Harlow

---

The room was tensely silent.

Lindsey, Martin, and Emily and I were in a conference room at our production offices attempting to iron out a plan for my career.

The photos of Xavier and I had done wonders for my social relevance, but they came at a cost to my image, to my brand.

There were dozens of articles online and in print full of speculation and rumor and gossip. There were exposés on Xavier and his brothers, on the bar, on me, on my career, on my love life, on my stance regarding nudity and sexuality in movies…you name it, the photos of me and Xavier in Alaska had created a new focus for the info-hungry press.

Martin had received a slew of new scripts for me.

Lindsey was continuing to receive dozens of interview requests, and publicity opportunities for me were mounting up.

But none of these things interested me—I didn’t want any of them.

“Low, listen—” Lindsey started, for the tenth time. “You can’t just shoot down everything. You’re back, right? So be back. Martin has a ton of scripts, and not all of them are shit. There are some good pieces in there. And some of these opportunities I have are actually very good. If you want to scale back from being as busy as you were before you left, we can work that out. But you have to do something, or you may as well just quit.”

Martin grimaced as he looked at me. “She does have a point. There are several scripts in here—” he tapped the huge stack of paper, “—that would be great for you. I’ve vetted everything and this stack represents the best of the best. These are scripts that play to your talents as an actress, they don’t have unnecessary sexual content, they don’t require nudity, and any of them would push you along a viable path toward a more commercially successful zone—not to mention being more artistically fulfilling.”

I groaned. “I don’t want to play the simpering, breathy, weepy love interest, Martin. I’ve read the fucking scripts. Yeah, I could play those roles. Yeah, I’d make money. Yeah, I’d get more roles, bigger and better ones. But that’s not what I’m interested in, craft-wise.”

Martin flipped through the stack and found a particular script, tossing it at me in irritation. “Autumn on the Mountain is a damn good script, Harlow,” he snapped. “The character of Judith isn’t anything like what you’re worried about. She’s strong, she’s got grit, and she stays true to herself. But she still has a really strong narrative arc. Yeah, she falls in love. Yeah, there’s a sex scene, but I spoke with the folks attached to this and they’re clear about being willing to work with you on what you will and won’t do regarding nudity. But you have to give us a little to work with here.”

I pulled the script over and flipped through it. “I hate the name Judith. It’s an old lady name.”

Martin tossed a pen across the room with a hiss. “Now you’re just being difficult.”

“What about the Givenchy Couture offer?” Lindsey said, trying to shunt the conversation away from scripts. “It’s solid, and they really want you for their brand. The photo shoots are spaced out, and they’ll work with your shooting schedule.”

“If she ever picks something to fucking shoot,” Martin muttered, more to himself.

I shot up from the table, pacing away toward the window. We were in an office building, way up at the top, and the view from the windows showed most of LA sprawled out beneath us.

“I need to think,” I said, eventually.

“You don’t have that much time to spend thinking, Low,” Martin said from across the room. “Offers will dry up, even damn good ones like Autumn on the Mountain. Givenchy will find someone else. Hollywood will move on. The media will stop caring. You need to decide what you want.”

“It’s not that simple,” I murmured.

“No one is saying you have to compromise your values,” Lindsey said, “but sometimes, in order to be successful, you have to give a little to get a little. Especially in this industry. And Martin is right—you can’t afford to sit around maundering about this forever, not if you want to stay relevant and keep working.”

“We’re done here,” I snapped, knowing I was being unnecessarily nasty, but unable to stop myself. “I’ll get back to you with what I decide.”

I swept out of the room, but I did snag the Autumn on the Mountain script on my way out. Emily caught up with me, her iPad out, stylus moving in a blur, but she was wise enough to hold her tongue until we were in the back of my Land Rover and on the way back home.

Even halfway home, she still hadn’t said anything.

Eventually I caught her gaze. “Spit it out,” I said.

She frowned. “Spit what out?”

“You’re never this quiet.” I turned to the window, watching Hollywood fade into Beverly Hills. “I’m sure you have something to say about how I’m living my life, so you might as well just say it.”

