Harlow

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Once again, I stood with my heart bleeding in my throat, watching Xavier literally run away from me. He had his shoes and socks in one hand, running down the docks at a pace so punishing it seemed impossible he could sustain it, yet he did sustain it until after he was out of sight.

When he was gone, I sank onto the chaise lounge, loosely wrapped in a bed sheet, the cool wind off the water pebbling my skin.

Autistic.

A virgin.

The virgin part wasn’t a surprise. It didn’t bother me, either. He was within a couple years of my own age and he was an adult both cognitively and legally. He was clearly capable of making his own decisions. He was a man, just…a sexually inexperienced one. In some ways his inexperience made a physical relationship with him all the more fun and exciting and different and unique, in ways he was probably embarrassed by. When he forgot to be overwhelmed and just indulged in his senses, he exuded wonder and awe and appreciation and passion and desire. He kissed like he’d been created for that singular purpose. When he touched me and went down on me—which he’d done without hesitation or qualm—he was hesitant at first and then increasingly masterful and dizzying.

I didn’t regret a single thing I’d done with him— and I didn’t feel bad about any of it. I just wish I’d been able to understand how deeply he’d been affected by what that bitch had done to him, so I could be more…I don’t know…better at helping him past the trauma to a place where he could simply enjoy sex.

The autism aspect was more concerning. I’d had no clue autism was a spectrum until he’d told me and explained it. Did it mean he was handicapped in some way? Not from my perspective, no. He’d always seemed one hundred percent self-aware, aware of me, and capable of and willing to make decisions for himself with total understanding of risk versus reward. He was just…different. Superior, in many ways, to anyone I’d ever met. Socially, sure, he didn’t quite fit into the average or normal boxes. But that was part of what made him so fresh and interesting and attractive. Yeah, he was awkward at times. Hard to understand at times. Impossible to predict, always. But talking to him, being with him, being around him—it was a blast of fresh air to someone like me, having spent so many years among a crowd of a certain type.

At NYU, in the fine arts program, you could reliably expect everyone to be smart, well educated, sophisticated, creative, artistic, difficult, mostly wealthy—with all the usual foibles and quirks of being all of those things. Of course there were outliers and the different; as you get everywhere you go, whatever you do. And then in Hollywood everyone is an actor, or has a script they’re working on, everyone is waiting for a callback or script approval or for the right producer to discover their material. In the industry, people fall into predictable camps and cliques and circles. In the A-list world, things get even smaller despite having the entire world at your fingertips—you trust few people, allow fewer still into your inner world. Even seeing the world is done through a filter, through the screen of wealth and celebrity, dodging fans and crowds and anticipating recognition, and being catered to and fawned over. Those are good things, amazing things which few will ever have, making me absurdly fortunate, and I know it. Yet, it is a closeted way of life and it eventually gets old.

Xavier…he fits into none of the molds or archetypes I’ve seen anywhere, he fits into no group, no clique. To him, I suppose, that made him a freak, but to me…it was as refreshing and exhilarating as being in the fresh air and natural beauty of Alaska after living in the smog and urban chaos of LA.

I was…

He’d been gone less than five minutes, and I missed him.

Still sitting on the chaise lounge wrapped in a sheet, I glanced to the deck and saw his T-shirt, forgotten; I picked it up, sniffed it, inhaling his scent. I shrugged into it and discarded the sheet as I snagged my laptop and went back inside and connected to the Internet. I began researching Autism Spectrum Disorder and the high-functioning end of the scale, and what it looked like, what it meant psychologically and socially, emotionally and physically.

A million questions assaulted me as I researched and read, and began to understand a bit more of what made Xavier tick in terms of ASD, and how that related to the situation I found myself in with him.

Was the touch and sensory issue connected? That led me down a whole new rabbit hole of research and articles and websites, and what I learned once again made more sense because of my experience with him.

He’d never been officially diagnosed, he’d said. How had this been missed his whole life? Could anything have been done to help him learn to cope and function, if he’d had a proper early diagnosis? According to what he’d said of his childhood, he’d sort of raised himself, with his older brother helping out as much as he could. Which was how it had been missed, clearly. He’d figured it out himself while trying to understand why he was so different.

I imagined a young Xavier, isolated, lonely, feeling trapped in his own head, unable to form normal friendships, without the love and support of either mother or father—he seems to love and look up to his eldest brother, but no matter how good an elder sibling does at playing parent, I doubt it could ever be the same. I imagined him trying desperately to figure himself out, to find a way to fit in, to be normal, or at least understand why he didn’t…wasn’t…couldn’t.

