And then Harlow is coming, clenching around my cock and I’m holding on by a thread, riding her through it with my jaw tight and my body so tense just to hold my own release at bay. She gasps, pushes up into me, claws at my chest until her arms slide down my torso, feeling where I’m moving in her. With a groan I pull out, hand moving over my length in a blur and my orgasm is there, so close that I can’t hear anything but static in my ears. Her name is on my lips and I wish I’d thought ahead to turn on a lamp so I could see her face as I cover her stomach, her tits, her neck.

Harlow looks down at my come on her skin, runs a finger through it and around her nipple. The action is instinctive, and possessive . . . and I know in that moment that I am absolutely, thoroughly fucked over this girl.

I fall to the mattress in a heap of boneless limbs, my heart racing so hard that I actually have to work to breathe, to gain control of my arms and my legs.

“You’ll stay the night?” Harlow asks, and I lift my head just long enough to look at her.

“Yeah, I have breakfast with the guys in the morning, though. I can’t stay too late.”

Harlow yawns, reaching for a discarded T-shirt to wipe the mess from her skin. “I have to pick my mom up, anyway,” she says absently. “I’ll wake you before I leave.”

I nod, kissing Harlow’s jaw and then her cheek, feeling the flush beneath her skin against my lips.

“Love you,” she says, eyes already fluttering closed.

It has to be coming up on three in the morning, and I say, “I love you” back as I pull her close, molding my body to the shape of hers. I’m so tired, but alert enough to know that something doesn’t sit right. I just wish I were awake enough to figure out what it is.

HARLOW LEAVES BRIGHT and early like she said she would. She wakes me with kisses and invites me to take a shower. I fuck her against the bathroom wall before we ever manage to get in.

San Diego smells like the ocean in the morning, like salt and wind and something sharp that wraps like an old blanket around everything. It smells so close to home some days, that if I close my eyes I can almost forget where I am, over a thousand miles and a lifetime away from where I’m supposed to be. It’s a little unnerving.

Even scarier? How much it’s starting to feel right, and how many times I’ve considered not leaving at all.

A call from Colton first thing out of the shower pops the Harlow bubble I’ve been floating in, and brings me crashing, face-first back into reality.

I’d texted him after the initial meeting with the Adventure Channel, with a brief “It was good, lots to talk about, I’ll fill you in later.” But I never did—not that night or the next morning—hoping I could put them off just long enough to decide what the fuck we should all do with the rest of our lives. I still have no idea. Of course when I call him back it goes straight to voicemail—because it’s eight in the morning and they’re actually working—and I promise to get back to him later that night, to explain everything.

Now I just have to decide what the hell I’m going to tell them.

On the one hand, I’m glad my brothers are clearly so busy they’ve barely had a moment to worry about the meeting, or even realize that I’ve been avoiding the discussion altogether. I’ve never been this irresponsible in my entire life.

Do we sign on for the show? Do we not? The terms they’re offering are great, the money a godsend. But it will change everything: How we live, how people see us. How we see ourselves. And what about Harlow—how would that even work? Before recently the impact this would have on a potential relationship was the furthest thing from my mind. But now, it fucking matters. Unless I leave the business and my family, I can’t see a time I’d ever be in California on a more permanent basis. And unless Harlow has an even bigger surprise up her sleeve, she won’t be moving to Vancouver Island anytime soon.

Harlow on the deck of our run-down boat . . . now that’s a sight I don’t think I’ll ever be prepared to see.

I’m positive I’d feel better if I talked to Ansel and Oliver, and am feeling more than a little guilty about not having told them what’s going on. The truth is that I haven’t seen as much as them as I’d like lately, which is why I find myself navigating the narrow streets of the Gaslamp Quarter, attempting to parallel park my giant truck to meet them both for breakfast.

The sidewalks are fairly empty this early in the morning, the streets littered with delivery trucks and a handful of ambitious healthy types out for a morning run. I spot Oliver’s beat-up car as I turn up Fifth, walking toward Maryjane’s.

I see the guys in a booth near the back, a set of stylized Mick Jagger prints hanging on the wall above them, and a TV tuned to a music channel just off to the side.

“Ladies,” I say, and slide into the seat next to Ansel. “Gorgeous day outside.”

“Finn,” Ansel says. He reaches for the mug in front of me and fills it with hot coffee from a carafe left by the waitress. “We ordered for you. I got you the most manly thing on the menu.”

I laugh. “Thank you.”

Oliver is sitting directly across from me. “You seem decidedly less surly this morning. Anyone in particular we should thank?”

“Good morning to you, too, Olls.”

Oliver leans forward, pushes his glasses up his nose before resting his forearms on the table. “You’re right, where are my manners? Good morning, Finnigan. How are you?”

Ansel chuckles next to me.

“I’m excellent, thank you. And how are you, Oliver?”

“I’m good, I’m good,” he says, nodding. “I did notice you didn’t come home last night. In fact, you haven’t been spending much time at home, at all lately. I was beginning to grow concerned. Young man, alone in a big, strange city, wandering the streets all night . . .”

“This sounds like a story I’d like to hear,” Ansel agrees, taking a sip of his coffee.

But Oliver isn’t done. “You’ve never really been a one-time-hookup kind of a guy, so I can’t help but wonder who you’re spending all your time with.”

“I was at Harlow’s,” I admit. “We’ve been, um . . . seeing each other.”

I’m saved from their interrogation when the waitress arrives with our breakfast. “Wow. This is certainly . . . manly.” I study the towering sandwich made of toast, bacon, and fried eggs with bright yellow yolk oozing out onto the plate.