She shook her head, blonde bob swaying, her gaze not wavering from her iPad. “My job is to be your assistant, not have opinions on your life choices.”

I blinked, and turned back to her. “You’re more than my assistant, Em. You’re my friend.”

She went still, stylus freezing. She set the stylus down very carefully, and closed the case of her iPad, finally meeting my eyes. “Your friend?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“I’m your employee.” She looked away, then, out the window.

“And my friend,” I insisted. “So if you have something to say, then say it.”

She remained silent for a while, staring at her fingernails. When she looked up at me, her expression was wary. “If I speak my mind and you don’t like it—”

“I’ll probably be a bitch about it, but I won’t fire you, if that’s what you’re worried about. This a friend-to-friend conversation, not a employer-employee conversation.”

She sighed, picking up the stylus and flipping around her index finger, a telltale sign that she was nervous. “Okay, then. Martin and Lindsey are just doing their jobs, and you’re treating them like shit.”

“I’m just—”

“I’m not done,” she interrupted, and I went silent, gesturing at her to continue. “You came back from Alaska nearly a month ago, and you’ve been absolutely impossible to talk to, to work for, and to be around.”

“It hasn’t been that bad,” I protested.

Emily just quirked an eyebrow. “Yes, it has. I’m with you all day, every day, and I can say without equivocation that yes, it has been exactly that bad.”

I sighed. “I’m sorry, I’m just—”

“You won’t talk about Alaska, so I don’t know what happened, but I assume a guy is involved, because you’ve never been like this before, and I’ve worked for you since you first came to LA.”

“It’s a complicated situation.”

“That sounds like a cop-out—not wanting to talk about it.”

I glared at her. “And so what if it is?” I snapped. Then, realizing what I’d said, and how I’d said it, I sighed, rubbing my face with both hands. “God, you’re right. That was super bitchy.”

Emily smirked. “That was like, a three on a one-to-ten scale of Harlow being a bitch.”

I frowned. “For real?”

“For real.” She glanced away. “I love you, like a lot, and I love working for you. But I seriously considered quitting the other day.”

I felt a hot knot in my throat—something that had been happening a lot lately, which was part of my foul moods. “I’m sorry, Emily. You don’t deserve that.”

“I know, and I also know this isn’t like you, which is why I didn’t quit.” She smiled at me, then. “So tell me about him, and maybe we can figure out why he’s turned you into such a disaster.”

I blinked hard, internally cursing myself for still being so damned emotional about this whole stupid thing. “It started with just…hanging out. He’s so different, in ways I can’t even begin to explain. Sexy. Weird. Funny. So smart it’s more than a little intimidating. He’s…I want to say innocent, but that’s not quite right, and I want to say pure, but that’s not right either. God, I don’t know.”

“Was it good?”

I sighed. “We never really got anywhere, because he’s…he’s hard to get close to, and there’s just…a lot.”

Emily eyed me curiously. “You’re usually more articulate than this.”

“This is what he does to me,” I said, throwing my hands in the air, feeling embarrassed at how emotional I felt. “He…he mixes me up. He’s intense, and he’s…he’s just a lot.”

Emily stared at me. “And you haven’t even slept with him yet?”

I shook my head. “No. And there’s no yet. It’s over.”

“Why?”

I wished I knew how to explain all that Xavier was…but to put his ASD out there without her meeting him first felt…wrong. That wasn’t who he was, and it didn’t represent him. Not to me. It was part of him, but not all of him. And it was that part of him I couldn’t accurately or concisely explain.

I sniffled. “He’s there, and I’m here,” I said, with a shrug. “It’s just over.”

“So? He can’t come here? You can’t go there?” She shook her head. “‘He’s there and I’m here’ isn’t a good enough reason for it to be over, Low.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Because I’m not famous?” Her voice was sharp.

“No.” I sighed. “Yes. Sort of.”

“Because he’s not famous?” She snorted. “I’ve seen the photos, Low, and if he wasn’t famous before, he will be now. He is fine as hell, Harlow.”