If he couldn’t form a basic friendship because expressing emotions was difficult or impossible, if he was hypersensitive, if he had suffered emotional trauma at the hands of cruel high schoolers, if he already had difficulty trusting his own judgment let alone trusting another person…how could he ever have a normal relationship?

My heart squeezed, twisted, cracked.

And I’d been angling for a casual sexual relationship. Jesus.

I know I had no way of knowing. But still.

Clearly, that wasn’t going to be possible.

Was a romantic relationship even possible?

I still had no idea how he felt about me. Was he mad at me for pushing a physical relationship on him? I didn’t think I’d intentionally manipulated him, or seduced him in any kind of malicious way. I just…I wanted him. I’d seen evidence that he wanted me, but he’d been hesitant to follow that desire.

Guilt and shame hit like a lightning bolt. I’d been assuming, either consciously or subconsciously—or a bit of both, really—that he was hesitant because of who I am, because of what I look like. I’d been approaching him the whole time as the woman who’d literally been told her whole life how gorgeous and sexy and desirable she was, as the woman used to being pursued and ogled and pestered and desired and obsessed over, as the woman chased by paparazzi hoping for a single photograph of me which would be sold for thousands of dollars, as the woman who could have any man she wanted with a snap of her fingers.

Xavier had no interest in any of that. He had no idea who I was, what my background was. He was just…attracted to me. Physically, obviously. But also for who I am…

He was attracted to Low.

Not Harlow Grace, movie star and sex symbol.

Low, just a girl.

Worse yet, he’d left hints and clues all along that weren’t just weird or a little different, they were the source of uniqueness that went beyond simple personality quirks. The way he’d occasionally pat the sides of his legs, or seem to get lost in his thoughts while staring at a wave or a bird or a pattern on the floor, the way whenever he looked directly at me, it seemed…forced, or difficult for him. As if direct eye-to-eye contact was something he’d learned would make him seem more “normal” so he’d learned to fake it. There were so many things, now that I knew what to look for.

But I’d been selfish. Seeing only what I wanted and not really ever taking into consideration, truly, what he was saying. What he meant. How everything I said and did affected him.

Had I pushed him too far?

God, what a mess.

I put the laptop aside and sat on my private balcony, cocooned in the warmth and masculine scent of his T-shirt.

I should just go back to LA. Forget all this. Forget him, forget us.

Wait…us?

I laughed as awareness of what I’d just thought hit me. But the laugh turned, with startling abruptness, into tears.

Us?

I thought I’d gone into whatever this was with Xavier as a strictly temporary thing. A hookup. A vacation romance, with a built-in shelf life.

Now I was thinking about us?

He’d left.

He couldn’t handle me, couldn’t handle what I wanted. What I was. What I represented. What he wanted.

Could he handle who I was? My god, I could barely handle who I was.

Us?

I was in Ketchikan to get away, not to get tangled up in some crazy web of emotion…

Yet here I was, sitting alone on my boat, crying over a man.

Forget him?

Not likely.

Even if—when, rather—I went back to LA and resumed my life, resumed acting, resumed the whole crazy game…I knew I wouldn’t forget him. I’d hear his voice, the way he would talk when he was explaining something…

Would anyone ever look at me the way he did? That awe, that raw unfiltered appreciation and need and desire, undiluted and pure. The way he would touch me, as if just getting to hold my hand was a gift, as if kissing me was something precious.

Who could ever match that, much less surpass it?

I had to talk to him.

I owed him an apology; more than that, I owed him the truth.

The idea froze me to my bones with fear: it meant going to where he was, which meant outing myself. It meant being recognized. It meant bringing my craziness into his world. Would he feel betrayed that I hadn’t told him who I was? Would he want anything to do with me after I told him?

Would he want anything to do with me even before I explained?

I took off his T-shirt and folded it and hid it under my pillow, and then dressed in please-don’t-recognize-me clothes: my favorite pair of fitted, faded blue jeans with the holes in the thighs and under the back pockets, a soft T-shirt that hugged my body, and a thick wool cardigan the hem of which hung to my knees, with an exaggerated collar and huge wooden buttons, and my favorite pair of flats. And, of course, my Dodgers cap and bug-eyed, mirrored aviator sunglasses.

