Harlow

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I didn’t want to wake up. God, I felt so comfortable. So warm. Every molecule in my being felt…perfect. There was a golden warmth on my face, something solid and warm and smooth under my cheek. A heartbeat thumping gently, rhythmically, steadily.

But now that I was enveloped in this warm beautiful floating happiness, I didn’t want to fall back asleep either. I just wanted to float here, enjoying this.

Had I ever been this perfect?

Sensations intruded into my awareness, one by one: the solidness under my cheek and the heartbeat in my ear melded with an arm across my shoulders, and then I felt a hand on my left buttock, resting naturally, easily; I heard a breath, a low sound from somewhere above my head, and then I felt a faint touch of that breathing on my hair; my thigh was draped casually over a muscled leg.

A man.

Strong. Gentle. Warm, and solid. Holding me in his arms, cradling me in a protective cocoon I never, ever wanted to leave.

Full awareness slammed into me like a lightning bolt—Xavier. His family. Crying. The tourists, the photographs.

Of me.

Kissing Xavier.

Hiding behind him.

Probably with puffy eyes and swollen lips.

Posted on the Internet.

I heard a familiar sound, then, and my heart sank and went cold at once—I heard voices, a thunderous din of them, shouting questions and recording clips.

The pap were here.

I’ve brought them down upon Xavier and his brothers and their women.

I wonder if they have any idea what’s about to hit them, now that the world at large has gotten a glimpse of those eight men, each more gorgeous than the last.

I slipped out of Xavier’s arms and tiptoed to the window, which looked out over the street and the docks beyond it. Standing to one side of the window, I edged carefully around the edge of the frame until I could peek out.

Fuck.

It was a full-court press, at least a hundred of them, photographers and reporters and video camera teams, all clustered around the entrance to Badd’s Bar and Grill.

I rolled away from the window and put my back to the wall, buried my face in my hands, and groaned.

“Low?” Xavier’s voice, sleepy. “What is it?”

“The paparazzi are here.”

“The what?” he asked, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

His hair was mussed and sticking up in a million directions, his eyes were half-closed, and he rubbed them with his fists, then stretched, feline and languorous, making a moaning sound that shot straight to my core.

I forced my eyes away from his abs and turned away from him to hide the hardened nubs of my nipples protruding against my thin borrowed T-shirt.

“The paparazzi. Reporters. Photographers,” I answered, and began gathering my clothes.

“Why are they here?” He was still half-asleep, and adorable and delicious and sexy all at once.

“Because those tourists last night posted photos of me, and now everyone knows I’m here.”

He blinked twice, and then seemed to hear the noise for the first time and padded on bare feet over to the window.

“Stay to one side,” I cautioned. “Don’t let them see you.”

“Why?”

I laughed, somewhat bitterly. “You don’t want them to get any more photos of you than you can help. The less they see of you, the less they know of you, the better.”

He glanced at me, and then turned his gaze out the window, standing to one side as I’d suggested. “I don’t understand.”

I sighed. “They’re going to ask questions. They’ll get your email address, your phone number. They’ll stand out there asking questions and taking pictures and blocking the entrance and scaring away customers. They’ll write speculative stories about you full of lies. They’ll make up stories if there aren’t any to find. By now, those photos of me and you, from last night, will have sparked a hundred different articles. Probably speculating that you’ve gotten me pregnant, or that we secretly eloped, or…who knows. They come up with the craziest shit.” I was sitting on the side of his bed, my clothes in my lap, idly toying with the strap of my bra. “Now that they know who you are, things won’t be the same. Eventually, if you keep your head down and don’t give them a story, they’ll forget about you. But in the meantime, things are about to get a little crazy for you guys.”

He didn’t answer, just stared out the window at the crowd of paparazzi.

“Xavier…” I started, but didn’t really have anything to say. Or at least, nothing I knew how to say.

He turned his eyes to mine. “Yes, Low?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. Just…I guess I’m sorry I brought this on you.”

“They will go away, won’t they?”

I shrugged. “I mean…eventually? But how long can I hide in here? I have to leave eventually.”