I rolled my eyes. “His brothers are all taken, to answer your next question.”

She sighed sadly. “Damn.” She lifted an eyebrow at me. “They have cousins?”

I laughed. “I don’t know. He never mentioned them, if they do.”

Emily let the silence stretch out for a while before speaking. “Low, tell me the truth. Why won’t it work? You’re obviously still hung up on him.”

“I know! And I shouldn’t be. It’s stupid.”

“You’re not answering the question.”

“He can’t handle my life, Em! I can barely handle my life, and it’s my fucking life! The paparazzi showed up, not even that many of them, and he—he froze. He panicked. If we were to have a relationship, how would that work? I could never take him to a premiere? Never be seen in public with him, not because I’m embarrassed—because I’m not—but because he can’t handle it? What kind of a life is that? For him or for me?”

Emily thought for a while, staring at me speculatively. “That sounds like another cop-out, and like a lot of arrogance, if you ask me.”

Anger shot through me, but I kept my voice even. “Meaning what?”

“It kind of sounds to me like you’re not giving him a fair shot. The first time we got mobbed when I was with you, I froze too. I’d only PA’d for nameless executives before that, nobody famous. It’s scary, and it’s overwhelming. They’re so aggressive, and the questions they ask are just so inappropriately personal, and the shit they write is ridiculous. I wanted to quit after that first time. But I didn’t, because I liked working for you. So I learned how to deal with it, and now it’s just part of the gig. You didn’t think twice about my reaction to getting mobbed, either—you just expected me to either handle it or quit. You let me make my own choice. You explained when you hired me how it would be and that I should expect it, and that was it. You gave me the choice. I could choose to work for you and accept what came with it, or if I couldn’t deal with that aspect, I could quit.”

“Exactly! But that’s a professional relationship.”

“And a personal, romantic relationship is even more reason for him to have a choice, but you’re not allowing him that. You’re deciding for him that he can’t handle it. That’s underestimating him, for one thing, and yourself, for another. And it’s just you being afraid, for a third.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “You have feelings for him, Low, and you’re scared, so you’re taking away his right to choose a relationship with you and all that it entails in an effort to avoid the fear and possible pain.”

“Who are you, Dr. Drew?” I asked, my voice dripping with snark and acid.

“Your friend, or so you said.” Emily leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest, an eyebrow raised. “But if I’m wrong, tell me.”

The knot in my throat, the slam of my heart, the pricking of my tear ducts told me she wasn’t wrong. “Dammit.”

She smiled at me. “I’m perpetually single, so maybe I’m not the best source of romantic advice, but if you were to ask me what I think you should do—”

“I am asking,” I put in.

“Give him a chance,” Emily said, leaning forward again and taking my hand in both of hers. “Give yourself permission to go for this.”

I blinked back tears. “What if he—what if he can’t do it? What if he won’t even try? What if he doesn’t feel for me the way I feel about him?”

“How do you feel about him?” Emily asked.

I swallowed past the knot of heat in my throat. “I could fall for him,” I whispered. “I am falling for him.” I hesitated, breathing out shakily. “I already have fallen for him, I think.”

“Low…” she sighed and started over. “I think you owe it to yourself and to him to ignore all the what-ifs and just…try.”

I stared out the window as we approached the gate to my driveway, pushing back the emotion and trying to apply logic to what I felt and what I should do about it.

Enrique, my driver, waited until the gate slid silently apart and then pulled through, the gate sliding closed behind us.

Emily was right. Logic couldn’t take me any further than that—she was right, about everything. It didn’t make me feel any better, honestly. Worse, if anything.

Because now that I could admit I’d fallen for him, and that I had fucked up by coming back here, by leaving him, by pushing him away—by the way I’d handled the entire situation…now what?

I had no idea. Call him? I’d sent myself that photo from his phone, so I had his number, but call him and say what?

Knowing what I should do didn’t help me figure out what I could do.

“So.” I cleared my throat, sitting up straighter. “Business. What’s on the schedule?”

