ONLY ONE HOUR into my five hour shift at NBC and I get a call from Salvatore, telling me he’s agreed to my proposal. He loved my idea, and also? He is going to find a place for me on the staff of his new production company.
“No way in hell you should still be shuffling papers at that place,” he’d said. “You’ve got places to be, kiddo.” And for the first time, I agreed.
I’m ready.
I can barely concentrate on the giant stacks of folders I need to file, what copies I’m making or whose coffee I’m pouring. Finally, I think we might have a solution that works for everyone: It could save Finn’s family business . . . and it could allow me to be closer to him far more often.
The first thing I do Monday afternoon when I get out of work is text Finn: You at Oliver’s?
I see him begin to type, and then stop. And then I’m in the elevator, and leaving the building, and walking to my car, staring at my phone and nearly walking into a telephone pole and getting hit by a bicycle because I’m not watching where I’m going.
I’m already almost home by the time his text appears: Yep.
OK, headed there, I reply, laughing over how long it took him to write one word.
It also takes him forever to answer the door, even though his truck is parked out front. And when he does, he looks . . . bad.
Sour, even.
“Hey,” I say, stepping close and stretching to kiss him. I can tell he’s just showered, but he didn’t shave. He’s scratchy and smells like soap and coffee. But he doesn’t bend to me, and instead offers the stubbly angle of his jaw.
“Hey.” He steps back, avoiding eye contact, and letting me walk past him into the house.
“You’re awfully . . . surly,” I mumble, sitting down on Oliver’s couch. Unease bubbles in my belly, and I study his expression, mentally rifling through everything I’ve said or done in the past twenty-four hours that might make him act this way. “Did I do something?”
He hums, shrugging, and then asks, “So what’s up?”
I pause for a beat; he didn’t answer my question at all. But the good news I have pushes forward in my thoughts. Whatever his foul mood may be, I have the power to cheer him up. “I came over because I wanted to tell you something. Something really good, actually.”
“Something good?” he says, looking at my face. His expression turns from dark into hopeful. “Is it good news about your mom?”
I freeze, not sure I heard him right. “What did you just say?”
“Your mom,” he repeats. “Is it good news about her?”
“How . . . ?” I pause, closing my eyes as my heart drops in my chest. I haven’t told Finn yet, which means he heard it from someone else. “No. I . . . how did . . . ?” I trip around, trying to find my footing. Who told him and what does he know? My stomach sinks. Now I understand his mood. “Finn, I was going to tell you about that, but that isn’t what—”
His face is tight again, jaw clenched. “You realize your mother has the same thing that killed my mom? I thought maybe you would want to confide in me since, of anyone in your life right now, I understand what you’re probably feeling. Also, you know, because you love me.”
I pull back, anger rising like steam in my chest. “You’re giving me shit for not sharing this immediately?”
He closes his eyes, pressing his fingers to his forehead. “I’ve been all over the map about this today, Snap. I get why you wouldn’t want to talk to me about that at first, I do. But then later . . .” He shakes his head. “I felt like my shit was falling apart and it really helped me to have you there. You, specifically. It’s part of what helped me let myself see this thing between us as more than just physical. But apparently you didn’t need the same thing from me.”
I start to interrupt, but he holds up his hand to stop me. “And even after it was clear it was more—even before we said it concretely that it was more between us, we knew it was—you didn’t tell me about all of this. I know what your family is to you, Harlow. I know how close you are. I get why you were such a desperate mess early on and probably didn’t want to think about it when we were together. I get that. What I don’t get is why last night, or all of the other times it was just you and me understanding each other perfectly, you couldn’t just . . .” He trails off, running his hand down his face and lowering himself into a chair across from me.
“I just haven’t really been talking—”
“Don’t say that,” he interrupts, angry now. “Everyone else knew. Ansel, Oliver, Lola, Mia. They all fucking knew. I’m the one in your bed, I’m the one you’re looking at like I’m someone, and I’m the only person who doesn’t know what’s eating you up inside so bad that you came looking for me in the first place.”