Which was ridiculous, because it was now late at night, at least one in the morning—I’d spent countless hours researching and reading online. But yet, sunglasses at night were the norm in my world, and I felt more secure with them on, so I wore them despite the darkness of the night.

It only took a quick Google search to come up with an address for Badd’s Bar and Grill, about a mile and a half away straight down the docks. Firming up my resolve to do what I could to fix the mess I’d made, I started walking, following the water.

It was dark, with heavy clouds blocking out the sky and a thick fog hanging low, sprinkling my face with cool mist as I walked. I was the only one out at this hour, and my footsteps echoed loudly on the wood of the docks, making my walk that much lonelier, somehow.

Halfway there, panic hit. What if his whole family was there? What if the bar was full of patrons and I got mobbed without security or a car or a driver or even Emily around to shield me?

What if Xavier didn’t want to see me?

…and the way he’d taken off, that wouldn’t surprise me.

God, I’d made a damn mess of things.

I stopped, a hand on a wooden pylon, equal parts fear and ridiculous hope warring within me. Fear that he’d turn me away, fear that I’d hurt him too much, that I’d pushed him away, fear that I’d get recognized. Hope that he might still want to talk to me, want to see me, or at least give me a chance to explain.

What I’d say, I had no idea.

On impulse, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and turned it on—I’d snagged it on the way out, just in case. I dialed a number.

“Hello, Miss Grace,” the pleasant male voice on the other end answered on the second ring despite the late hour. “How can I help you?”

“I need the crew back on the boat as soon as possible. I would like to move on.” I swallowed hard. “As soon as possible.”

“Certainly, ma’am. I will alert the crew. They’ll be ready to cast off within twenty-four hours.”

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure, Miss Grace.”

I hung up, switched the phone back off without checking emails or calls or messages or social media, and resumed my walk.

There.

Now the decision was made—I would say what I needed to say, and I would leave Xavier in peace. This whole thing had been stupid in the first place, and has all been my fault. He had a status quo before he met me, a life that, from everything he said, he was content with. I didn’t fit into that. And he didn’t fit into mine.

Within another few minutes, I saw it: a small, unassuming two-story brick building. A neon sign, red cursive lettering over the door, read Badd’s Bar & Grill. The door was propped open by a chair, on which was sitting a truly mammoth individual—at least six-two, and built for raw, intimidating power, with the kind of muscles you see on Olympic powerlifters and the occasional pro wrestler turned movie star…pick whichever one you prefer. He had short, messy brown hair, and was kicked back in the chair, toes hooked around the legs of the chair propping open the door, a thick paperback book in his hands, the pages flipping rapidly.

He didn’t look up until I was halfway through the door, at which point he peered at me over his book, scrutinizing me—probably to assess my age. When he saw me, his gaze narrowed and he set the book down open-face on his thigh.

“Do I know you?” he demanded.

This was one of Xavier’s brothers—I tried to remember all the names and descriptions he’d given, but came up short. “Um.” I shook my head and shrugged. “No. Never been here before.”

The huge, burly man nodded. “Sorry. Thought I recognized you.” He waved a hand. “Have fun, darlin’.”

He called me darling dismissively, one of those guys who calls every female darling, regardless of age or interest; he struck me as the type who’d call Michelle Obama “darling” if he met her.

I entered the bar, looking around. It was low-ceilinged and dimly lit, strongly resembling the interior of a pub in the UK. The bar ran along the right-hand wall as you entered, with booths along the left and tables in between. There was a doorway leading to the kitchen at the back near the service end of the bar, and a booth right next to the open doorway leading to the kitchen. A TV over the bar played sports highlights. To the left of the kitchen, in the very back left corner of the bar, was a small nook with a slightly raised dais ringed by a wooden baluster, and there was a closed door at the very back of the bar between the bathrooms and the stage.

The bar wasn’t as empty as I’d hoped, but everyone in it seemed to know everyone else—they were all clustered together around the service bar, passing around a stack of papers which they were discussing. There were two men behind the bar—both of them smoldering hot, in the tall, dark, and intimidatingly massive sort of way, with the dark hair and dark eyes that I was noticing these men all had in common—along with heart-palpitating good looks. Another man stood on the customer side of the bar, hands resting on the backs of two chairs, both of which were occupied by women, both on the shorter side, and blonde. Another man, younger than the others but perhaps older than Xavier, his long hair in a ponytail, also sat at the bar, and beside him a dark-skinned woman with thick black dreadlocks. There was a redhead, a woman with thick, loose, straight black hair, another man with longish, messy brown hair, his arm around yet another stunning blonde.