He sighed. “I suppose you do.” He moved away from the window, began withdrawing clothes from his bureau. “There is a back door through the kitchen. We can sneak out that way and hopefully get you onto your boat.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

There was a huge weight in the air, an unacknowledged tension; if I was leaving, this was the beginning of goodbye. The end. And, as he’d said it would, having slept together, having woken up in his arms, had only confused my heart.

Or, rather, not confused, but…intensified the feelings I had for him.

Shit, I couldn’t afford to have feelings for Xavier. I barely knew him. We hadn’t even had sex. We were from different worlds, and he had said in so many words that he couldn’t handle a relationship with me—and that was before he knew I was a celebrity…and he still had no real understanding of what that meant. Not really.

He stepped into tight black jeans and shrugged on a black T-shirt emblazoned with a logo of some kind—some obscure company I’d never heard of. Socks, combat boots, and a quick finger-combing of his hair, and he was ready.

I laughed. “Boys. Throw on whatever, messy hair, and you still look sexy as fuck. Wish it was that easy for me.”

He moved for the door. “I will give you privacy to change.”

“Why? You’ve seen me naked already, and more than once.”

He stood with his hand on the knob, not turning to look at me, his voice low, almost a growl. “Because nothing has changed, Low. You’re leaving. There is no us. And if I don’t leave right now, I will do something which will only make this even more impossible than it already feels.”

“Like what, Xavier?” I asked, knowing the answer, wanting the answer, and hating the answer as much as I craved it.

“Like kiss you. Like rip that T-shirt apart so I can see your beautiful, perfect, naked body. Like put my face between your thighs and make you feel good again.” He thudded his forehead against the door, hard. “You’ve infected all that I am with all that you are, Harlow Grace, and now you have to leave, because I do not know how to do this with you, and you cannot do this with me, and I fucking want you with a power that terrifies me down to my very blood and bones.”

I swallowed hard, mouth dry, heart hammering, core throbbing, nipples aching, hands twisted into knots, eyes swimming. “Xavier—”

“I lied,” he interrupted. “I would not rip that shirt off of you. I would remove it carefully, because that is my second-favorite shirt.”

I glanced down at the faded gray cotton. “Don’t leave, Xavier.”

“I’m not—you are.” He stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind him.

Fuck.

Fuck!

Why did this hurt so much? What was wrong with me? Why did I feel like letting Xavier walk out that door was a mistake?

I couldn’t afford this. I couldn’t afford the attention. I couldn’t afford the drama surrounding Xavier. I was supposed to be recuperating and gaining fresh energy to focus on my career. I was supposed to be hiding in the middle of nowhere, writing my screenplay and reading and tanning and doing yoga, not falling for a tall, dark, handsome, Alaskan super-genius with high-functioning autism and a perfect body and a smile that could slay me and eyes that saw into my soul and lips that set me on fire and hands that owned me.

Falling for? Or had fallen for?

It didn’t matter which, though, did it?

I changed into my clothes, folded his T-shirt and put it on his pillow. The robot he’d given me was on the desk, and I picked it up, looking at it.

His talent was incredible—the device he’d created was simple, beautiful, and complex all at once, a perfect little creation that was utterly unique.

Just like him.

I clutched the disc in my hand and exited his room, found him waiting for me in the kitchen. Bast was there as well, with the redheaded woman leaning up against him, her arm around his waist and her palm on his chest.

When I came out, they all looked to me.

“We’ve got a fuckin’ circus out there,” Bast said.

“I know, I saw,” I said. “I’m sorry. Once I leave, they should leave you guys alone.”

Dru snorted. “Yeah, not likely.” She grabbed a cell phone off the counter behind her, unlocked it, tapped at it, scrolled a moment, and then handed it to me.

I took it, reading the headline on a gossip blog with several million regular readers: Harlow Grace spotted in Alaska in the arms of a BADD boy! All the dramatic details inside!

