“If you’re not going to dance, then get me a beer,” I tell him.

“I would but I’m paralyzed from my toes down.”

I shove him playfully. “Take Lola, too. She needs another drink.”

Lola protests that she doesn’t, but follows him anyway, and I watch them as they go. She’s tall, but he still looms over her, and seems to tilt in her direction as he walks, as if they’re magnets. I wonder if Oliver realizes what it means that Lola has seamlessly made him one of Her People. It’s a pretty exclusive club, including me, Mia, Lola’s dad, my parents, and now Oliver.

“He’ll never try it,” Finn says beside me, and when I look at him I realize he means Oliver will never try to make something happen with Lola. “He’s convinced she isn’t interested.”

“I’m not sure she is,” I agree, “but it’s mostly because Lola is clueless about guys, and all she thinks about is work.”

He hums in response.

Turning to him fully, I say, “Okay, they’re all the way over at the bar for a few minutes, Not-Joe is stoned out of his gourd and probably can’t even hear the music in here. Can you relax? Tell me: How did it go?”

Finn swipes a hand down his face and exhales a long breath, glancing to make sure they really are out of earshot. “I liked them. I mean, there were a couple of idiots in the room who asked things about our love lives, and what kind of women we date”—he ignores the way I do a little victory moonwalk, and continues—“but the two guys who would be producing this show are pretty sharp. They’ve clearly done their homework on the industry, and . . .” He sighs. “I liked them. I liked their ideas. It didn’t sound horrible.”

“So why do you look so miserable?” My heart aches a little. I realize while I’m watching him struggle with this that I sincerely just want Finn to be happy.

When have I cared so much about his happiness versus my own orgasms? Lola isn’t the only one who has seamlessly pulled one of these guys into her inner circle. Finn is officially one of My People.

“Because it’s easier to feel strongly against it,” he says. “This morning, I was convinced this was just a going-through-the-motions meeting. Now I see how this could work much more easily than the alternative. The alternative being we lose our family business and have nothing.”

Not to put too dramatic a spin on it, but I’m really starting to think I know what drowning feels like. Mom has finished her first day of chemo—a treatment where the goal is to kill the cancer just slightly faster than killing the host—and all I have is a few texts from my dad saying she feels good. Finn is struggling with what is arguably the hardest decision of his life. I’ve just acknowledged that he’s My Person, and now I’m powerless all over again to help either of them through this.

It sucks because I know that what would make us both feel better right now is some naked wrestling in my bed. But the more I realize I have genuine feelings for him, the more I know I couldn’t just take him home tonight. Finn would be the first person I would have sex with who I might also love. Ugh.

He shrugs, sliding his hands into his pockets. “And that’s pretty much it.”

I’m feeling a little light-headed and have to force myself to breathe, to focus on the conversation at hand. I can lose my shit later. “When are you heading home?” I ask, going for casual, yet concerned.

He shrugs. “Couple of days.”

A sharp spike drives into my chest. “Boo.”

He smiles down at me, gaze hovering on my mouth. “Are you admitting that you’re going to miss me, Ginger Snap?”

I give him the finger and don’t answer.

Chapter TEN

Finn

HARLOW SHOWS UP bright and early the next morning, balancing a tray with three Styrofoam cups on one flattened palm, a white paper bag clutched in her other fist.

“Good morning, Sunshine!” she chirps, pushing past me into the living room. “I brought breakfast.”

“It’s seven in the morning, Snap,” I mumble after her, reaching up to scratch my jaw. I haven’t shaved in two days, I’m not wearing a shirt . . . she’s lucky I’m even wearing pants. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re going to brainstorm.” She walks into the kitchen and turns to whisper-hiss, “Is Oliver still home?”

The old house is still chilly. The floorboards are cold beneath my bare feet as I lag behind her.

“He’s in the shower.”