I stood in the middle of the bar—empty except for them—and realized this was Xavier’s family. His brothers and their wives and girlfriends.

And they were all looking at me.

The tallest man, who also looked to be the oldest—making him Sebastian, I thought—waved at me. “Come on in and grab a chair. Don’t mind us.” He sidled away from the group as I approached the bar. “What can I getcha?”

I took a chair well away from the group, sitting down nervously, trying to figure out what to do next, now that I was here. “Um. White wine?”

He withdrew two bottles from a small cooler under the counter and thudded them in front of me at an angle, eying the labels. “We got Kendall Jackson, and…however the fuck you pronounce this French bullshit.”

I smiled despite my nerves. “I’ll take the French bullshit. Thank you.”

He popped the cork, flipped a stem glass around a finger with a practiced flourish, and poured a generous amount. “There ya go. Pay now or start a tab?”

I swallowed hard. “I—actually…um…”

He frowned slightly, waiting, and then laughed when I came up empty. “Need a minute to decide? No worries. Just don’t try and run off past Bax without paying. That big motherfucker is fast.” He said this with a wink, moving back to the cluster of his family.

One of the women was looking at me hard—Claire, the diminutive, exhibitionist girlfriend of Xavier’s brother Brock, who I recognized standing behind her. I’d met them both, sort of, when we’d borrowed their fishing gear. And now Claire was eying me.

She got up off her chair and took the one next to me. “Hi. You’re Xavier’s friend, aren’t you? Low? We met the other day.”

I nodded, keeping my eyes on my wine. “Yeah. That’s me.”

She wasn’t very friendly, at the moment. “I don’t know with happened with you two, but he came back here at a dead run, half-naked, and acting more upset than I’ve ever seen him.”

“I know.” I took a fortifying sip of wine. “I…I’m actually here to—”

Someone else came up to stand between Claire and me—she was tall with platinum blonde hair done in a neat twist, wearing yoga pants cinched at the knee with an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt, looking effortlessly elegant.

“Hey, I’m Aerie,” she said, extending a hand to mine, which I shook without making more eye contact than necessary.

“Low,” I offered, still hoping to make it out of this without a scene.

Claire was still staring hard at me. “Not to be rude or whatever, but would you mind taking off your sunglasses for a minute?”

I hedged. “I’d rather not.”

She snorted. “You ashamed of yourself for hurting poor sweet innocent Xavier and can’t look me in the eye?”

“Is he here?” I asked, my voice barely audible.

“I dunno,” Claire said, her voice razor sharp. “That depends on why you’re here…and what happened to upset him.”

I breathed out shakily. “What happened is kind of between him and me, but just…I didn’t mean to hurt him, and I just want to talk to him.”

Aerie was now staring hard at me, but in a different way. “You look familiar.”

I took another long drink. “You must be mistaken.”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. I know you, somehow.” Her eyes flicked over the explosion of curls springing out from the back of my cap. “I’m certain I’ve seen you, or met you somewhere.”

“We’ve never met, I can guarantee you that.” The truth, at least.

Why was I drawing this out? I was here to make peace with Xavier, wasn’t I?

I sighed, realizing it would be better in the long run to just get it over with.

Slowly, I drew the hat off and removed the sunglasses, and shook my hair out. I didn’t say my name—I didn’t have to.

Aerie’s breath caught. “Harlow Grace,” she breathed.

Claire’s jaw dropped. “You’re Xavier’s friend?”

I tossed the hat and sunglasses on the bar. “Yeah.”

“Holy shit.” She laughed, then. “He was hanging out with Harlow Grace and never told any of us?”

Brock, her boyfriend or husband or whatever, heard that. “Who was hanging out with Harlow Grace and didn’t tell us?” he asked, pivoting to join the conversation; then, he saw me. “Holy shit, it’s Harlow Grace. In our bar.”

“Goddammit,” I muttered under my breath. “Here we go.”

Brock howled in laughter, as if something hysterical had happened which I’d missed. “Yo, Bast! Come get a load of this!”

The bartender, who was indeed Sebastian, the oldest, ambled over, eyeing me warily. “What?”

Brock gestured at me. “You know who she is?”

He frowned. “Seen you in a few movies I think, but…” The penny dropped, then. “Harlow Grace. That’s you, yeah?

