“Pull yourself together, man,” she mumbles, and I nod, reaching for a napkin to wipe off the front of my shirt. “He’s fine,” she tells the rest of the table, “just went down the wrong pipe.”

When I finally get myself together, I sit back, carefully sipping my beer and trying not to make eye contact with anyone. Like a psychopath.

I focus on the feel of Harlow pressed to the side of my body, and how natural it seems. I keep waiting for her to give me shit, or make some joke at my expense, but she’s completely poker-faced—cool and steady—barely sparing a glance in my direction. I’m trying to decide if it’s intentional or not; is she really not looking at me, or is she just not looking at me as much as she normally does?

I manage to “accidentally” bump her arm once or twice, tap my knee against hers. I even manage to sneak over and fork a piece of her steak. Nothing.

And the more I watch her, the more I want her to look at me, talk to me, pick me out of all these other assholes. I like how she talks to everyone, always focused on that one person without overdoing it or having it ever come across as flirting. And why would she? She’s easily the most beautiful person in this place. She doesn’t need to chase anything.

But . . . she did chase me, I remind myself. In Vegas, all the way to British Columbia and here, too. Fuck, I want to brag about that to someone.

And I want her to flirt with me, maybe just a little.

Not-Joe’s phone vibrates across the table, and he climbs out of the booth, insisting he needs to go. Everyone else follows soon after. I note that Harlow hasn’t checked her phone for close to an hour, but when she does, there’s a visible change in her posture. Her shoulders stiffen and I’m pretty sure I watch the color slip from her cheeks.

Harlow has barely had anything to drink, but as the others head for their cars or start making the walk home, she hangs back.

“Want a ride?” I say.

She lifts a brow and I laugh. “That’s not what I mean,” I say. “Olls and I came together; would you like a lift back to your apartment?”

“Actually, yeah. That’d be great.”

Her entire demeanor has changed, but I don’t ask any questions. She hitches her bag over her shoulder and follows us out to the truck, insisting on climbing into the backseat and letting Oliver have the front.

The drive is quiet, and my eyes instinctively flicker to her reflection in the rearview mirror. I can’t see much of her, only the briefest flash of light and shadow as we pass beneath the city streetlights, or she looks at her phone, but she’s just so fucking beautiful. I blink up once to find her watching me and it’s all I can do to look away, focus on the traffic, and not kill us all.

I have no idea how it happened, but I like Harlow Vega. A lot. I respect her. I want to get to know her. I want to fuck her for reasons that have nothing to do with distraction or my instinctive need to release semen.

I am so royally fucked.

We pull up to her building too soon and I jump out, opening her door and helping her climb down.

“Thanks,” she says.

I nod. “And thank you,” I tell her. “For listening and . . . for keeping it between the two of us.”

“No problem. I’ll catch you around, okay?” she says, before adding, “Bye, Oliver!” over her shoulder.

He peeks his head out the window and says his own goodbye, and then she’s gone, making her way up the winding path and to the glowing building.

Harlow Vega walking away, still one of my favorite views. And definitely the image I’m going to use when I get home.

OLIVER AND I get back to the house and after a quick good night we each head in the direction of our rooms. I don’t waste any time, clearing the hall in just a few long strides and closing the door behind me. I don’t even think, can’t manage to walk to the bed, or even do the respectable thing and make it to the shower, before I straighten against the wood and reach for my belt. My brain is fuzzy, my muscles tense as I fumble with my fly and push my jeans down just enough to get to my cock.

The relief is so instantaneous that I hiss through my teeth and have to still my hand, remind myself that Oliver is at the other end of the house and the walls here are paper-thin.

If I close my eyes I can still feel the press of Harlow’s thigh against mine, the heat that radiated through the denim, the brush of her hair when she reached across me. I fill my lungs and huff out a breath, letting my mind go and conjuring up every dirty, lewd thought I’ve been trying to tamp down since we decided to just be friends.

I imagine things having gone a little differently tonight. That I went to the bar to get a drink and she followed, telling me to meet her in the bathroom. Maybe I fucked her in the stall, from behind with her legs spread wide, both her hands trapped in one of mine. I could spank her like that, just enough to see my handprint bloom across her skin and make her so wet it gets all over her, all over me.

Sweat pricks at my forehead and down my back. My shirt clings to my skin and so I pull it off, dropping it at my feet. The sound of my hand on my cock is obscene, the frantic clink of my belt in the otherwise still house. Somehow, it makes me harder, pre-come dribbling from the tip to help with the drag, leaving my hand slick.

I think of the last time we fucked and how amazing she looked all tied up, how much she wanted it. Did the cords leave a mark, a gentle abrasion on her skin that was there even after I was gone? I wonder if she’d press on them, make it hurt just enough to remind her of what we did, how it felt to be bound and just knowing that I would take care of her.

I’m almost blindsided when it happens, and I come with a choked-off sound, biting my lip to stay quiet as a Novocain numbness spreads heavy over my body. I work through the last of my orgasm, skin slippery as I slide over it in slow, lazy strokes. I manage to reach for my shirt and wipe off my hand before I cross the last three steps and fall, face-first, onto the bed.

I don’t open my eyes again until morning.

Chapter NINE

Harlow

I’M IN A bad way, hard up, losing my mind—and I’m not even bothering with denial. Being near Finn—even when he’s being a complete jackass like he was at dinner tonight—obliterates any other worry, and being trapped with him in that truck made me nearly lose my mind. I could smell his soap, the clean smell of his sweat. I could feel his eyes on me the entire drive, flickering up again and again in the rearview mirror.

After he drops me off, I get myself off on my couch, thinking about our night together in this very spot, before falling asleep half dressed. After all, there is no Finn here to carry me in a boneless heap to my bed and spoon me all night like a champ.