Accepting my dismissal of the subject, Emily brought up my schedule. “Ummm…you have a session with Marco tomorrow morning at eight, and then nothing until four in the afternoon, when Francois and his girls are coming over to show you gowns for the premiere, which is in two weeks.”

“Okay. That’s all fine. Keep my schedule clear through the premiere, otherwise. I’ll make some decisions about what to do next after the premiere.”

“What to do next about what?”

“Everything.”

I just had to get through the premiere. Which gave me two weeks to get back into shape—two weeks to fit into a gown, two weeks to think about scripts and commercial offers…and two weeks to think about Xavier.

---

Three days later, at six in the morning, the sun wasn’t quite up yet, so the world was bathed in gray tinged with soft undertones of pink. The air was cool, and my neighborhood was still and silent. The only sound was the slap of my shoes against the blacktop as I ran. Marco had instructed me, in no uncertain terms, that I had to run every morning, at least a few miles at a hard pace. I hated running, but the dress Francois and I had picked out for the premiere wouldn’t zip over my butt, even with his assistants pushing and squeezing my ass cheeks together and pulling the edges of the zipper together, so I had no choice but to trim down. This meant running, intermittent fasting, lots of salmon and lots of salad and lots of HIIT workouts on top of mileage every morning.

Usually when I ran, I had earbuds in and music going, but this morning I’d opted to leave my phone at home, so I could really focus on my stride and let my thoughts wander. As much as I hated the physical aspect of running—the burning lungs and aching legs and jouncing tits and wobbling ass—I loved the mental aspect of it, being able to just dive into my head and let my brain wander.

I was running hard, and despite the cool pre-dawn air, I was sweating profusely. Sweat dripped down my temples, ran off my jaw, trickled in runnels down the valley of my cleavage and into my purple sports bra—which was the only top I was wearing, paired with tight white booty shorts and my favorite running shoes.

I had the circuit through my neighborhood memorized, a nice five-mile route that wound past the homes of other celebrities, up and down several punishing hills, through some nature trails and back to my house, which sat on a cul-de-sac at the bottom of a hill. I was nearly home, coming to the top of the hill and preparing to push myself into a sprint for the last few hundred feet down the hill to my driveway.

I hit the hill, opening my stride and swinging my arms, keeping my eyes on the blacktop just ahead as I barreled pell-mell down the hill, and then turned my eyes to my mailbox, which I always slapped at the end of my run.

There was a sleek black motorcycle parked at the end of my driveway, on the apron just this side of the closed gate.

Xavier sat backward on the bike, his back resting on the handlebars, one foot up on the seat and the other on the footrest, a Kindle in his hand, elbow resting on his propped-up knee. A helmet hung from a handlebar, and his hair was messy and wild, and he was wearing tight black leather riding pants, glossy black boots, and a leather riding jacket, which hung open, showing a plain white T-shirt underneath.

He was so fucking gorgeous I stumbled as I reached the bottom of the hill, my gut tightening, heart twisting, core throbbing.

He saw me.

He placed both feet on the ground, sat forward, and shoved his Kindle into a saddlebag.

I recovered and finished sprinting the last fifty feet, slapping my palm against the mailbox, and stumbled to a stop, lacing my fingers on top of my head and gasping raggedly.

I pivoted away from him, sucking in greedy lungfuls of air, trying to convince myself that the pounding of my pulse and the shakiness in my legs and the tremble in my hands and tightness in my throat was from exertion.

I heard a scuffed step behind me, felt him, smelled him, sensed him.

“Low.” His voice was barely a murmur.

“Hi,” I said, without turning around.

“Do you need a moment to catch your breath?”

I closed my eyes, filled my lungs, held it, and then turned around as I exhaled. Facing him, looking up at his beautiful face, I lost my breath all over again. Had he gotten better looking? Or had I just forgotten how handsome he was? His eyes were like green fire, his cheekbones razor sharp and prominent, and he’d let his stubble grow in so it was thick enough to be nearly a full beard, which made him look older and more rugged and less boyish.