“Yes,” I said, a little too loudly and with a little too much irritation—but these weren’t random fans, these were Xavier’s family. “I’m Harlow Grace.”

“She’s also the friend—” here, Claire sarcastically emphasized the word, “Xavier has been hanging out with lately.”

Bast’s intimidating gaze turned scary. “You’re his friend? Low?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“He showed up all freaked out a while ago. Care to explain that?” Bast demanded.

“We’re all pretty protective of our boy, you see,” I heard from behind me—Bax, the bouncer, had appeared.

“I—um. It was…a misunderstanding,” I said.

Lucian, the long-haired brother, spoke for the first time. “Does he know that?”

I couldn’t answer. I just kept my eyes on my wine.

“Oh hell no, bitch, you did not,” Claire snapped; apparently she was the one with the fewest shits to give.

I jerked my head up to glare at her, my eyes blazing. “Now just hold on a damn minute—you don’t know me, or our situation, and you certainly do not get sit there judging me and calling me names!”

Claire crossed her arms over her chest. “I sure as fuck do get to sit here judging and calling names, bitch—that’s my brother-in-law we’re talking about and he’s…Xavier isn’t the kind of person you can just go and fuck with his head and his heart and think he’ll be okay with it. He’s not like that.”

I felt my eyes prickling and burning, a knot in my throat. “I know. I know that…now.”

“Yeah, now…after you fucked with his head.” This was from Aerie.

Bast, as they called him, had his arms crossed over his massive chest, thick forearms tensed and ropy, tattoos shifting, dark brown eyes glinting. “Like Bax said, we’re all pretty protective of Xavier. He’s…unique.”

“You think I don’t realize that? Why do you think I’m here? You think I’d risk my privacy and anonymity showing up at a bar when I’m on vacation and under the radar for just anyone?” I was standing up, gesturing angrily, my voice raising. “I fucking know he’s unique, and I get exactly why you’re protective of him, but I—”

“Carried on whatever you had going on with him, in secret, when he had no idea who you were, or what getting involved with you might mean for him,” the redhead pointed out. “Which is kind of shitty.”

“It wasn’t secret,” I protested. “I just…I value my privacy, okay? I doubt any of you would understand.” I blanched as I realized how that sounded. “I don’t mean that as an insult to any of you, I just…being famous can be hard, okay?”

“Oh poor you! Poor Harlow Grace,” Claire snarked. “You can’t just go fucking around with the hearts of sweet, innocent, precious local boys just because you’re rich and famous.”

This girl was gonna get smacked in a second.

“You need to back off. It’s not like that.” I stabbed a finger at her. “And you’re all acting like Xavier is incapable of making decisions for himself, like he’s some helpless child or something. He’s not.”

“I’m not sure you’re in a position to make that judgment call,” the redhead said. “He’s our family, and you’ve known him for what, a matter of days?”

“Maybe that’s exactly why I am in a position to make that call,” I said. “Because I’m seeing him more objectively than you. You’re protective of him, and I get that, but just because he’s high-functioning autistic doesn’t make him helpless. It just makes him different.”

The silence following my pronouncement was icy and fragile.

“He’s what?” Bast asked, leaning toward me, suddenly so scary-quiet I might’ve peed a little. “Repeat that.”

I was confused; did his family not know? “High-functioning autistic with savant tendencies.” I blinked, swallowed. “Did he…I thought—”

There was a deafening chorus of questions then, all shouted at me from a dozen different directions.

At that moment, I happened to glance to my left, where Xavier was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, paper baskets full of fried food in his hands, his eyes on me.

I shot out of my seat and pushed through the shouting crowd of his family, who went silent again when they saw him. I stopped a foot from Xavier, wanting to reach for him but not daring.

“Xavier, I—”

“You are here,” he said, his face and voice giving nothing away of his emotions as he set the baskets on the service bar and returned to stand in the doorway of the kitchen, as if that felt like a safe space for him. “Why are you here?” This last part was flat, a question spoken as a statement.

“I’m—I hate how we left things, Xavier.”

He glanced past me at his family. “I heard the last part of your conversation with my family. My autism is not something I speak of to anyone. None of them knew. I had hoped to keep it that way.”

I blinked back tears. “Xavier, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—I didn’t know they didn’t know. I didn’t mean to betray your trust.”

He breathed in deeply and let it out slowly, his gaze flicking to mine briefly and then away, then back, taking in my clothing. Once more, his eyes flitted past me, this time to Claire. “Claire.”

