“So maybe he doesn’t like quiet. Maybe he likes chatty half-Irish, half-Spanish feisty gingers who call him on his bossy shit.”

“Well, I thought it didn’t matter anyway,” Oliver says with a little smile.

REGAL BEAGLE TONIGHT, I text Finn once I’m home. Lola, Oliver, me, Not-Joe. You coming?

I stare at my phone for at least a minute, waiting for him to reply, but nothing. Ordinarily, Finn strikes me as the kind of guy who will forget he even has a phone until he empties his pockets at the end of the day, but lately he’s been checking it nearly constantly, so I expect him to reply quickly.

But an hour later, he still hasn’t.

I text, How did it go? I can’t wait to hear about it.

Still no reply. Maybe he’s driving. Maybe the meeting went long. Maybe he’s sitting at a huge desk, signing contracts.

Lola and Oliver pick me up in his beater Nissan and I stare at the back of their heads as they jabber on and on about his store, her upcoming book launch, one of their favorite comics. How can they not see they’re perfect together?

I want to shout it and hear it echo in the car, but the certainty of a beheading at Lola’s hand keeps the words inside. When we get to the bar, I practically tear the car door off the hinges in an effort to launch myself onto the sidewalk, taking in a huge breath of air free of the Lola-Oliver-cuteness-overload.

But then my heart stops entirely, because parked behind us at the curb is Finn’s truck. He’s had it cleaned—probably before he drove up to L.A.—and it’s empty. He must be inside already. And he didn’t answer my texts.

I know I’ve been looking for him all day, but it’s in this moment outside, staring at his giant beast of a truck and just charmed to death that he would wash it before driving to this meeting—that I realize I’m smitten. Really smitten. I knew I liked him, and that I liked sex with him, but I’ve never felt this way about a guy before: longing, fear, hope, and the tingly thrill of desire.

“What are you wearing?”

I turn to see Finn standing at the entrance to the bar, his mouth tilted in a smirk. His forehead is wrinkled, communicating mild concern, but even so, his inspection gives me goose bumps all down my arms. Lola and Oliver slip past him, walking inside.

I follow the path of his eyes and look down at my chest. I’m wearing a navy silk tank top, covered in small, colorful hand-embroidered birds and faded skinny jeans. I spent about an hour getting ready for tonight, though only under the pain of torture would he get me to admit that. “Excuse me, sir, this is a gorgeous shirt.”

“It’s covered in birds.”

“You’re going to lecture me about fashion? You wear the same dirty baseball cap every day and own two T-shirts,” I say as I follow him inside and toward our booth at the back.

“At least they aren’t covered in birds.” He reaches the table and hands me a glass of water before grabbing his own beer. He’s already been here and he came to our booth? My inner girly girl squeals in delight. “Besides, if you haven’t noticed, I’m not wearing a T-shirt today.”

No, he is most definitely not. In my mind, I’m dirty dancing and perving all over this man, but outwardly I’m doing a calm inspection. He’s wearing pressed black dress pants and a white button-up shirt with a small gray diamond print.

“You approve?” he asks quietly, teasing but also not.

“Can we focus on the more interesting topic of conversation, please?” I ask. “Such as why you are dressed like this?”

He looks over my shoulder to where Oliver and Not-Joe stand only about five feet away. “Not tonight.”

“But did it go well?”

He tilts his beer to his lips, giving me a warning look.

“Nothing?” I hiss-whisper. “You’re not going to say anything?”

“No.”

I wish a dramatic-huff-and-stomp-away would work on Finn, but I know it wouldn’t. And I still like the way he’s staring at me. Although . . . now he’s not inspecting my shirt, he’s staring at my hairline.

“What?” I ask.

“Your hair looks . . . really red tonight.”

“I put some temporary color powder in it,” I admit, turning into the light so he can see better. “Do you like it?”

“I think you got some on your forehead.”

I deflate, dunking my thumb in my glass of water and wiping at the spot he’s pointing to. “Holy Moses, Finn Roberts, how you managed to date this Melody person for more than a week is beyond me.” I ignore his raised eyebrows at this, and continue: “You’re supposed to tell me I look pretty, and act like you’re touching my beautiful face when really you’re subtly wiping away my makeup mistakes.”

“I’m not supposed to do anything.” He gives me a dark grin. Leaning back against the side of our booth, he says, “I’m just a friend who likes to point out when you’re ridiculous. Makeup for your hair, Harlow? Really?”

“Sometimes a girl feels like she needs a little extra something, okay?”

His expression straightens, and he blinks away, looking out over the small dance floor. “Not you. You look best first thing in the morning.” I suck in a breath. I know exactly what morning he means; it’s the only one we woke up to, together. In my bed, curled around each other. I can still feel how warm he was.

“Well, then I’m surprised you didn’t make a comment about pillow creases on my face and morning breath.”

“You did have pillow creases on your face, and your hair was a mess.” His voice drops lower when he says, “But you looked perfect.”

I’m too stunned to speak, continually swallowing around the lump in my throat. My heart feels like it’s grown ten times its normal size.

He coughs and I know I’ve been quiet too long when he changes the subject. “Who told you about Melody?”

I sip my water, finally managing, “Oliver, but it was completely against his will. I brandished a musket.”

Finn nods, taking another drink of his beer. Kyle turns the music up but even still, it feels like we’re in our own little bubble, standing a few feet away from where our friends sit together in the booth.

“I only know her name and that she was quiet,” I admit. “Will you tell me about her?”

“Why do you want to know this?”

“Probably for the same reason you asked if Toby Amsler went down on me.”

He blinks over to me. “What do you want to know?”

“Does she still live near you?”

He nods. “We went to the same high school, started seeing each other a few months after we graduated. Her folks own the local bakery.”