“You’re here,” I whispered.

“I drove here,” he said, gesturing at the motorcycle. “Or, rather, rode.”

“All the way from Alaska?”

“Yes.”

“How long did it take you?”

“A little over two days, including stops to catch a few hours of sleep here and there.”

“Why didn’t you just fly?” I asked.

“I needed the travel time to think.”

“About what?”

“What I was going to say to you.”

His eyes followed a droplet of sweat as it trickled down my throat, into the valley between collarbones and throat, down my breastbone, and between my breasts.

“What did you figure out?” My heart rate had slowed, but I was still shaky.

I couldn’t blame that on the run, though—it was all him.

He shook his head. “Nothing. I ran through half a dozen different speeches, and none of them were right.”

I knew the feeling; now that he was in front of me, I couldn’t summon a single coherent thought.

Everything was a jumble:

I want him.

Can I straddle him on the motorcycle?

Kiss me, Xavier.

God, he looks fucking sexy in those leather pants.

Kiss me, Xavier.

Tell me you still care.

I’m falling in love and I can’t stop myself, so fucking please tell me you’re here because you love me back.

He looks so good I could eat him.

I can see the outline of his cock behind those leather pants.

I want to unzip him and suck him off right here, right now, and fuck what the neighbors will say.

Kiss me, goddammit.

I realized with a start that we’d been standing at my gate, staring at each other, not talking, for over a minute, if not more.

“You want to come in?” I asked.

He swallowed hard. “Do you want me to?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

He just blinked. “Um. Because I showed up without warning? I just…after you left, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And…I—I realized that I feel…” he trailed off, swallowing hard, flicking his gaze away from mine, to the ground at his feet, and then after a deep breath, he met my eyes again. “I feel things for you, and after you left to come back here, I realized I wanted—”

He didn’t finish. His hands went to his sides, and his palms tapped against his legs.

My eyes went to his hands, and he abruptly crossed his arms over his chest, tucking his hands under his armpits.

I reached up, untangled his arms, and pushed his hands back to his sides. “Just be you, Xavier.”

“It’s habit to stop myself, now. Especially when someone is watching.”

I realized I hadn’t let go of his hands, and both of our gazes went to our hands, our fingers joined.

“Come inside with me,” I said. “I think we have a lot to talk about, and I don’t want to do that standing outside on my driveway.”

“You’re not upset I showed up without warning?”

I shook my head. “No, Xavier. I’m…I’m glad you’re here.”

I used the keypad to open the gate, and Xavier toed up the kickstand of his motorcycle, walking it up the driveway.

“I can’t believe you rode that thing all the way here,” I said.

“I had to see you.”

My heart leapt, hope blossoming inside me. He was here. He had to see me.

I wanted to say so many things to him, but had no idea where to even start.

I used another keypad to open one of the garage doors, and Xavier parked his motorcycle just inside, behind my Land Rover. He followed me through the door and into the kitchen, where Maria was already at work preparing my breakfast.

“Hola, señora,” Maria said without looking up from whisking eggs. “Food ready soon.”

“Hi, Maria. Thanks.” I glanced at Xavier. “Do you want something, Xavier? Maria can whip up just about anything.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “I am rather hungry. Eggs would be very greatly appreciated, thank you.”

Maria stared at Xavier in surprise—she’d worked for me for several years, and the only people I’d ever had over were Martin, Lindsey, Marco, and my parents. A strange man was an enormous aberration in my life, and she wasn’t sure how to react.

“Sí, sí. Eggs. You like onion? Queso?”

Xavier hesitated. “However Low is having them is fine.”

Maria glanced at me. “Low? Who is low?”

He gestured at me. “Low?”

“Oh, Señora Grace. Sí, sí.”

I grabbed a couple bottles of water from the fridge, and headed to the outdoor dining area. Xavier followed, gazing around at my home, saying nothing.