I skimmed the article quickly—it was all rife, rank speculation and made up nonsense, but it featured several photographs. The first one was of Xavier and me, lips locked, his hand squeezing my ass, my fingers knotted in his hair. The second was me peering out from behind him, looking startled and scared and angry. The third was me standing out in front, facing the photographer—this one was a close-up, a little grainy from the zoom on the cell phone camera, but it showed me in all my angst-ridden glory—it was obvious I’d been crying, and my lips were swollen from kissing Xavier, and the expression on my face was…not flattering.

There were several more photos of Xavier’s brothers, and after scrolling through the comments; I realized people were as thirsty for more of his brothers as they were for news of me.

I handed the phone back to her. “I didn’t mean to bring this on you guys. I really am sorry.”

“We can’t open with that parade of douchebags out there,” Bast said.

“You’ll see an uptick in business once I leave, though.”

“Yeah, an uptick in women coming to paw our men,” the redhead said. “And there’s enough of that around here as it is.”

“There’re photos of all of us, Dru,” Bast said. “Not just me and the boys.”

The redhead, Dru, just huffed. “All I can say is, this is a mess.”

Dru’s phone dinged, and she read the message, and then groaned. “Another article just posted, with more photos.”

At that moment, the door leading down to the bar opened, and Zane stomped through, a wailing baby on his hip and a pissed-off expression on his face. Behind him was an equally pissed-off blonde woman, carrying a diaper bag and a sippy cup of juice. Behind her was Bax with the black-haired woman I thought was named Eva, and…then everyone seemed to arrive, too many names and faces to keep straight.

“I feel like I’ve been violated,” Zane said, shooting a nasty look at me. “How the fuck you deal with that shit on a daily basis is beyond me.”

“You’d think they’d have respect for the fact that we’re carrying a damn baby!” the blonde said, taking the angry child and trying to comfort him. “Monsters.”

Most people thought getting their fifteen minutes of fame would be fun—this poor family was learning otherwise the hard way.

I shot a glance at Xavier. “Where’s that back door? I need to leave. You guys don’t deserve this.”

“Hey, I don’t mind going out there and posing for a few shots,” Bax said. “Maybe I’ll get on Muscle and Fitness or something.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Eva said, laughing. “This isn’t funny.”

“I dunno, it kind of is,” Bax said. “I mean, who’d’a thunk it’d be Xavier that would hook up with a hot-as-fuck A-list actress and cause a media circus outside the bar?”

“Excuse me?” Eva snapped, her voice dangerous. “Hot as fuck, huh?”

Bax just rolled his eyes at her. “Don’t gimme that shit, Evie-babe. The woman is beautiful. That’s just an objective fact. You know I only got eyes for you.”

“No need to be crass about it,” she muttered.

Bax just eyed her. “Crass? Evangeline, have you even met me? That was not a crass statement, not by my standards.”

“I do not appreciate the insinuation behind the term hook up,” Xavier said, his quiet voice cutting through the chatter. “That’s not what it was.”

“My bad, bro,” Bax said. “But you did hook up, didn’t you?”

Xavier moved to stand in front of his brother. “I will thank you to drop the subject, please, Baxter,” he said, his voice harder than I’d ever heard it.

Bax’s eyebrows rose up. “Whoa, little bro has claws, huh? Hey man, no harm no foul, okay? Consider it dropped. Didn’t mean to push.”

Xavier exhaled, backing away. “Thank you.”

I moved to stand in front of him, catching his eyes. “Xavier? The door? I should go. The sooner I get out of here, the sooner they’ll leave.”

“I thought the idea was to sneak out so they didn’t know you were gone?” Xavier said.

I breathed a laugh. “That’s the idea, yes. The reality, I’m afraid, will be…somewhat different.”

“Should we, like, give them a statement or something, to distract them while you guys make a break for it?” Bax asked.

“That’s not a bad idea,” I said. “You don’t have to, but if you distracted them it might give us a head start. If you do, don’t tell them anything real or true. Just…bullshit them.”

“My father is a politician,” Eva said, “and he always maintained the best way to deal with unwanted press was to answer the question you wanted to answer rather than the question that was asked.”

