Short in the wheelhouse, none of the controls are working.

Fuck.

Although there are about a hundred curse words I want to type right now, I don’t answer right away. Instead, I slip my phone back into my pocket, pour myself a shot, and throw it back. It helps.

“You okay there?” Harlow asks, watching me.

I clench my jaw against the burn, feeling it warm my body as it settles in my stomach. “Just a little distracted myself.”

“Well then—let’s have another!” She pours two more shots and hands me one. I know this isn’t really going to help. I’m going to sober up in the morning—or maybe a bit later in the day than that—and the controls in the boat will still be down, and our whole fucking livelihood will still be just as in jeopardy as it is now. But, damn, I’d really like to forget all that for a while.

I pick it up, look at the clear liquid before I lean into her, my lips almost brushing the shell of her ear. “I think you and I both know the last time we drank tequila together it didn’t end so well.”

“True,” she says, pulling back just far enough to meet my eyes. “But there’s no twenty-four-hour chapel nearby manned by some reckless idiot willing to marry us, so I think we’re safe.”

Point made.

Harlow knocks back her shot and winces. “Ooooh . . . I don’t think I can do any more.” She holds up her hands, pretends to count out about thirty shots, and then smiles up at me. “One more and I’d face-plant into the bowl of these Fritos London is so excited about.”

She may have lost count, but I haven’t. Four shots into my time in the kitchen with Harlow and—besides Vegas—I’m drunk for the first time in years.

It feels like he’s been gone for an hour, but Not-Joe finally returns in a cloud of weed-smell. As he approaches, he extends his hand to me, saying very slowly, “I’m Not-Joe . . . it’s nice to meet you.”

Laughing, I remind him, “We met earlier at the store, when Oliver was doing the final walk-through?”

Not-Joe makes a little clucking sound, saying, “That’s why you looked familiar.”

It was three hours ago. This guy must not breathe unless it’s through a joint.

“You’re the lumberjack from Nova Scotia?” he asks.

“Fisherman from Vancouver Island.”

Harlow bursts out laughing. “Poor Finn.”

He looks back and forth between me and Harlow. “So do you guys know each other through Oliver, too?” he asks.

“Not exactly,” she says, and then looks at me with a silly grin. “Finn is my ex-husband.”

Not-Joe’s eyes go as wide as saucers. “Ex-husband?”

Nodding, I confirm, “That’s right.”

The kid looks at Harlow, and then really looks at her. Like eyes moving up and down her body in a way that makes me want to slap him into awareness and so he’ll stop fucking leering at her like that.

“You don’t look old enough to be divorced,” he finally concludes.

I lean forward to break his attention away from her chest. “But I do?”

Now he looks at me, but with far less interest. “Yeah, actually. You’re older than her, right?”

“Right,” I say, laughing as Harlow giggles delightedly next to me. “Thanks.”

Not-Joe digs his hand into a bag of corn chips on the counter, asking, “It must be weird hanging out at a party with your ex.”

She waves him off, saying, “Nah. Finn is an easygoing guy.”

“Am I now?” I ask her, and this makes me laugh because if there has ever been a phrase to describe me, it’s not easygoing. Easygoing is Ansel. I often get “contained.” I am, admittedly, sometimes a little closed off. I am not easygoing.

Nodding, she studies me for a breath and then says, “Yeah. You like long walks on the dock, making little dream catchers out of your extra fishing line, and evenings spent yukking it up with some Mountie MILFs at the local Mooseknuckle Bar.”

I burst out laughing. “I do, huh?”

Her lips come together in a sweet, thoughtful pout. “Mm-hmm.”

“Well,” I reply, “you’re pretty easy to be around yourself. It helps that you’re a fun-loving gal who likes shopping, nail polish, and . . .” I pretend to think some more before finally repeating, “Shopping.”

She puts her hand on my cheek, wearing a playfully adoring expression. “I love how well we know each other.”

“Same.”

In unison, we lift our empty shot glasses and clink them.

“Why did you guys get divorced?” Not-Joe asks. “You seem to really like each other.”

“Do we?” I ask, not taking my eyes off Harlow. I didn’t actually think I liked her all that much until tonight.

She finally breaks our shared look to tell Not-Joe, “The truth is, we were only married for a night and, like, half a day in Vegas. We’ve probably only spent a combined twenty-four hours together, most of it drunk or naked.”

“Or both,” I add.

“Seriously?”

We both nod.

“That is wicked.”

“It was, trust me,” she agrees, and then pretends to glare at me. “Very wicked.”

I look at her lips just as she licks them and it sends a shock of electricity down across my skin and straight to my cock. In fact, I’m nearly drunk enough to suggest she reintroduce that tongue to that cock.

“It’s something I think everyone should do once in their life,” Not-Joe muses, pulling my attention away from Harlow’s now-smiling mouth. “Everyone should: run a marathon, read Candide, and get married in Vegas.”

Harlow laughs and begins to explain to him that it was fucking expensive and actually not all that convenient. We could have banged and parted ways for free. As she tells Not-Joe about the misadventures in Vegas, I excuse myself to go hit the head.

Outside the kitchen area, the party is loud and drunk. London is belting out a song at the poker table; Mia is playing cards and wearing the sombrero while sitting on Ansel’s lap. Lola and Oliver are the only ones who seem sober, and I laugh watching them for a few seconds. Oliver is notoriously competitive about cards, and here I can see the same determination on Lola’s face. The rest of the table has dissolved into drunken debauchery, but the two of them seem to be trying their hardest to keep the game organized. It’s like trying to tie a string around raindrops.

When I come out of the bathroom, Harlow is there waiting for a turn. She slips past me with a cheeky little smile and when I turn to do something—fuck, I don’t even know, crack a joke, stare at her, kiss her—she closes the door in my face.