It sucks because I know that what would make us both feel better right now is some naked wrestling in my bed. But the more I realize I have genuine feelings for him, the more I know I couldn’t just take him home tonight. Finn would be the first person I would have sex with who I might also love. Ugh.

He shrugs, sliding his hands into his pockets. “And that’s pretty much it.”

I’m feeling a little light-headed and have to force myself to breathe, to focus on the conversation at hand. I can lose my shit later. “When are you heading home?” I ask, going for casual, yet concerned.

He shrugs. “Couple of days.”

A sharp spike drives into my chest. “Boo.”

He smiles down at me, gaze hovering on my mouth. “Are you admitting that you’re going to miss me, Ginger Snap?”

I give him the finger and don’t answer.

Chapter TEN

Finn

HARLOW SHOWS UP bright and early the next morning, balancing a tray with three Styrofoam cups on one flattened palm, a white paper bag clutched in her other fist.

“Good morning, Sunshine!” she chirps, pushing past me into the living room. “I brought breakfast.”

“It’s seven in the morning, Snap,” I mumble after her, reaching up to scratch my jaw. I haven’t shaved in two days, I’m not wearing a shirt . . . she’s lucky I’m even wearing pants. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re going to brainstorm.” She walks into the kitchen and turns to whisper-hiss, “Is Oliver still home?”

The old house is still chilly. The floorboards are cold beneath my bare feet as I lag behind her.

“He’s in the shower.”

At least, I think he is. At home I’m up before sunrise, down at the docks. But this beach life has spoiled me and indulges my natural night owl tendencies. I don’t think I’ve slept until seven in nearly twenty years. But I’m waiting until Oliver leaves to call my brothers and fill them in on my meeting with the producers.

Any thought of my brothers at all is wiped from my head when I turn the corner and get an eyeful of Harlow bent over the dishwasher, her perfect ass wrapped in a pair of skintight yoga pants.

Oblivious to my ogling, she straightens, and begins opening cupboard doors. “Plates?”

I cross the room and stop just behind her, reaching over her head to retrieve a stack of yellow plates from the shelf. Harlow freezes, fingers gripping the edge of the countertop before she seems to relax, and leans back against my chest.

“Here you go,” I tell her, bending to say the words against her hair.

She smells so good and her ass is pressed against my dick, I have to step away before she can feel that I’m already half hard, worked up like a seventeen-year-old boy. Pushing back, I take a seat at the small island and weave my bare feet around the legs of the bar stool.

It takes a moment for her to collect herself, too, and I grin as she clumsily sets down the plates and opens the paper sack.

“You look a little breathless there, Snap.”

She looks up, shoots daggers.

“So what is it we’re brainstorming?” I ask, rolling an orange along the counter. My stomach growls on instinct when I see her reach inside the bag and pull out some of the biggest, gooiest, most frosting-coated cinnamon rolls I’ve ever seen.

“Your situation,” she stage-whispers, and slaps my hand away when I try to sneak a fingertip of icing.

“My situation . . . ?”

“Dreamboats on the Pacific? Try to keep up, Finneus.”

I roll my eyes. “You know that’s not what it’s called.”

“Only because they never asked me for ideas.”

“As much I love that you brought me food, couldn’t we have talked later? You know, after the sun was up?”

“The sun is up.”

“Barely.”

Ignoring me, Harlow pulls one of the coffees from the tray and sets it and a cinnamon roll down in front of me. “I do my best thinking when I run,” she says, and dishes up one for herself. “I have a million ideas for you.”

I lean forward and take a bite of the warm, gooey pastry, and swear to God my eyes roll back in my head. “Jesus fuck, this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.” Without thinking, I stand and round the corner, placing a hand on either side of her face, before kissing her full on the mouth.

It’s meant to be quick. It’s meant to be a funny, dramatic little thank-you between friends. But Harlow’s surprised gasp is quickly cut off by a soft moan, her palms moving up to rest on my bare stomach. Heat surges through my veins and I feel every point of contact between us: where her breasts press against my chest, her hands on my skin, her lips moving against mine.

I pull away with a shaky breath and Harlow clears her throat. “You taste like cinnamon,” she murmurs, licking her lips.

“Well, g’day you, too.”

Our heads snap to where Oliver leans against the doorway, arms folded across his chest. He scratches his cheek, giving me the smuggest fucking look I’ve ever seen.

I drop my hands to my sides and take a step back. “Just thanking Miss Harlow for breakfast.”

“I’m offended, Finn. I made you dinner the other day and would’ve appreciated at the very least a sharp pat on the ass. I see how you are.”

“Ha, yeah,” I say, returning to my seat.

Oliver beelines toward the food and Harlow hands him his coffee, along with the now-closed white sack.

“I have to apologize up front, because no way could a man hope to follow up that,” he says, nodding to me. “But thank you, pet.” He bends and kisses Harlow’s cheek.

“There’s one in there for Not-Joe,” she says, and I don’t know what it is about watching the two of them like this, but it makes me feel like I’m being slowly, carefully uncoiled, like this is how my morning should be every damn day. “Tell him I expect a lap dance at Fred’s later.”

I groan, but Oliver only laughs. “Will do. Be good, kids.”

We both watch Oliver disappear from the kitchen and sit in silence, listening as the front door closes, followed moments later by the sound of his Nissan roaring to life and heading down the street.

Harlow carries her own plate and coffee to the counter, sitting on the stool next to me, her foot tangling with mine. “You look like crap,” she says, looking at my mouth like she wants to lick it.

“So do you.” I look at her perfect tits, all perky and fuckable in her little running tank. “I’m almost embarrassed for you.”