“Were you guys in love?”

He shrugs. “I was such a different person then. Right after we got together I left school to start fishing with my family.” Seeming to consider the question more, he adds, “I loved her, sure.”

“Still?”

“Nah. She’s a sweet girl, though.”

I know the question will burst out of me whether or not I really want to appear this interested in the topic. “A sweet girl who still gets to sleep—”

“No,” he interrupts quietly. He looks back to me, his eyes making the slow circuit of my face. “Melody and I broke up five years ago; she’s married with a kid now.” At my expression, he murmurs, “There’s no one back home, Harlow. I promise.”

I swallow again, nodding.

“And if you remember,” he says, voice stronger now, “you were with another man one night before you were with me.”

Shit.

“Do you know how crazy that makes me feel?” he asks.

Honestly, I can’t even imagine. He broke up with Melody five years ago and I still sort of want to scratch her face off. This situation is ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous.

“I know there’s nothing between us, we’re just friends,” he says. “But it’s not because the sex wasn’t something really good, Harlow. Before you, in Vegas, it had been two years. I’ve been with four women other than you, and never in anything but a committed relationship, so this is weird for me. I’ll tell you anything, okay? Since I know how it is to feel desperate to know every detail, I’ll tell you. But ask me, don’t ask my friends. I’d rather we find things out from each other, okay?”

What is this mad flurry of emotions? I’m relieved and guilty, swooning and overcome with the need to kiss his perfect mouth.

With a shrug, I tell him, “I just didn’t want you to know that I wanted to know.”

He laughs, tilting his beer to his lips and saying, “Sociopath,” before taking a long drink.

“How many did you tie up?”

He swallows, and turns his eyes to me. I can tell with this question his pulse has exploded in his neck. I can see it throb with the rhythm. His voice comes out more hoarse than usual when he admits, “All of them.”

My blood turns to mercury, swirling and toxic. “All of them?”

“Yeah, Harlow. I . . . like it.” He ducks his head, touching the back of his neck as he looks at me through his eyelashes. “But I’m pretty sure most of them only did it because they wanted to be with me, not because it was their thing, too.”

“Did any of them like it?”

He nods. “My first, maybe?”

“What was her name?” I can’t help it. The questions are just falling out of my mouth before I have time to think better of them.

He steps a little bit farther away from the table, and I follow. “Emily.”

“But you aren’t sure she liked it?” It’s so weird to be here, at Fred’s and surrounded by our friends who are sitting in the booth only a few feet away and still having the most intimate conversation we’ve ever had.

“Honestly,” he says quietly, “I don’t know. I mean, she was into it, sure, but I would love to know how she remembers that night now, looking back. She moved away after graduation, but we were together a little over a year before that. I just . . .” He blinks away. “The only place we could have any privacy was on my dad’s little rowboat, down at the dock. The third time, we’d stolen beers from her dad. I just played around with her, and the rope, and it was . . .” He stops talking, finally just saying, “Yeah.”

I nod, sipping my water. I think I know what he’s telling me—that seeing his girlfriend like that did something good for him, and shaped what he likes now. But I don’t really need to hear him talking about it anymore.

“That morning I saw you at Starbucks,” he says.

I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. “Yeah? What about it?”

He shrugs, giving me a do-I-need-to-drag-it-from-you look. “I know you hooked up, but you didn’t look like you were particularly relaxed.”

“Ah, right. The mother woke us up,” I tell him. “In person. Second-worst lay of my life the night before.”

He barks out a delighted laugh. “Who was the first?”

“My first. I realize now he was tiny, but it still hurt. I swear I look back on it now and see my virginity being taken by a baby carrot.”

“What are you talking about over here?” Lola asks, appearing out of nowhere and sidling up to me.

Finn is barely recovered from his laughing fit. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

“Baby carrot,” I tell her with a knowing grin.

Lola nods, smiling at him. “Awesome, right? Poor Jesse Sandoval.”

“Our girl is a poet,” Finn agrees.

Our girl. It eases somewhat the tiny twinge I still feel when I remember Finn told me about the television show because he didn’t want to share it with more permanent members of his life.

Oliver steps out of the booth and joins our little circle. “So we’re standing tonight? Usually Harlow likes to sit and throw things at me across the table.”

I laugh because it’s true. “You just have these creepy Crocodile Dundee reflexes.”

“I’m a ninja.” Oliver pushes his thick-rimmed glasses up his nose in a nerdy gesture that makes us all laugh. “And you know how much I love your limited Australian cultural knowledge.”

“I try.”

Behind him, Not-Joe is still sitting in the booth, high as a kite and dancing in his seat as he stares at a group of coeds out on the floor.

“Oliver, you and Not-Joe should go boogie down with those girls over there.”

“Why not Finn?” Oliver asks with a knowing grin. “He’s also single.”

I shake my head. “He is, but look, he’s all dressed up. It’d be like A Night at the Roxbury and everyone would be embarrassed for him.” Not only will Finn refuse to dance, but if he’s going to be out there, the cavewoman inside tells me he’s going to be there for me and no one else. At least until he leaves.

Suddenly, I feel panic rise in my throat. Is Finn leaving tomorrow? He’s had his meeting with the L.A. crowd; does that mean he’ll go home?

Laughing, Oliver looks over at the dance floor, but not before taking a peek at Lola’s reaction. “Those Sheilas are tiny.”

“ ‘Tiny’ like young?” I ask, leaning to get a better look. The girls are definitely in their twenties. “Or short?”

“Very short.”

“But look at you,” Lola says, frowning. “You’re over six three. Statistically speaking that means you’re going to end up with someone under five three.”

“That hurts me in my logic,” Oliver says, smiling down at her.