I SIT DOWN on my bed, the water from the shower still dripping out of my hair and onto my comforter. It’s nearly midnight, but I don’t think I’ll be able to calm down until I fix this. A phone rings somewhere in San Diego and after an eternity, Lorelei answers.

“This is a Canadian number,” she says by way of greeting.

If she’s cutting to the chase, then so am I. “Harlow’s even more pissed at me now, isn’t she?”

After a little pause, she says, “The short answer is yes.”

Hope spreads thick and warm beneath my ribs. “What’s the long answer?”

“The long answer? Yes, she is.”

Laughing dryly, I say, “Thanks, Lola. That’s helpful.”

“You want me to be helpful? It took a lot for her to come see you today. Harlow doesn’t stick her neck out for people she doesn’t love—some people think she’s selfish, but it’s the opposite of that. She’ll go to the end of the earth for you if she loves you. I’m pretty sure she loves you, and from what she said, you spoke about five words to her.”

“That’s pretty accurate.”

Letting out a little huff, she growls, “You’re a prick.”

I laugh again, moving my phone to my other ear to drag my towel down my chest. “Yeah, that’s probably accurate, too. It’s a bad habit.”

“I think she enjoys it, usually. But not when she’s putting herself out there. I’ve literally never seen Harlow spend more than five minutes thinking about a guy. And I also don’t think I’ve ever seen her so sad.”

My stomach clenches and I feel nauseous. “Where’s she staying?”

“No way. She’s sleeping.”

“I’m not going tonight. I’m going tomorrow.” Somehow, I don’t expect our business lunch with Sal will be the time for Harlow and me to kiss and make up.

“If you go there, and make this worse, you know I will cut your balls off when you sleep.”

“Lola.”

Silence rings through the line for ten seconds. Twenty.

“Lola, I swear I’m not going to make this worse. I fucking love her.”

“The Magnolia Hotel in Victoria. Room 408.”

SALVATORE AND HARLOW have already been seated when the hostess leads me back to the table. I’ve never eaten at the Mark at the Hotel Grand Pacific, but I should have known it would look just like this: like something out of a glossy catalog for the beautiful tourist stops in Victoria.

I can immediately sense Harlow isn’t going to look at me much during lunch. When he sees me behind the hostess, Sal stands to greet me, and Harlow follows reluctantly. I shake his hand and we all sit. Apparently not even Sal expects Harlow and I to greet each other.

Her notepad is out and she’s ready to play the role of the assistant. Maybe with anyone else she could fade into the background . . . though she’s physically stunning and hard to ignore, so I doubt it. And with me, it would be impossible. She looks so unbelievably beautiful it constricts my throat, ropes something tightly in my chest. Her hair is down, she’s wearing a sweater as green as an emerald, and tight black pants with these sexy little strappy heels. Jesus fuck, I want a picture of her in this outfit glued to my ceiling.

But I’m here for business and I really do want to be a consultant for the film. My noncompete clause with the Adventure Channel doesn’t apply to film consulting, and I’m still so terrified of this unknown future that I’m grasping at any footing, any new contact. Besides, in our first conversation, Sal said he needed someone who could “talk fish from A to Z” and I don’t know anyone better qualified to do that around here than me.

“How’s the boat?” Sal says by way of official opener, and it actually makes me laugh. Seeing it myself once I was home . . . it was depressing.

“It’s busted.”

He laughs, this genuine, warm laugh I wasn’t expecting. He looks slick but he speaks real, and I glance over at Harlow, seeing her in a new way. This guy is the real thing—a decent man in Hollywood—and he’s plucked my girl up to be his right-hand man because he knows she’s the real deal, too.

“Congratulations are in order,” he says. “The show sounds great, Finn.”

“We’ll see,” I hedge. “It’ll be different, that’s for sure.”

For a beat, my eyes meet Harlow’s and I wonder if she knows what I’m thinking, that I don’t give a fuck about the relationship clause. I’m spoken for, whether the producers know it or not. But she blinks away, looking out the window, and I see her jaw flex. It’s possible I fucked it up so much yesterday that even when I find her later, it won’t matter.

I hope I’m wrong.

The waitress fills our water glasses, gives us time to look at the menu, and Sal and I chat casually about the area: the weather, the sports, why I follow the Mariners over the Blue Jays (they were my mother’s favorite team), how often I make it down to Mariners games (as often as I can, which is hardly ever).

Harlow remains quiet—making note of useful information but otherwise aloof—and Sal doesn’t push her to engage. I wonder how much he knows about what’s happened between us. I want to catch her eye, tell her with my expression that we aren’t finished here, that I have my shit together and my words have bubbled to the surface, but she hardly looks up.

The waitress returns to take our order and she’s standing so close to me I feel her skirt brush against my arm. I slide over in my chair to give her more space, and Sal gestures to Harlow to begin.

“I’ll order for the table, actually,” she says and out of the corner of my eye I can see Sal look up in surprise and delight.

Pointing to him, Harlow says, “He’ll start with a Caesar, have the chicken caprese for his main course, and iced tea, no sugar.”

His eyes twinkle. “I was gonna get a steak, kid.”

“Nope.” She looks at him and winks. “Mila told me no red meat.”

“Well, shit.”

Pointing to me, she says, “He’ll have the bisque to start—”

The fuck? She’s not even going to ask me? “Actually—” I begin.

“The halibut for his main.” She gives me a knowing look and my heart hurts remembering that perfect fucking day on the water with her. “And a glass of Chardonnay.”

I blink. Chardonnay?

Beside her, Sal barks out a laugh.