At least, I think he is. At home I’m up before sunrise, down at the docks. But this beach life has spoiled me and indulges my natural night owl tendencies. I don’t think I’ve slept until seven in nearly twenty years. But I’m waiting until Oliver leaves to call my brothers and fill them in on my meeting with the producers.

Any thought of my brothers at all is wiped from my head when I turn the corner and get an eyeful of Harlow bent over the dishwasher, her perfect ass wrapped in a pair of skintight yoga pants.

Oblivious to my ogling, she straightens, and begins opening cupboard doors. “Plates?”

I cross the room and stop just behind her, reaching over her head to retrieve a stack of yellow plates from the shelf. Harlow freezes, fingers gripping the edge of the countertop before she seems to relax, and leans back against my chest.

“Here you go,” I tell her, bending to say the words against her hair.

She smells so good and her ass is pressed against my dick, I have to step away before she can feel that I’m already half hard, worked up like a seventeen-year-old boy. Pushing back, I take a seat at the small island and weave my bare feet around the legs of the bar stool.

It takes a moment for her to collect herself, too, and I grin as she clumsily sets down the plates and opens the paper sack.

“You look a little breathless there, Snap.”

She looks up, shoots daggers.

“So what is it we’re brainstorming?” I ask, rolling an orange along the counter. My stomach growls on instinct when I see her reach inside the bag and pull out some of the biggest, gooiest, most frosting-coated cinnamon rolls I’ve ever seen.

“Your situation,” she stage-whispers, and slaps my hand away when I try to sneak a fingertip of icing.

“My situation . . . ?”

“Dreamboats on the Pacific? Try to keep up, Finneus.”

I roll my eyes. “You know that’s not what it’s called.”

“Only because they never asked me for ideas.”

“As much I love that you brought me food, couldn’t we have talked later? You know, after the sun was up?”

“The sun is up.”

“Barely.”

Ignoring me, Harlow pulls one of the coffees from the tray and sets it and a cinnamon roll down in front of me. “I do my best thinking when I run,” she says, and dishes up one for herself. “I have a million ideas for you.”

I lean forward and take a bite of the warm, gooey pastry, and swear to God my eyes roll back in my head. “Jesus fuck, this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.” Without thinking, I stand and round the corner, placing a hand on either side of her face, before kissing her full on the mouth.

It’s meant to be quick. It’s meant to be a funny, dramatic little thank-you between friends. But Harlow’s surprised gasp is quickly cut off by a soft moan, her palms moving up to rest on my bare stomach. Heat surges through my veins and I feel every point of contact between us: where her breasts press against my chest, her hands on my skin, her lips moving against mine.

I pull away with a shaky breath and Harlow clears her throat. “You taste like cinnamon,” she murmurs, licking her lips.

“Well, g’day you, too.”

Our heads snap to where Oliver leans against the doorway, arms folded across his chest. He scratches his cheek, giving me the smuggest fucking look I’ve ever seen.

I drop my hands to my sides and take a step back. “Just thanking Miss Harlow for breakfast.”

“I’m offended, Finn. I made you dinner the other day and would’ve appreciated at the very least a sharp pat on the ass. I see how you are.”

“Ha, yeah,” I say, returning to my seat.

Oliver beelines toward the food and Harlow hands him his coffee, along with the now-closed white sack.

“I have to apologize up front, because no way could a man hope to follow up that,” he says, nodding to me. “But thank you, pet.” He bends and kisses Harlow’s cheek.

“There’s one in there for Not-Joe,” she says, and I don’t know what it is about watching the two of them like this, but it makes me feel like I’m being slowly, carefully uncoiled, like this is how my morning should be every damn day. “Tell him I expect a lap dance at Fred’s later.”

I groan, but Oliver only laughs. “Will do. Be good, kids.”

We both watch Oliver disappear from the kitchen and sit in silence, listening as the front door closes, followed moments later by the sound of his Nissan roaring to life and heading down the street.