I want to get up and go over to him, but his body language is so unfamiliar: shoulders hunched, elbows on his knees, cap pulled so low over his brow I can’t even see his eyes. It’s like seeing the Finn from weeks ago. When he was just some stranger I’d married. “Finn, I’m sorry. I didn’t keep it from you because of you. I just . . .”
He shakes his head, sighing. Finally, after what feels like forever he says, “I . . . understand what you’re feeling—how hard it is to go through this. How protective you feel of your family. And . . . I don’t know, thinking it over, I realize I might have done the same thing if this was all happening to me now. All this, it just surprised me, that’s all.”
“I’m sure.”
“I mean,” he starts, looking up at me, his expression anxious. “Are you okay?”
“Yes and no.”
Silence fills the room for a long, painful minute. I don’t know what else to say. It seems like it would be a good time to finally talk about what is going on with my mom, to update him on everything, but the mood is all wrong. I don’t want to force him to be tender with me right now, and I certainly don’t feel like talking about it if he’s going to continue to be distant and silent.
I slip from the couch and crawl across the floor, letting an unsure smile appear on my lips.
“Hey,” I say, putting my hands on his knees.
He watches me for a moment, swallowing thickly.
“Hey, baby,” he whispers finally, spreading his legs to make room for me. I slide my hands up his thighs, his stomach, his chest, pulling myself up his body until I can press a little kiss to his frowning mouth.
“I don’t like that this is a thing between us,” I tell him and follow it with another kiss. “I was planning on talking to you about it soon, probably even today, but last night I just wanted it to be us.”
He nods. “I know.”
Slowly, under my tiny, sucking kisses he starts to unwind, and I feel his hands move up my sides and down my back.
“It’s just a thing for me, okay? What you’re going through with your mom was a big thing in my life. Easily the biggest. If we’re doing this . . .”
After I realize he’s just going to leave the sentence like that, I say, “I promise I’ll talk to you. I need someone to talk to.”
“Okay.”
Our kisses are short and soft; Finn gives me only the tiniest tip of his tongue to wet my lips against his. His hand slides back around to my front and down between my legs, cupping me over my denim cutoffs.
I wince a little, shying away from his firm grip.
“You hurt?” he asks, pulling back to look at me.
“Just a little sore. You rode me like a rodeo horse.”
Laughing into another series of soft, brief kisses he whispers, “Want me to kiss it and make it better?”
The vision of Finn’s head between my legs and memories of his warm suction and growling vibrations, of the things he did to me last night, make me hungry for different kisses, deeper ones that give me his tongue and his sounds.
His other hand comes up to grip the back of my head and he gives me exactly what I want: the deep, demanding kisses of a man about to throw me down and satisfy me.
His cock presses into my stomach and it’s a presence I can’t ignore. Kissing down his neck I push his shirt up with my hands, nibbling and sucking on his warm chest, stomach, hip bones. He lifts up once I have his fly unbuttoned, helping me pull his jeans down his thighs.
I love the honesty between us, how he watches, eyes steady and lids growing heavy when I draw my tongue up his length from base to tip, sucking away the sweetness.
“Fuck that’s good,” he whispers.
Playing, I lick around the base and up his entire length, making him wet all over so I can take him in my mouth as deep as I can, sucking up and down as he stares, eyes dark and lips parted.
Sliding back up, I release him with a smile. “I like how serious you look when I’m giving you head.”
“It’s something I take pretty fucking seriously.” His thumb comes up to rub across my lips.
I lick his thumb, lick the head of his cock, taking both between my lips, playing with them with my tongue. Beneath my flattened palm, his stomach muscles spasm and tense.
“Let’s go to the bed,” he says, voice tight. “I wanna lick you while you do this.”
I pull back and stand, and when he gets up, he pulls his jeans back up over his hips and bends to me. “Come here.”
His kiss is so sweet, so searching it literally makes my legs wobbly. The band of his arms around my waist and back, the curl of his huge body over mine . . . I feel like I’m climbing him, clawing my way up so I can wrap all around him.
“Was that our first fight?” he asks against my lips, smiling.