“Wanna play press junket, Eva?” Bax asked. “Could be fun.”

Eva sighed. “It’s less fun than you would imagine, actually, having attended several with my father.” She stood up, exhaled a long breath, and then her demeanor shifted, her expression smoothing and going blank, serene, a practiced, polished smile on her face; she’d clearly had experience with publicity before. “But yes, I’d better go with you, if only to protect you from yourself. Who knows what trouble you’d get into without me.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” I said. “You don’t have to talk to them. This is my mess.”

“It’s our mess, now, because they’re outside our bar,” Bax said. “You just worry about getting your ass out of here without being seen.”

Xavier headed for the kitchen, stopping to glance back at me. “You coming?”

I nodded, sighing. “Yes. Right behind you.”

As I moved to follow Xavier, a hand on my arm stopped me. I turned and found myself face to face with Dru.

“Take care of him,” she said. “He puts on a strong front, but he’s—”

“He’s a hell of a lot stronger than I think any of you give him credit for,” I interrupted. “I think all of you underestimate him.”

“What Dru meant was,” Bast said, “if you guys get mobbed, he’ll panic. So just…watch out for him. That’s your world, not his.”

I nodded. “That I can do.”

I left and caught up with Xavier who was waiting at the entrance to the kitchen. Bax and Eva were standing by the front door, conferring in low tones—it actually sounded like Eva was coaching Bax on what to say and what not to say, and the thought of Bax—big, loud, funny, and without a filter—giving a statement to a crowd of paparazzi brought a smile to my face; I wasn’t sure who was in for a bigger surprise, Bax or them.

“The side door is through here,” Xavier said.

He led me through the darkened kitchen, utensils hanging on racks, deep fryers off, stoves cold. We walked past a corner where there was a dishwasher and a rack full of clean, dry plates and glasses, through a short, narrow hallway lined with shelves full of paper cups, straws, plasticware, and to-go containers. A red-lit EXIT sign illuminated a door at the end of the hallway. Xavier bumped his hip against the crash-bar and led the way out into the alley. It was a dead-end alley, and we stood at the back of it, the mouth opening onto a side street.

We moved to the mouth of the alley where I pulled him to a stop. “Check and see if they’re looking this way,” I said. “Sometimes they’ll post lookouts.”

Xavier snorted. “This feels like The Great Escape. Next thing I know, we’ll be dodging Nazi bullets.”

“You should see what I go through to give them the slip in LA or New York,” I said. “Decoy cars, sneaking in and out of delivery doors, getaway drivers, disguises.”

“Does it work?”

“Usually. I can’t avoid them all the time, though.”

“What do you do when they catch you?”

I shrugged. “Pose for selfies, hug my fans, and give autographs.”

“It must be strange, is it not?” he asked, leaning around the corner to look.

“What?”

“All the craziness you go through. People chasing you just for a picture of you. Standing in line for hours for your signature.” He waved toward the crowd of paparazzi around the corner. “Objectively speaking, the notion of fame is…just strange. You are just an average person. You are more attractive than most, and you have a facility for acting, but to translate that into millions of people around the world knowing you and craving your attention? It is…it’s just strange to me.”

“Fame is weird,” I agreed. “And it’s even weirder how fast you get used to it, while at the same time never getting used to it.”

“I do not understand that statement.” He turned back to me. “The coast is clear, as they say.”

I rested against the wall, wanting to delay the moment I had to go out there, knowing we wouldn’t get away clean.

“Being famous is fun at first. After my first big role, I loved the attention. The star treatment, you know? Private jets, limousines, photographers everywhere I went, everyone catering to my slightest whim. You get used to that shit real fast. You start to expect it, in a way. Even if you do your best to stay grounded and down-to-earth, you always just know, you know?

