sex, that’s fine. But just so we’re clear, that’s all it is.”

I laugh. “I’m here for sex, not some deep bonding ritual.”

He makes a gentlemanly sweep of his arm, indicating I lead us both inside.

It takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust once I’m out of the bright sun. Finn closes the door behind him, leaning against it with his arms crossed over his chest. I turn away, pulse tripping in wild throbs in my neck, trying to calm my thoughts as I pretend to survey the room. The sheer unexpectedness of it all catches me off guard, and for a beat I forget to be nervous.

Light shoots in through the oceanside windows, causing slanted shadows to be cast across the acacia wood flooring throughout the living room and small dining room. The furniture looks vintage, but refurbished, and surprisingly well coordinated. The couch and chairs are various shades of blue. A large Aztec woven ottoman serves as a coffee table. A few framed photographs stand on a side table adjacent to the sofa, and there is a small urn with twisting bamboo growing in intricate curls on a stunning multi-tone wooden dining room table. The table’s made from random cuts of wood, light and dark wood intermingling, and although the long side is smooth and polished, the jagged edges of the short sides give the table a striking, artistic feel.

“Oliver surprises me,” I say. “This place doesn’t look like a bachelor pad.”

Finn laughs. “He’s tidy.”

I glance at the dish towel draped over his shoulder. “You’re doing dishes.”