“I guess,” I say. “Not too bad.”
“Hey,” he says, pulling back to look at me. “Tell me your good news before we get naked and forget the world.”
Oh, right.
I swallow, taking a deep breath. I don’t know why I’m so nervous—this is a good thing—but this is a big deal for both of us and I want it so much I can taste it. “I think I have a way to save your business.”
A short laugh escapes his lips, and he steps a little farther back before asking, “Oh yeah? Hit me.”
God, this is hard to do when his slight edge has returned. Pushing forward, I say, “I had an idea at Salvatore’s the other night, but didn’t want to mention it to you until I got a sense from him whether it would work.”
Finn’s eyes narrow.
“See, Salvatore’s new production company—along with my dad—is starting filming on this really huge movie in April. Much of it takes place out on the water, on a large boat.”
He continues to stare at me, no reaction at all. My stomach twists.
“I thought maybe he could fix your boats as payment for using them as a set in the spring. And I accepted a job with him, at the production company, so I could be up there with you a lot.”
He nods slowly, studying me. “I’m not sure I’m following what you’re telling me.”
“I’m saying I’ve connected you with Salvatore, and he wants to pay to use your boats for a movie that would film for a few months. But the best thing is they would need weird hours, like middle of the night, so I thought you could still fish during the morning and—”
“You offered my family’s boats to a film crew without talking to me?”
My skin goes cold, panic rising in my chest. “Not offered, I just wanted to see if it could be an option—”
“But obviously it had to go up enough channels internally for Salvatore to call you personally and give his approval. And all this happened without even talking to me.” He reaches down, buttoning his pants. “I just want to make sure I’m understanding here.”
“Finn, I—”
He lets out a short, pissed-off laugh. “Do they even know how much it will cost to fix these boats?”
“Well, they’ll first fix the Linda to use, but then at least it’s a leg up for you, right? I mean, it’s a few hundred thousand dollars or more that you can use to get back on your feet.”
“You’ve already discussed which boats? And money?” Finn’s eyes are so wide it makes me see for the first time how green they can be. “Harlow, you’ve never seen my fucking boats. Are you even serious right now?”
This whole conversation feels like whiplash. I can still feel the warmth and shape of him in my mouth. My hands are shaking, my eyes stinging with the threat of tears. “Finn, there’s only been a couple of conversations so far. They know you need to fix your boats.” His face turns red, his jaw tightens, and I hasten to add, “They’re really excited to work with you on this.”
“A shit ton of decisions can be made in a couple small conversations. Are they counting on this?”
I feel my stomach drop out. “I think they’re ready to move forward on their end, yeah.”
His expression grows thunderous. “Why couldn’t you have talked to me before you ever approached Salvatore?” he asks, turning and pacing the room. “Why did you think it was a good idea to meddle in this? This is my business, Harlow, this is my life. My family. How do you even know if this could work for us? You’re here shuffling papers and getting donuts for NBC executives downtown while I’m trying to save an entire business my grandpa started when he was eighteen, for fuck’s sake. My dad and brothers and I depend on this! I don’t even know what you told these guys!”
“I can tell you everything,” I say, following him and putting a hand on his arm. “When I talked to Salvatore at his place—”
“Aw fuck, Snap,” he interrupts, not hearing me and starting to pace again. He pulls his hat off, rubs both hands over his scalp and down his face. “This is a fucking mess.”
This whole conversation has me feeling unsteady on my feet, struggling to figure out what to say to make it all clear that it’s a good thing. “This is money that allows you to fix your main boat,” I remind him, trying to keep my voice steady. “And to use it exactly as you’ve been using it before it broke. You wouldn’t have to do the reality show to keep your boats. This would allow your business to stay solvent, to work with your brothers and get in front of—”
“Do you have any idea how naïve you sound right now?”
I gape at him. I can actually feel my pulse in my neck, that’s how hard my heart is pounding. “You know what? Why don’t you call me later and we can talk about this. You’re being an epic asshole.”
He turns to look at me, flabbergasted. “I’m being an—?” Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath and then exhales, opening his eyes again. “Yeah, it’s probably best if you go.”