The tiny but explosive blonde came over to stand by him, putting herself between me and Xavier. “Hi, Xavier.”

“Hello, Claire.” He spoke without quite looking at her directly; I had a feeling he was keeping his emotions, whatever they may have been, on total lockdown; his hands were at his side, fisted, as if it was taking every ounce of willpower not to pat them against his legs. “You said several things I do not understand.”

“What’s that?”

He looked at me, then at Claire. “You called her Harlow Grace. Who is Harlow Grace? Her name is Low.” He held up one finger. “That is the first thing. Second, you said, quote, ‘you can’t just go around fucking with the hearts of sweet, innocent, precious local boys just because you’re rich and famous,’ end quote.” He paused for almost a minute. “How is she fucking with my heart? Why am I a sweet and innocent and precious local boy? Those words make me sound like…like an anime character with wide, shimmering eyes. Like a boy. Like a child. Is that how you see me?” He paused again, and then continued, his voice still hard and flat. “The third item of my confusion is related the previously quoted statement—the word ‘famous.’ Rich I understand, given her ownership of a large yacht. But…famous? Please elucidate that claim.”

His eyes went to me again, not looking at me directly, but rather looking at me as if trying to see me differently. His jaw was flexing, and his hands, fisted, were beginning to knock against his thighs, and he was staring at me without blinking, as if the whirlwind in his head was howling so loudly his control was shredding.

It took everything inside me to hold back the tears. “Xavier, I—”

“Allow Claire to answer, if you please,” he interrupted.

Claire sighed. “Her name isn’t Low, Xavier. That’s a nickname. Her real name is Harlow Grace, and she’s a movie star. Like, a really, really famous one. And…I don’t know what’s going on with the two of you, but the chances of her intentions regarding spending time with you being totally innocent are…practically nil. Which is what I meant about fucking with your heart. I’ve never seen you interested in a woman, Xavier, and I’ve always just kind of assumed you’re a…well—a virgin, which makes you innocent. And you’re sweet, and you’re precious to me. I don’t mean any of that as an insult, Xavier. You know I love you like a brother, right? I’m just trying to look out for you.”

“You are a famous movie star?” he asked, his eyes shooting toward me, but not looking at me, like he sometimes did.

I sighed. “Yes, I am.”

“Which is why you asked with such close interest about my television watching habits.” He blinked at me, his expression still blank. “You wanted to know if I knew who you were.”

“Yes.”

“Which means you intentionally kept the truth of your identity a secret from me.”

I blinked back tears, which trickled down my cheek. “Yes.” I reached for him, but he backed away. “I’m sorry, Xavier.”

“Why?” he asked. “Why lie, even by omission? Do you not trust me with the truth? Am I not worthy of the truth?” There was a tremor in his voice on the last sentence, and that, more than anything else, broke my heart.

“It wasn’t about any of that. It was…” I breathed deeply through my nose, trying to keep some kind of control over myself. “It was selfish, I admit. People look at me like…like a commodity. Like they know me, like they own me, like they have a right to me. Anywhere I go, whatever I’m doing, I’m photographed and watched and pointed at. Anyone I meet, they only see me as Harlow Grace, the celebrity, the movie star, the sex symbol. They see me for my net worth, for my filmography. They want to know if…” I shook my head, brushing tears away. “You didn’t look at me like that. You just looked at me like…like a guy looks at a girl he’s interested in. And I wanted that.”

He didn’t respond, even facially, so I had no idea if he’d even heard me.

Eventually he did speak. “There are so many things I am confused about, so many things causing me to feel…a great many intense emotions. Hurt, I believe, foremost among them. Betrayed, perhaps. Used, possibly. I also understand the logic of your reasoning, so I cannot entirely fault you, but my ability to trust is…a rather fragile thing, I am afraid.”

“Xavier, you have to know that I…” I swallowed a hot hard knot in my throat; the swirl of emotions inside me baffled me with their intensity. “I kept my celebrity status from you, yes. But everything else I said, everything we did, every moment we spent together…it was all real. I meant everything. You have to believe me.”

“I want to.” He unclenched his fists and shook them out. “I am trying to.”

“This whole thing with us, Xavier—it’s…it’s more than I ever thought it was.”

“I do not know what that means.”

“She means she started out looking for a quick and easy hookup with a local,” Claire said; I’d become so focused on Xavier that I had forgotten we had an audience. “But now she’s realizing she has actual feelings for you.”

