It just feels like it’s the only thing holding me together.

“I know,” he says.

Oh God. I said it out loud.

“Shh, shh, come here.” He unwraps me like a gift, running a gentle fingertip along every groove the bungee cord left in my skin, and then he picks me up like I weigh nothing—I have no bones, no muscles, only skin and lust and blood—and carries me to my bedroom.

“This one?” he asks at the end of the hall.

I nod and he ducks in, pulling back the covers with one hand and sliding me under. I’m terrified he’s going to leave, but he doesn’t. He climbs in behind me, spooning me, running a reassuring hand down my side, over my hip, up my stomach, until he’s soothing the cord lines around my breasts with his tender, rough hands and kissing my neck.

“I need to hear you’re okay,” he rasps. “Tell me you don’t hurt.”

“I’m okay.” I take a deep breath but it chokes halfway through. “But don’t leave.”

“I don’t think I could. I’m . . . it’s intense for me, too. I . . . forgot.”

I’M A LIGHT sleeper, but I don’t wake once in the middle of the night. Not for water, not to go to the bathroom, not even to roll over and find a cool section of the sheets. When my eyes do open, the sun is high in the sky, and Finn and I are in exactly the same position we were in when we fell asleep.

He’s not awake yet, but his body is. It takes about a hundred promises to myself—new shoes, ice cream for breakfast, lunch and dinner, an afternoon swim—to get out of bed and not roll him onto his back and take him inside my body just to see if he’ll look at me again the way he did last night.

I do get out of bed, though, because it terrifies me that the first thought I have isn’t about my mother, or whether she still needs me to drive her to her appointment later today, or how she slept last night. But it should be. Not forever, but God, for at least the first few weeks when my family—my center, my universe—needs me.

I have coffee brewing and am pacing the kitchen when Finn pads in, wearing the boxers he must have retrieved from the living room floor. I haven’t even peeked around that corner, not sure I can handle seeing the loop of bungee cord discarded so casually on the carpet.

He rubs his eyes, walks over to me, and kisses my neck. Because I’m trying not to melt, I stiffen instead and I can feel his little laugh against my skin.

“I’m freaking out a little, too,” he admits.

“It’s just that I have . . .” I start explaining. He pulls back and looks at me, those complicated eyes growing unreadable as he listens. “It’s one thing to want distraction, but I don’t need another obsession.”

Way too honest, Harlow.

But he’s already nodding. He even looks a little relieved. “I can respect that,” he says, pulling his hands from my hips and stepping away. This is exactly how I needed this conversation to go, and yet . . . it stings a little. Finn softens it by adding, “I’m in the same boat, so to speak. And last night, you stopped being an easy fuck.”

I pour us both a cup of coffee and smile over the rim as I take a sip. Lying to us both, I say, “We’ll have no problem falling back into our antagonistic ex-spouse routine.”

His eyebrow twitches. “Right.”

Chapter SIX

Finn

ANY DOUBTS I had whether Oliver’s shop would be a success—that maybe the constant stream of people on opening day was a fluke—are put to rest as soon as I walk in Friday afternoon.

Apparently there are a lot of nerds in San Diego.

The little bell over the door jingles as I step inside, and I’m stopped in my tracks, eyes wide at the crowd filling the small store. And not just kids, or hipster geeks like Oliver, but suits and soccer moms, people spanning pretty much every age bracket there is.

“Wow.”

“Right?” I turn to the voice on my right to see Not-Joe standing at the register. He flicks his blond hair out of his face before he reaches for a box cutter¸ using it to open one of the many cardboard boxes behind him. “Work at a comic book store. Thought I’d get to hang out all day, read a little. Maybe sneak out back for a blunt.” He shakes his head as I eye him and continues carefully pulling the contents out of one open box before breaking it down and moving onto another. “But dude, this place? Doesn’t slow down.”

“I can see that,” I say, impressed. “Doesn’t leave much time to browse the merchandise, does it?”

“Me?” he says, then shakes his head again. “I don’t read comic books. This might sound weird, but they kind of confuse me.”

I take in his blond dreadlocked mohawk, the constant, half-stoned glazed look, the white T-shirt he clearly washed with something red at one point. I mean, this is the guy that pierced his own cock. Not sure I’m surprised the comic books overwhelm him. “Not much of a reader?”

“Fiction, mostly,” he admits. “Some biographies. Philosophy, if I have the time. Travel books. A little romance here and there,” he adds.

I spy a worn paperback tucked just below the counter and feel my eyebrows disappear into my hair. I’m pretty sure it isn’t Oliver’s. “Wally Lamb?” I ask. “That’s yours?”

Not-Joe laughs. “Yeah, best book I’ve ever read about overcoming self-loathing and forgiveness. Finding yourself.”

Okay. “I’m . . . wow.”

Not-Joe shrugs before reaching for another pile of comics. “Plus, it was an Oprah Book Club pick, so you know. What Oprah says . . .”

“Right,” I say. “So where’s Oliver?”

“Last I saw him, he was in the back. Want me to go grab him for you?”

“No, no. I’m good.” I look around for a moment, debating whether I should let Oliver know I’m here, or just head out and try to catch up with him later. What I should do is go back to the house and get my head straight; at the very least I should call my brothers. Most of the wiring should be replaced by now, but there’s a sinking feeling in my stomach that that will be the least of our problems once they start taking panels off and looking deeper into the boat.

My meeting with the L.A. guys is in just a few days, and I’ve barely thought about what questions I need to ask, or even whether we have another choice but to say yes. This inability to focus on the entire purpose of this trip is exactly why Harlow was right and why we need to take a step back and cool . . . whatever it is we’re doing.