“But then, the reality sets in. I can’t go to Starbucks for a latte or I’ll cause a riot. I can’t hit up the mall with my friends, because number one, my friends are famous too, and if we went together we’d shut the place down, and number two, if I get photographed buying something it becomes accidental marketing for that company, which could piss off the companies I’m a spokeswoman for and cause publicity problems. Just leaving a hotel and getting a Lyft becomes a major event. The driver wants a photo and picture for his daughter. The bathroom attendant wants to talk about that one scene she loved so much. Everyone wants something. Random guys think because they saw me in a movie in a bikini that they have a right to grab my ass in public. And you never get used to that, even as you learn to expect it.”

He frowned at me. “What is a bathroom attendant?”

I laughed. “Fancy bars or restaurants often have someone that works in the bathroom. They hand you towels and toothpaste and perfume and whatever.”

“Why?”

I blinked. “Um. I actually have no idea. It’s stupid, and they make me feel awkward, because, like, I can get my own paper towel, and why would I use random toothpaste or perfume?”

“People are strange.”

“They really are,” I said, sighing.

He tapped his palms against the sides of his legs, staring at me, but I couldn’t read his expression. Abruptly, he fisted his hands and then shoved them into his pockets, ripping his gaze away.

“Why do you do that?” I asked.

“Do what?”

“Put your hands in your pockets like that.”

“To stop the tic.” He withdrew his hands and tapped his thighs again, looking past me. “It’s a compulsory movement I’m unaware I’m doing, especially when I get lost in my head.”

“I know that part—what I mean is, why do you stop yourself?”

“It’s embarrassing. It marks me as…as what I am.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” I asked, looking at him sidelong. “You’re an amazing person, and you should be proud of who you are.”

“All I ever wanted, my whole life, was to fit in. To be normal. If someone had offered me a pill that would take away the tics and the staring into space and the social awkwardness, but also took away my above average intelligence, I would have accepted it.”

“But then you wouldn’t be you.”

He blinked hard, not looking at me. “Precisely.”

I swallowed, my throat hot and thick. “Xavier…no.” I turned to face him, trying to get his eyes on mine. “Who you are is amazing, Xavier. You’re…you shine like a star. People call me a star, but I’m not. I’m just an actress. You’re the star. Never be ashamed or embarrassed of who you are. Let yourself tic. Let yourself stare. So what? It’s part of you. It’s not bad, or weird, it’s just different.”

His jaw clenched, and his breathing halted. His eyes fixed on mine so directly and so intently it felt like he was seeing into the very fabric of my soul, of my heart, a stare so open and direct and intense and unfathomable I couldn’t look away, but to endure it was almost painful.

“If…if I could be near you all the time, I might have the courage it would require to do that. Because you make me…you make feel…whole, in ways I never knew I could feel.” He blinked, three times, rapidly, and then turned away, taking my hand and pulling me into a fast walk. “The coast is clear. Baxter and Eva have them distracted. Let’s go.”

There wasn’t time to protest or think, then. We were out of the alley in a few steps, and there were flashes going off and voices shouting questions and the sound of shutters clicking, and then we were in the street, and then on the dock.

“Hey! There they are!”

“Shit.” Xavier pulled me into a run, and I felt them behind us.

Good thing I was in shape—Xavier could run, and run we did. The paps chased us, shouting questions, begging us to wait, just answer one question, Harlow, Harlow, Harlow—

We reached my boat out of breath and sweating, and yet somehow, despite carrying cameras and gear, they weren’t far behind. The crew of my boat was onboard already, and when they saw me approaching there was a bustle of activity. I heard the motor snarl to life, a deep, throbbing, guttural rumble, and then Xavier was hopping from dock to deck and I was right behind him.

And so were the paparazzi.

“Harlow! Who is your new boyfriend? How long have you been seeing each other?”

“Harlow, are you and Xavier engaged?”

“Why were you crying, Harlow?”

“Xavier, how many brothers do you have?”

“Why are you in Alaska, Harlow?”

The questions were fired nonstop, a barrage. Xavier froze, barely breathing, stopping in the middle of the deck.

“Just go inside, Xavier,” I murmured to him. “Ignore them.”

“All they had was a photograph of me,” he said. “How do they know my name?”

“It’s just how they are.”

“Why do they want to know all these things?”

“Xavier! Can you pose for us? Put your arm around Harlow! Give us a shot!”