MIA PULLS THE third mug of coffee out of my shaking hands. “I don’t think you need any more caffeine, sweetie.”
She’s taken precious time away from Ansel to come see me in my crisis mode. I drop my head onto my arms on the table, groaning. “Am I a jerk? Is he a jerk?”
Lola picks at her blueberry muffin. “Both, I think.”
“Can someone please explain the male brain to me? First he was mad about Mom, then I was about to give him the head of his lifetime, and then I’m trying to save his business, and then he goes and throws a huge mantrum.” I feel the threat of tears returning. “What the hell just happened?”
“Well,” Lola begins, “you basically aired all his dirty laundry to a potential business partner for him and offered something you aren’t sure he can deliver.”
I groan. “God, when you put it like that I sound like an idiot.”
Lola makes the Well? face and winces sympathetically.
“This thing with Salvatore could be amazing, Lola. Yes it was risky but it could work out if he only stopped with the caveman chest thumping and thought about it!” Looking at each of them in turn, I say, “By the way? You can’t tell Oliver or Ansel any of this. Finn hasn’t told them yet.”
Lola nods immediately but Mia squirms a little in her seat. Finally she says, “Okay. But I really hope he tells them soon because secrets with me and Ansel? Historically not a good thing.”
“I know, Sugarcube, and I’m sorry I put you in this position.” I lean across the table to put my hand on her arm. “But lest we forget, it was your chatty husband who spilled the cancer details to Finn before I had a chance to, so you guys kind of owe me.”
“I’ll only put out once tonight to punish him,” she jokes.
I laugh. “Troll.”
“Seriously, though. Ansel is half Adonis, half puppy. You want me to be mad at him for worrying about you and forgetting he wasn’t supposed to talk about your mom?” Her mildly raised eyebrow tells me she knows the answer.
I drop my head back onto my arms again. “No. He’s adorable and sweet and I’m an idiot for meddling in someone else’s business, per usual.” Sighing, I say, “Usually it works out so well.”
“What I don’t fully understand is, what was going on with you two?” Mia asks. “I thought you were just sleeping together, and then you weren’t, and now it’s got you like this? I hate to point out the obvious, Harlow, but you’ve never called an emergency conference over a boy before.”
Lola nods. “I was pretty sure you were the first woman in history to make it to twenty-two without a guy crisis.”
“We said the I love you’s last night,” I admit in a whisper.
“What?” they yell in unison. A few café customers nearby turn to stare at us.
“God, take it down a notch, psychos,” I say, laughing in spite of myself. They’re enjoying this way too much. “At first he was this fun distraction from what was going on with Mom and my complete lack of a good job and all those quarter-life crisis things no self-respecting person over thirty has any sympathy for.”
I pick up a paper napkin and start tearing it into little strips. “Then I started thinking about Finn more than I was thinking about anything else, and he had this boat thing going on—though I didn’t know the details until later—so we sort of agreed to cool it.”
“And?” Mia asks.
“And . . . then I was having fun trying to figure out how to fix his problem, and we were spending a lot of time together because you assholes were busy with work or husbands or totally oblivious to the men who are blatantly in love with you.”
“Wait. What?” Lola asks.
Ignoring her, I continue quietly: “Finn is sweet, and funny and stoic in this way that is totally foreign to me but I actually really appreciate, coming from the Family That Discusses Everything. And he’s hot. Dear Lord, you guys. Finn in bed is no joke. And he’s not a whiny La Jolla mama’s boy, he’s a man who was raised to get shit done, and not cry over hangnails. Finn could break your vagina and be just handy enough to put it back together.” I pick at the sleeve of my sweater, dropping my voice even more. “He looks at me like he adores me, but then he’ll make fun of me—which I like, turns out—and he started to feel like my guy, you know?” I don’t even care that I’m babbling now; I’m just letting it all out. “He looks at me like we have this little secret, and we do. My secret is that I fucking love him. And he was a jerk today.”
Mia puts her hand on my arm and slides it down, weaving her fingers with mine. “Harlow?”