Claire’s man—her husband, boyfriend, fiancé, whatever they were—stepped up behind her, pulling her away. “Claire, babe, I think maybe we let Xavier handle this from here.”

“Hookup?” Xavier asked. “Meaning a sexual encounter devoid of emotional investment, intended from the outset to last for a limited timeframe.”

“Yeah, buddy,” Bax said, “that’s a pretty good definition.”

Xavier’s gaze went to me, direct this time, for a moment or two at least. “Is that what you intended?”

I let out a shaky breath. “Yes, and no. When we met, all I knew was you were a hot local guy who was a little…different. And yeah, I’m on vacation so I’m only here for a temporary stay, which meant whatever we ended up as, it’d be temporary.”

“I am not capable of such a thing. Even if I was not a virgin, I do not think I could engage in a sexual encounter with someone I was not invested in, to at least some degree.”

“I didn’t know that then.”

Claire glanced between Xavier and me. “Wait, so are you still a virgin?”

Brock huffed in irritation. “Not our business, Claire.”

“No,” I said, shooting a glare at her. “It’s really not.”

Claire just rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Bite me.”

I frowned. “Why are being so nasty to me? What did I do to you?”

“We all care about Xavier a lot, and we all just want to protect him from getting hurt,” Brock answered for her; he shot a meaningful glance at Claire as he continued. “Claire is just expressing her protectiveness in a less than helpful way.”

Claire whirled on Brock. “You better watch it, bub! I can speak for my fucking self.” She turned back to me. “When someone I love is hurt, I turn into Mama Bear. And you’re just lucky Mara’s not here, or she’d have already kicked your ass.”

“Word,” Zane, the other scarily enormous bartender said.

“Can we back up for one second?” Bax said. “I feel compelled to point out that Xavier has been hanging out with and possibly messing around with Harlow Grace, and I for one would like to just take a moment to bow down to your game, little brother, because damn.” His action suited his words, bowing at the waist toward Xavier, arms extended in a deep, pantomime bow. “Also, Claire, you are being kinda salty. You know I love your skank ass, but Harlow did come here, apparently, to make things right, so maybe…you know…cut her some slack?”

“I’ll cut your slack dick off, is what I’ll cut,” Claire snapped.

The woman with jet-black hair left her stool for the first time. Until now, she’d watched the proceedings in silence. Now, she took Claire by the shoulders and spoke in a soft, gentle tone. “Claire, honey, no one is faulting you for being protective. But there’s no need to be antagonistic toward Miss Grace.”

“I just…I get so mad, Eva,” Claire said, deflating. “All the boys are special to me, you know that, we’ve talked about it. But Xavier is just…he’s Xavier. And the thought of some big-shot Hollywood superstar waltzing in and messing with him when he’s such a gentle and special soul, it just…I just get—”

“I know, I know,” the other woman, Eva, said. “But Brock was right when he suggested we let Xavier handle this in private.”

“There is nothing to handle,” Xavier said, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets and heading into the kitchen. “I am leaving, now. I have to think.”

“Xavier, wait,” I said, following him a step. “Can we please talk in private?”

“There is nothing to talk about,” he said, not turning around or slowing down. “You said yourself that you are leaving, so whatever may have happened between us is done, I would think.”

“It doesn’t have to be, though,” I said, choking back that stupid knot in my throat yet again. “I don’t want it to be.”

“Why? You are a famous movie star, and I am just…me. An awkward local boy.”

“I never said that,” I protested. “And I never acted like that toward you, did I?”

He stopped, then, facing a counter in the kitchen, toying with a pair of tongs. “No, you did not. You always seemed to be genuine.”

“Because I was being genuine. I was never pretending. I meant everything I said.” My voice dropped to a whisper. “What happened with us today, Xavier…that meant more to me than you know.”

“To you?” he said, pivoting abruptly. “To you? I’m the virgin, here. I’m the one who’s never…had anything, with anyone. What do you think it meant to me?”

“I don’t know!” I said. “You ran away again before we could talk about it.”

Wrong thing to say—I knew it the moment I said it.

“I was barely capable of functioning, Low,” he snapped. “There is not a word in any language I know which can properly or accurately encompass the level of overwhelming closeness I felt in those moments with you. I could not breathe. My brain was…shutting down from sheer overstimulation. You overwhelm me even more than life does. It’s a—it’s an exponential amount of too much, Low. I ran because I felt out of control. I was drowning.”

