She grabbed her coat hanging in the back mudroom. “Harper!” Molly screamed, drunk from the kitchen. “C’mere, we’re gonna—”

“I’ll be back,” she called, though Molly had already forgotten her and gone back to helping hold up a 90-pound girl for a keg stand. “Let’s go around the side,” she said to Sean. “It’s a shitshow in there.”

“Yeah, when you said the party was at your place, I didn’t realize you lived with—how many people?”

“Seven.”

As they maneuvered through the trees and blossoming matilija poppies growing wild, she wrapped the denim jacket around her and watched his broad shoulders move. The perfect V-shape, evident even with the leather jacket. An ass she would have carved herself if she could. She hadn’t been wrong in the shop. He really was that hot.

“Which way?” he asked over his shoulder. Had he caught her looking? Hell, who cares? That’s what he came for.

“Left,” she said. “There’s a playground a couple of blocks away.”

“A playground, huh?” he asked with a smirk. “What have you got in mind.”

She felt blood rush to her face. With the sounds of the party behind them, she was suddenly nervous. Harper didn’t know what to say. This had never happened before. Then again, she’d never really had to be alone with anyone before. All the men that had ever whistled at her, approached her, told her how beautiful she was, it was always in groups. Actually, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been truly alone with anyone.

“Hey, I’m just playing with you,” he said. He’d slowed down and walked on the outside of the sidewalk. Even with her long legs and years of paid practice, she couldn’t keep up with his stroll in these wedges. Was that on purpose, his walking on the outside? And if it was … where did he learn old school manners like that?

“I know!” she said. It was too loud, she could tell. Her voice echoed into the night.

“So. How’s the tattoo healing?” he asked.

“Oh. Good,” she said, happy there was something neutral to talk about. “I’m following your directions. Eucerin, gauze, check. Though my sheets are fucked with the ink.”

“Good girl,” he said, and it made her look down but want him more. He chuckled. “It’s a nice night.”

She wrinkled her nose and balled up her courage. “This first date banter is awkward,” she said. They both stopped in front of the empty playground.

“Yeah? First date banter, that’s like … okay, I can remember how to do this. How old are you?”

“Twenty-five,” she said. She waited for him to say how much younger she looked, or that he didn’t believe her. Ask for my I.D., something!

“Twenty-nine,” he replied. “So, where are you from? What’s your middle name? What do you do? Is that basically it, what we’re supposed to talk about?”

“That’s the gist.” She put her hands on her hips, well aware of how it pushed out her chest. His eyes flickered a moment, but he didn’t look down. “So? Out with it.”

“Damn, you get straight to the point. Okay, my middle name is Patrick. My family is Irish, but I was born in the U.S. You already know what I do. Likes, okay. Tattoos. Metal music. Converse, and Mexican food.”

“Succinct,” she said with a nod. “Dislikes?”

“People who cut in line because they’re busy or important—or think they are. The color pink. And I absolutely hate brussel sprouts.”

She laughed. “Wow, you didn’t even hesitate. But, yeah, those kinds of people are assholes. But there’s nothing wrong with the color pink.”

He shrugged. “You could pull it off. Just not my color. Your turn.”

“Okay … my middle name is Ella. I like indie pop, and I also like Converse. You know they make those in pink, right? I like sushi a lot.”

“And dislikes?”

“Bullies,” she said, though she didn’t know where that came from. “Uhm, neon green. Oh, and I’m allergic to bananas.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone allergic to bananas. You’re missing out.”

She gave a little shake of her head. One banana can have up to 30 carbs, she thought. But that wasn’t something he’d want to know. It would make her sound insane. Besides, she’d much rather spend those 150 calories elsewhere. When calories are currency and you have to stick to under 1,000 a day, you make them count. “Want to swing?” she asked.

“Well, that was forward, but okay. I don’t have a girlfriend, though.”

“No,” she said and blushed. “I mean there.” She pointed to the swingset.

“I know what you meant.”

She fell into the familiar black rubber seat. Harper knew that in thirty minutes the bones in her hips and ass would start to hurt from lack of give, but tonight she didn’t care. It was her usual spot, her treat, on those long morning jogs. If nobody was at the playground when she got back, she let herself fly.