Pale pink stucco walls, dark wooden beams, Spanish tile flooring throughout; an open-plan kitchen and living room, with an entire wall of glass doors that opened to create a seamless transition from indoor living space to outdoor. There was a pool lined with more Spanish tile and hand-laid, interlocking slate around it, a four-foot-high rock wall forming the perimeter around the deep end. Beyond the rock wall and the pool was a little oasis—a stand of towering palm trees, flowering cacti, a marble bench, and a small recirculating water fountain, with a ten-foot-high stucco wall surrounding the entire property.

“This place is amazing,” he said, after taking it all in.

I smiled, taking a seat. “Thanks. It’s actually the smallest house in the entire neighborhood, but it’s just me here, so I didn’t see the point in buying a huge place I’d only rattle around in.”

He frowned. “Small? It must be six thousand square feet, at minimum.”

“Seven, including the basement, plus there’s a pool house. But by Beverly Hills standards, this place is a dinky little shack.”

“I see.”

“It’s just a house, Xavier.”

“I said nothing.”

“You only say ‘I see’ when you don’t understand or don’t want to sound judge-y.”

“The boat, the cars in the garage, this home, the cook…it’s a transition for me, to see you in this setting. A reminder that you are far more to the world than just Low.”

“Maria isn’t just a chef, she’s…well, everything, around here. She’s like family to me,” I said, between long sips of water. “You don’t like being reminded that I’m rich and famous.”

He glanced at me. “Fame is something I don’t really comprehend. But I have wondered how wealthy you truly are.” He blinked. “I think that is a rude and inappropriately personal question.”

“For anyone else to ask, yeah, it would be. But…you can ask me anything.” I twisted the cap back on the bottle. “I’m worth fourteen million, currently. Most of that is from the last two films. I didn’t get all that much for the first one.”

“Fourteen million dollars.” He sighed. “That is an unfathomable amount of money.”

“I suppose it is. I don’t really spend a lot of time thinking about it, and I didn’t get into acting for the money. It’s nice to have, and I know I’m spoiled and beyond fortunate. But it’s not why I became an actress.”

“Why did you?”

“Because I love the craft. I acted in plays all through high school. I fell in love with pretending to be someone else, putting on a mask, channeling this other person who only exists in my mind, and on a piece of paper. I love exploring emotions and characteristics that don’t always exist in my own life.”

“I watched your films.”

I shot him a surprised look. “You did?”

He nodded. “I wanted to know what you did. To try and understand you a little better.”

“And what did you think?”

He was silent a moment. “I—it was strange, to be truthful.” He shrugged. “It was like…it was you, but not you. It was like watching someone I didn’t know occupy your body.”

I laughed. “I suppose that’s a compliment.”

“You are pretending to be someone else, and you are very convincing, which is your job as an actress, so yes, that is a compliment.”

“Thank you.” I eyed him, seeing something unsaid in his features. “What aren’t you saying?”

Maria came out, then, with a tray. She set plates in front of Xavier and me, and then silverware, and then a carafe of coffee and mugs, and a bottle of sparkling water.

“You like anything else, señora?” Maria asked.

I shook my head. “No, thank you.” I glanced at Xavier, and then made a decision. “In fact, with my—um, with Xavier here, I think you could take the rest of the day off.”

Maria’s eyes widened. “I only work one hour. I make food for mañana. And much housework, also.”

“Take the day off, Maria. Paid, of course.”

“If you say so, señora.” She wiped her palms on her apron. “It is my daughter’s birthday today. Maybe I bring her out of school and get her ice cream.”

“Good idea.”

Maria gestured at the kitchen. “Yesterday I make chimichangas, and also, there is a salad.”

“We’ll be fine, I promise.”

She hesitated a moment longer. “I go now?”

I nodded. “Yes, you can go. Thank you, Maria.”

“De nada, señora.”

When she was gone, we ate in silence.

“Why did you send her home?” Xavier asked.

I set my fork down, hesitating over how much of the truth to tell. All of it, I decided. “So we could be alone.”

His eyes searched mine. “Low, I…”

“Why are you here, Xavier? Why did you come all this way?”

He finished his omelet in silence, set his fork down, dabbed his mouth with the napkin, and leaned back in his chair, coffee mug cupped in both hands. “I told you: I had to see you.”