“Why did you leave Stanford, Xavier?”

“Can you comment on the video that surfaced of you a few weeks ago, Harlow? Who was the man in the video? Were you drunk? Were there drugs involved?”

“Kiss him for us, Harlow!”

I put my hands on his shoulders. “Just go inside. The boat will get going in a minute, and we’ll be away from them.”

He shook his head. “I can’t breathe.”

I moved around in front of him. “Just take a step, okay? One step forward, toward the cabin.”

His eyes locked on mine, and I realized then what Bast had meant. “Too much—Low, it’s too much.”

I took his hands in mine. “Just look at me, okay? They don’t matter. Ignore them.”

“Can’t.” His eyes were darting everywhere, panicked.

I palmed his cheek, and his eyes fixed on mine, desperate. “Breathe. Deep breaths.”

He sucked in a breath, as if he’d come up from under the water.

“Good,” I murmured. “Keep looking at me, and just breathe.”

“Harlow! Look at me, Harlow! Over here! How do you know the men from the bar?”

Cameras were flashing like strobe lighting.

Walking backward, I pulled him forward a step, and then another, and then we were in the saloon and a crew member was closing the door, shutting out the noise.

The quiet was abrupt, and total.

“Why we aren’t moving yet?” I snapped to no one in particular. “Get us out of here. Anywhere, just get us away.”

We were alone again, and Xavier was sitting on the couch, bent forward with his head in his hands, sucking in huge lungfuls of air.

“Sorry,” he breathed. “I’m sorry. I—”

I palmed his cheek again, threading my fingers in his. “Hey, it’s fine. It’s overwhelming. Trust me, I get it. You think I didn’t freeze the first few times I got mobbed? I broke down crying and screamed at them to leave me alone the first time I got trapped by a mob.”

He exhaled shakily, and then glanced around as the ship juddered. “We’re moving.”

“The captain will get us away from here and we’ll figure something out.”

“The captain?”

I laughed. “You didn’t think I operated this thing myself, did you? I can barely make coffee on my own.” I put my nose in the air and affected a posh British accent. “I am a star, you know. I can’t be expected to do these things myself.”

He smirked and rolled his eyes. “Silly me.”

Except for the faint rumble of the engines and the sound of water skimming past the hull, several minutes of silence enveloped the saloon. Ketchikan receded behind us, forested hills sliding past on either side.

“Xavier, about what you said—”

He shook his head, standing up abruptly. “I’m going to call Brock. He can meet us in a channel somewhere and pick me up.”

“I want to talk about what you said, though.”

He faced the rear of the boat, watching our wake. “Why?”

“Because—you…I…” I trailed off with a sigh, and moved to stand beside him, leaning a shoulder against the sliding glass door, looking at his beautiful profile, his strong jaw and intense green eyes. “I care about you, Xavier. You make me feel whole and brave, too. You make me feel like…more like just Low than I’ve ever felt, especially since becoming famous.”

He let the silence breathe before answering. “So what does that mean for me?” He turned his head to meet my eyes, with that piercingly, disconcertingly direct gaze he only gave me rarely. “What does that mean for us?”

My heart skipped several beats. “For…us?”

He smiled sadly. “Yeah? See?”

He tugged open the door and stepped through onto the rear deck, the wind blowing his hair backward. He reached into his pocket, withdrew his cell phone, tapped a speed dial, and held the phone to his ear.

Rather than listening in, I closed the door and returned to the couch, my heart twisting, my mind screaming, my body shrieking.

I felt stupid for allowing this situation to even happen—I should have known better. I did know better. I just ignored my better sense and thought I could indulge myself. I thought I could get away with it.

But…the way he’d panicked, the fear on his face at the barrage of questions, the way his family had reacted…none of it was fair to them.

This whole thing had been a mistake.

I should have just rented a villa in Italy or something.

For Xavier’s sake, for his family’s sake—for my heart’s sake—I had to go back to LA. Before this got even more out of hand.