Sean slightly twisted the swing back and forth, side to side, the toe of hit beat-up Converse always in the bark chips. “Is this where you take all the guys?” he asked.

She laughed. “Hardly. For the most part, I’ve been too busy for men.”

“Since when?”

“Since forever.”

“You mean … nothing? What do you do?”

I used to get call backs, campaigns and gigs all the time. “Trying to figure out what to do next,” she said.

“That must be tough, though. The no guy thing. How come I’m an exception?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you didn’t ogle and drool over me when you found out what I do.”

“It’s that bad, huh?”

“You have no idea. Once? This guy, he was an assistant for some casting director. He saw me at some club where I was doing a promotion and sent over this ridiculous fruity drink with, like ten umbrellas. He didn’t even have the balls to face me, and wrote on the napkin, ‘Call me, Sweetheart’ with his number.”

“Smooth,” Sean said. “So you’re saying I should call you sweetheart?”

“No, definitely not.”

“Sweetheart it is.”

She was grateful for the wind in her face and the steady movement. Maybe he wouldn’t notice how nervous he made her.

“Hey. Come down,” he said.

Something about him made her want to obey. It was nice, being told what to do when it wasn’t about the size of her waist or how her upper arms were too big for some insane designer’s sample size.

Harper slowed to a halt, and looked at him, but he said nothing.

“Is it hard?” she asked. “The sobriety thing, I mean. Sorry, if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine—”

He made a face, but waved his hand. “The sobriety bit’s not so bad.”

“So … why’d you …”

“I did something stupid. Got in an accident with my best friend. He was, uh, in ICU for a week. He’s still in a coma.”

“Holy shit. Is he .. okay, though? Like, is he going to come out?”

“No idea,” he said with a shrug. “I haven’t gone to see him since I got out of rehab. I went into forced inpatient rehab awhile, lost touch with most everyone. I mean … I wouldn’t even know what to say if I did go see him. What’s the point, anyway? It’s not like he could understand. There’s no way to say how sorry I am. All I can do is try and live my life better.” He shrugged.

Harper was quiet as she took it all in. She hadn’t realized it had been that serious. People in L.A. were on and off the wagon all the time. “I think he’d understand,” she said finally.

“What?”

“Your friend that’s in a coma. Even if he’s in a coma, there’s no telling if he can hear you or not. Maybe he could. Maybe he wants you to visit.”

He sighed. “Well. I probably just screwed things up with you,” he said. “I sound like a total jackass.”

She bit her lip, then smiled at him. “Not at all,” she said. “It’s good, you know? To get things out in the open. Fast and early, like a Band-Aid. If you want me to be honest, that kind of transparency makes you even more attractive.”

He raised a brow. “So, you think I’m attractive?”

She couldn’t hold his gaze. Kiss me now, she thought. The timing was perfect. The moonlight, the swings, all of it.

Harper forced her gaze back up and looked at his lips. They were incredibly shaped, the lower lip especially full. She licked hers and thought, for just a moment, to lean in. But she couldn’t.

“Let’s get you home,” he said, and stood up. Disappointed, she took his hand that he offered to help her up.

“Hey,” he said, and leaned down close to her hand. “What’s that?” He traced one of the fresher scars across her knuckles.

“Oh, uh, nothing,” she said. “Don’t worry about it.”

He looked at her, curious. “Boxing class,” she said automatically. It was a lie everyone believed. “Good workout, hell on the hands.”

“A fighter. That’s hot,” he said.

She kept her hands hidden as best she could on the walk back, but every time hers accidentally brushed his, a spark of electricity shot through her.

“I take it you don’t want to come back in to this amazing party,” she said. From the sidewalk in front of her house, it was clear it was still raging.

“Think I’ll pass. I’m up early tomorrow to open the shop.”

“Okay.” Just as she turned to walk away, he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her against him. She couldn’t have stopped him if she wanted to. Not that she wanted to, not in the least. She knew he was built, but was surprised by the incredible strength. The dominance of him.

In her towering wedges, she was the same height as him. As soon as his lips were on hers, she opened her mouth. Greedy, hungry and obedient for anything he wanted.

He pulled away just as suddenly. “’Night, sweetheart,” he said, and stalked off into the dark.