“But…why?”

“Because I shouldn’t have let you leave in the first place.” He paused, the silence heavy, thick, tense. “I should have…I should have been stronger. I should have been braver. I was scared.”

“Of what?”

“You.” He sighed sharply. “Of how you make me feel.” Another silence. “Of how I feel about you. Of what I want.”

“Tell me,” I whispered. “Tell me how you feel. Tell me what you want.”

He set his mug down, scooting his chair out and standing up. He paced away across the slate paver stones, following the perimeter of the pool to the alcove in the corner, where the huge palm trees provided shade from the rising sun, and sat down on the marble bench. I followed him, and we sat side by side on the bench.

My hip nudged his, and my thigh brushed his, and his heat radiated against me; I smelled his leathers, a thin, tangy, sharp scent.

Was I a coward for wanting to hear what he was going to say before I admitted how I felt?

Probably.

The only hint I could give, the only action I was capable of, was to thread my fingers between his, and rest our tangled, joined hands on my bare thigh.

His breath caught. His eyes went to mine. “Low, I…” He exhaled shakily. “I was miserable when you left. I’m here because I want…I want you. I want us. I want this.” He lifted our joined hands. “The things I feel for you are so powerful and chaotic and strange and frightening…it’s hard to admit how I feel, because telling you is to…to allow you that power over me.”

I blinked back tears—damn this man. My power over him? God, if he only knew.

“Why are you crying?” he asked, sounding utterly baffled. “Did I say something wrong?”

I shook my head, sniffing. “No, Xavier. This is just what you do to me.”

“I make you cry?”

I laughed, sniffling again. “Yes, dammit.”

“I’m confused.”

“You make me cry because you make me feel so much…and I don’t know how to handle it. I’m not used to being like this. I’m an actress—I’m used to being in control of my feelings. I can cry on command, or laugh, or look sexy, or angry…I can summon all of that at will, because I’m always in control of my feelings. Always in control of myself. But you—you just…you strip away my sense of control. I’ve been weepy since I’ve been home, and cranky, and bitchy, and difficult, and miserable. I’ve been horrible!”

“Why?”

“Why to which part?”

“All of it. Why do I make you feel that? How do I strip away your control? Why have you been weepy, cranky, bitchy, and miserable? This doesn’t seem like a good thing to me.”

“It’s not!” I said, laughing. “It’s just…you.”

“I still do not understand.”

“I want you, goddammit!” I said, the tears I’d been holding back emerging full force, now. “I want you! I want us. I want this. I want it all just as bad as you do! And I—you may not understand this either, but I don’t want to want you as badly as I do. But I can’t help it.”

“You want me? And us?”

“Yes.”

“Then why did you leave?”

“Because I’m scared too!” I shouted. “I’m terrified!”

He tensed as I raised my voice. “Please do not shout at me. It negatively affects me, and makes it hard for me to retain my equanimity.”

“Sorry—I’m sorry.” I sniffled. “I’m sorry. I just—you make me crazy, and I can’t handle not being in control. Which is part of why I left.”

He looked at me. “I feel equally out of control. There’s so much I want to say, but don’t know how. So much I want to do, but I’m scared to let myself do it.”

“Like what?”

“Show you the things I don’t know how to say.”

My blood raced, boiled. “What if I told you I wanted you to show me all that?”

“Why would you want that?”

I didn’t bother hiding the tears, then. “Because I’m falling for you, Xavier.”

“You are?”

I nodded, sniffing, dashing the back of my wrist across my cheeks. “I am.”

“There was no falling,” he said, holding my gaze with his. “Not for me. I did not fall in love with you.”

I choked. “You—you didn’t?”

He shook his head. “I drowned into love with you. I flew into love with you. I have been consumed with and consumed by love for you. Love for you swallowed me, became all of me, replaced my blood and bones and organs and thoughts and feelings with you, and you, and you.”