Harlow carries her own plate and coffee to the counter, sitting on the stool next to me, her foot tangling with mine. “You look like crap,” she says, looking at my mouth like she wants to lick it.

“So do you.” I look at her perfect tits, all perky and fuckable in her little running tank. “I’m almost embarrassed for you.”

She tilts her head, exposing her long, tanned neck. “Hideous?”

“Revolting.” I reach forward, wiping a tiny smear of frosting from her lower lip.

She stares as I stick my thumb in my mouth, sucking the frosting off, and I blink away, working to get my shit together. This isn’t how we keep our clothes on and stay friends-only. This is how she ends up ass-up on the couch, getting spanked and fucked until dinnertime.

It’s so strange being with her like this: eating in companionable silence and having it feel so . . . normal. This is what I have to remember: Sex with Harlow is amazing, but being friends with her isn’t so bad, either.

“Thanks for breakfast,” I say, wiping my mouth with a napkin.

“No problem. Like I said, I think better when I run, and unfortunately for my half-Latina ass, the bakery is right at the end of the best running trail in La Jolla. Now let’s get back to the reason behind my visit: fixing your problem.”

“I appreciate the thought, but I don’t need you to—”

“Shut up. I have ideas.”

It’s obvious Harlow has made up her mind, so I decide to humor her. Instead of telling her not to bother, that I’ve probably thought of it all already, I reach over and tear off a chunk of the center of her cinnamon roll, popping it in my mouth.

She scowls at me. “That was the best bite. You’re a menace.”

“Mmm hmm,” I hum around it.

She turns on her stool to face me. “What about tourists? Taking people out on your boat?”

I swallow, washing the bite down with a gulp of coffee. “No way.”

“Why?”

“Commercial fishing boats are dangerous places, Snap. Things fall, lines get tangled, people trip. No way am I having a bunch of paying idiots wandering around my boats.”

“Okay,” she says. “What about investors?”

“You think I haven’t thought about that?”

“There has to be someone who—”

“The only reason people loan money is to make money. The fishing industry isn’t just going to recover overnight,” I tell her. “Development, climate change, disease, it’s all had an impact and as far as I can see, it won’t get better anytime soon. I can’t borrow money if I don’t have the hope of paying it back.”

I feel the truth of this reality sink like a weight in my chest. It will never be the way it was. My brothers and I will never know the life my dad knew, and his dad before him. There’s something so utterly defeating in that. A smart man would walk away; he’d sell everything he could, split the money and make a new life somewhere else. But it’s all the fucking history—what my family has fought for, sacrificed for, what Dad worked to keep after he lost Mom—that keeps me from just walking away.

“Right,” she says. “I guess that makes sense. What about fishing other things, then?”

“We already do that. We do sockeye, pink and chum salmon, roe herring, halibut, invertebrates,” I say, and then pause, seeing her face fall. I feel sort of guilty, she’s clearly put some time into this and I’m just shooting down her ideas, one after another.

But in typical Harlow fashion, she seems undeterred. “So maybe we need to think outside the box.”

“Outside the box, huh?”

“Yeah, let’s see . . .” She leans forward, knees pressed to mine, her hand ghosting along the top of my thigh. I’m still shirtless, and swear I can feel the heat from her body, an awareness of having her near me. And I wonder if she has any idea how it feels, or if I’m the only one of the two of us who gets so wrapped up that I could accurately estimate the distance between us in millimeters.

“What about T-shirts?”

I blink. “T-shirts?”

“Yeah, like, your own clothing line. Imagine a glossy ad with you and your studly brothers. You’re standing in the middle and wrapped in a tight T-shirt—”

“You’re messing with me now, aren’t you?”

“Maybe a little,” she says, tapping my nose with her index finger. “Because you’re so cute in the morning.” Sitting up straighter, she continues, “So imagine this: you, muscles, and an arrow pointing straight down with the words ROBERTS BAIT AND TACKLE printed on the shirt.”