“You could have stayed and I could have helped you through that, Xavier.”

“How?”

“I don’t know!” Tears fell then, unstoppable. “I don’t know. I just know I’d rather you have tried than just running away. I know I said I went into this thinking it would be a temporary hookup, but that was before I really knew you, before I knew what you were like. Now it’s…it’s different. I want—I want—fuck, I don’t know what I want.”

“Nor do I,” Xavier said. “Although that is not the truth. I do not want temporary. I do not want lies. I do not want omission. I do not want to feel like a secret, or something you are ashamed of.”

“I’m not!” I said, crying harder. “I’m here, aren’t I? I’m risking exposure I came to Alaska to get away from to be here, to talk to you. I’m fucking—I’m making a horrible embarrassment of myself in front of strangers, in front of your family, because that’s exactly what I don’t want you to think. I’m not ashamed of you, or of anything between us.”

He only stared unblinking, giving nothing away.

I took a step toward him. “Xavier…talk to me.”

He blinked once. “And say what?”

“Anything!”

“I do not know what you want from me, Low. Or should I call you Harlow?”

I sobbed, though I didn’t understand at all where these wild, chaotic, intense, fraught emotions were coming from. “No, please…call me Low. The only people who know that nickname for me are the people I’m closest to: my parents, my agent, my publicist, my assistant, and a few close friends. And…and you.”

He backed away a step. “You will return to Hollywood. To being a star. You won’t be Low anymore, you will only be Harlow Grace, famous person. The Low I knew on your yacht…who was she? Was she real? Was any of that…was it just fun for you? Messing around with a local on vacation?” He blinked again, inhaling sharply through his nose, jaw flexing and tensing. “I cannot be temporary, Low. I do not form attachments easily, but when I do, it is immediate and it is powerful.”

“The Low you know, the Low on my boat…that’s me, the real me. That’s who I want to be. Who I can’t be out there,” I said, gesturing at the door. “I can’t be her anywhere or with anyone. Except you.”

God, where was all this coming from? Why was I such an emotional disaster? We messed around, hung out, talked.

Xavier shook his head. “I do not know what to say.”

“Tell me what you’re feeling.”

He stared past me, this time. “Uneasy. Confused. Hurt. Angry. Sad.” A pause, a glance at me. “Mad with desire, fraught with more attraction than ever. Lost.” He shook his head, and for a moment that carefully blank veneer cracked, showing a hint of the boiling cauldron inside him. “It’s all too much, Low—so many thoughts and emotions it feels like my head is going to explode. I can’t do this.”

“Xavier, let’s just—”

“I cannot do this, Low.” The wall slammed back into place but his voice was almost tender; for a moment, he was the real Xavier, the one I only got sometimes, when he let me in a little. “You’re leaving. You don’t belong here, Low. This isn’t your world. You showed me things I didn’t know were possible, and for that I am eternally grateful. I’ll cherish our time together more than you could ever begin to imagine. But I can’t do this.”

I didn’t cry when Harrison and I broke up; we got smashed together and had some intense goodbye sex, and I was sad, but I didn’t cry. I don’t cry much, and never have.

I hate crying. It makes me feel weak and vulnerable and small and broken, and the few times I have cried, I’ve been alone.

I had no control over this. It was like vomiting, or an orgasm—it was just ripped out of me whether I was ready or not.

Sobs, cracked and shattered and soaked, broke out of me.

Making it worse, I couldn’t understand the intensity of my feelings. Why was I crying like this? I barely knew him. I’ve had casual relationships with men that have lasted for weeks and I haven’t gotten attached, let alone emotional. Part of why I was drawn to acting—the largest part, honestly—was because it allowed me to reveal emotions I otherwise didn’t and couldn’t show. In a role, I could be dainty and withdrawn, or weepy, or clingy; in a role I could be trashy or elegant, wild or reserved. I could be what I didn’t know how to be in real life.

In my relationship with Harrison, I was the affectionate girlfriend, as much the instigator of sex as him, as prone to needing a night out with my friends away from him as he was; loyal and fun, not jealous, eager to please…but not deeply emotionally invested. I had cared about Harrison, and I had enjoyed our relationship, but…

Wherever this intensity toward Xavier was coming from, whatever it was, whatever it meant, it was coming from a much deeper place, a raw, unfiltered, primal place.

So, I cried.

I sobbed.

In front of strangers, in front of his family, in front of him, I sobbed.

Because I couldn’t do anything else.