I look up at her. Mia and Ansel have been married since June, but only a little over two months ago they had a huge fight, something so huge and hurtful between them that I could see on her face she was worried she might have lost the thing she wanted more than anything in the world—even more than to erase the accident that shattered her dream of dancing for a living: her marriage.
So I know what she’s going to say before she even opens her mouth.
“You just have to go fix it,” she says simply. “He’s mad, you’re hurt. But as clichéd as it sounds, none of that really matters in the long run. Just go talk to him.”
I LIFT THE R2-D2 knocker and drop it down against Oliver’s front door, but my stomach is already gone, dissolved away from my body and leaving in its place a hollow, aching pit. Finn’s truck isn’t at the curb.
Oliver answers the door shirtless, in lounge pants that hang way too low and expose way too much muscular hip for a guy I’d like to firmly and forever keep in the friend zone. He’s clearly just got out of the shower; his hair is wet and messy, his glasses a little foggy. Even with the panic rising in my throat, I can still take a second to appreciate how cute he would be with Lola if he would just man up and ask her out for real.
“Expecting a booty call?” I ask, keeping my eyes on his face.
He takes an enormous bite of apple and chews it with a wry grin on his face. Finally swallowing, he says, “I think we both know I’m not.” He lifts the apple to his mouth and says behind it, “Just dressed as if I’m hanging out in my house alone, as you do.”
“Alone,” I repeat. “Because Finn is gone?”
“Left ’bout an hour ago.”
“Left as in . . .”
Oliver points north. “Canada.” His Aussie accent turns the word into kin-ih-duh and even though, logically, I know what he’s said, it still takes my stubborn brain a second to let the confirmation sink in that Finn left town without saying goodbye to me.
He left town, and didn’t kiss me goodbye, or wait to make sure I’m not knocked up with his spontaneous car-sex love child, or even come find me. What a dick.
I’m suddenly so angry I want to take Oliver’s fucking apple and throw it at the wall. “I told him I loved him last night,” I tell Oliver, as if it’s his business. As if he needs to know. But it feels so fucking good to explain the storm pounding in my veins, the hurt and fire making me want to scream. I want confirmation that Finn is as epic a dick as he seems to me right now. “The best part? He said it first. And now he’s fucking left without saying goodbye?”
If any of this surprises Oliver, he hides it remarkably well. This is his superpower, I think. The comic geek always has one, and Oliver’s is a poker face that would leave even the Holy Trinity guessing what he’s thinking. Too bad Lola’s superpower is never needing to dig for information that hasn’t been offered. They’re going to Remains of the Day this thing until the end of time.
“You want to come in?” he asks.
I shake my head, hugging my arms around my shoulders. It’s almost seventy degrees out but I’m freezing. Is this what heartbreak feels like? Like a hot skewer in my chest and I’m too cold and can’t take a deep breath and want to cry all over Oliver’s awkwardly naked shoulder?
Heartbroken sucks. I want to kick it in the nuts.
“Look, Harlow,” he starts, before pulling me in for a hug. “Aw, pet, you’re shaking.”
“I’m freaking out,” I admit, leaning into him. How could Finn just leave town? “Oliver . . . what the fuck?”
He pulls back and looks down at me. Way down at me. Holy shit Oliver is tall. “I’ve known Finn for a long time,” he says slowly. “It takes a lot to get him upset, and even more before he shows it.” He winces a little and then says, “I can tell you’re upset, too, but he basically grunted out a few words, said we’d talk soon, and then walked out to his truck. I dunno what’s going on with him, or why he left or . . . anything, really, that might help you feel better. You sure you don’t want to come in?”
I shake my head again. “He didn’t tell you what happened?”
Oliver laughs a little. “Finn rarely tells us much of anything. He usually tells us things after he’s got them all figured out. If there’s something going on with him, and he confided in you, then he wasn’t lying when he said it first.”
“Said what—oh,” I say. He’s talking about the I love you. Ugh. Punch to the gut.
He bends, catching my eyes. “Call him, yeah?”