I remained inside, and Xavier stayed outside. Long minutes passed, and I tried not to think about Xavier leaving, tried to pretend I was okay with this, that I was doing the right thing for him, for me.

He didn’t need the kind of attention being around me would bring. It would only hurt him, and the last thing I wanted to do was hurt him any more than I already had. He was leaving, and so was I. But it was for the best.

This had been a temporary vacation.

And had never meant to be anything more.

My heart was just going to have to get on board with that.

Several minutes later, I heard the sound of an airplane overhead and behind us, and Xavier came inside.

“Will you ask your captain to stop the boat, please?” he asked.

“Sure.” I went up, explained the situation to the captain, and returned to Xavier.

“One last request: will you ferry me from here to Brock’s plane in your launch?” he asked.

“Sure.” I tried a smile. “Let me get someone to operate it for us.”

His smile was as unconvincing as my own. “Because you can’t be expected to do things for yourself.”

“Exactly. Glad you’re finally understanding how we world-famous superstars operate.”

The joke fell flat, and Xavier just lapsed into the expressionless stare into nothingness, dismissing the subject.

I saw the emotions in him, though; in ways I’d have missed when we first met.

His hands were at his sides, but his palms were moving imperceptibly, tapping rhythmically and steadily against his thighs. Occasionally he’d squeeze his hands into fists, and his shoulders would hunch and become tight, and his jaw tensed.

I wanted to ask what he was thinking about.

But I didn’t.

Best not to know.

“Right. The launch.” I found a crew member, a young man with blond hair and an absurdly perfect jawline and effeminate mannerisms.

Within minutes, we were in the water in the little wooden boat, speeding across to where Brock’s seaplane was bobbing, propellers slowing. The crewman piloting my boat brought us up to the float and stopped us in a neat little maneuver, and Xavier caught the strut and stepped from the boat onto the float immediately.

“Is this goodbye?” he asked, gazing at me but not making eye contact.

“I don’t know,” I said, standing up and catching hold of the strut for balance. “I don’t want it to be.”

I stared up at him, longing for one more kiss, one more taste of his lips, his breath, but lacking the courage to take it—I was afraid he would deny me the kiss, in preservation of his feelings. Selfishly, I wasn’t sure I could handle that rejection, not at that moment.

He exhaled a sharp, short breath, almost a hiss of frustration. “Harlow, I—” His jaw tensed, flexed, he blinked rapidly, and then shook his head. “Fuck it.”

And then he leaned forward, bending low over me, one hand on the strut was all that kept him balanced as he swayed way out over the boat and over me. His hand curled around the back of my neck and his fingers buried in my hair, tilting my face up to his. His lips slanted across mine, claiming a kiss, and his breath shot through mine, and his tongue lanced through my teeth and tangled with my tongue, and then the kiss became hot and hungry and wild, demanding, furious, intense and crazed. I moaned, lifting up on my toes. I laced the fingers of one hand in his hair and knotted my other hand in the front of his T-shirt, smashing up against him.

And then, just as I was starting to shake from the need of his kissing, he released me, abruptly and completely, so I fell backward and sat down hard on the bench of the boat.

He wiped his fingertips across his lips as if tracing the remainder of my kiss, his eyes searching me.

And then, without a goodbye or a single word or backward glance, he leapt into the open doorway of the seaplane. The door shut, and then after a moment the engines coughed and snarled to life, and the propellers began churning up to speed, buffeting me with wind. I watched, heart cracking and throbbing, throat thick and hot, as the seaplane inched away, turning in place, and then bounced across the waves with increasing speed, the engines ratcheting into a roar as it picked up momentum, and then it smoothly left the water and angled skyward, and I was alone in the middle of a channel.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” the crewman asked.

I watched until the aircraft was out of sight. “Yes,” I said, eventually.

“You’re crying, ma’am.”

I dashed a wrist against my eyes. “Take me back, please,” I said, in lieu of trying to explain.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Back aboard The Lola, I found the captain waiting in the saloon.

“Do you have a destination in mind, ma’am?” he asked.

I spoke without looking at him, heading for the stairs to my cabin. “LA.”