I was breathless. “Xavier—”

“I am scared to let myself love you, Harlow. I am afraid of giving in to it. I am afraid I will become obsessed. Addicted. I will smother you. I will need all of you, all the time. I am afraid I will love you with such all-consuming intensity that it will frighten you away. Loving you is—the force of it, the power of it inside me—Low, it is so much, so, so much it scares me.” He let out a gusting, shuddering breath.

“Xavier, I—”

What to say?

Yeah, that’s how I feel?

Same?

Ditto?

Nothing could compare to the way he’d said it.

He wasn’t done, though:

“I cry your mercy—pity—love!—ay, love!

Merciful love that tantalises not

One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love,

Unmask’d, and being seen—without a blot!

O! let me have thee whole,—all—all—be mine!

That shape, that fairness, that sweet minor zest

Of love, your kiss,—those hands, those eyes divine,

That warm, white, lucent, million-pleasured breast,

Yourself—your soul—in pity give me all,

Withhold no atom’s atom or I die,

Or living on, perhaps, your wretched thrall,

Forget, in the mist of idle misery,

Life’s purposes,—the palate of my mind

Losing its gust, and my ambition blind!”

I sniffed a disbelieving laugh. “Did you really just quote Keats at me?”

He nodded. “Yes. I did.”

I leaned against him, twisting to face him, resting my forehead against his temple. “As if your own words hadn’t melted me enough, you had to go quoting Keats at me?” I whispered, laughing through tears. “Damn you, Xavier.”

“Damn me? It was a declaration of love, Low. Why should I be damned for that?”

I laughed again, crying, and slid my leg over his, straddling him, facing him, taking his stubbled jaw in my hands. “Because I’m so fucking in love with you I don’t know how to feel it or express it or handle it any more than you do.”

He blinked up at me, his hands lifting hesitantly, pausing, fingers fluttering like birds, before settling on my waist. “You…you truly feel that way? For me?”

I nodded, laugh-crying still, leaning forward to bury my face in his throat. “Yes, Xavier. I fell for you the moment I saw you running down the dock toward me. I fell for you when you helped me and looked at my ankle with such gentility and strength and care. I fell for you when we watched the eagle catch the fish together. I fell even harder when you kissed me for the first time, and I fell for you when you kissed my breasts like they were…like they were the most beautiful and precious gifts you’d ever been given. I fell for you when you went down on me and made me come harder than I’ve ever come in my life, and I fell for you hardest of all when you told me why you were afraid of letting me touch you, yet still trusted me enough to let me touch you like that anyway.”

“We spent a matter of days together, Low,” he murmured. “How could we have fallen in love so hard, so fast?”

“I don’t know. I’m asking myself the same question. How can this be real? Am I deluding myself? Am I just mistaking my sexual attraction to you for love?”

“Hearing your doubts should worry me, I would think,” he said. “But it doesn’t. It reassures me that I’m not the only one feeling this way.”

I leaned back, sitting on his thighs and resting my hands on his shoulders. “If this was only a week after we’d met, and we’d never spent any time apart, I might think it was just infatuation or lust. But we’ve been apart for nearly a month. I spent that entire month trying to pretend I don’t feel how I feel. Trying to make the feelings go away. Trying to tell myself I was better off here alone without you, and trying hardest of all to pretend leaving like I did was best for you. But I can’t keep pretending any of that is true. Because none of it is.”

His hands glided down my hips, and his fingertips traced the hem of the white stretchy fabric of my shorts, which had rolled up around the inner creases of my thighs, outlining my core in a V. His touch made my heart skip a beat, made my nipples harden inside my sports bra.

“Why do you not want to feel the way you do?” he asked, his eyes meeting mine briefly before skating over my chest and down to where his fingers continued to toy idly with the bunched fabric of my workout shorts. “Why do you not want to be in love with me?”

“I’m afraid of getting hurt. I’m afraid of being vulnerable. As a woman in Hollywood, particularly being as young as I am, I’ve had to be strong, and in charge and in control at all times. I’ve put on this strong, in charge facade for the world my whole life. I’ve never really let anyone in.”

“Why? Did someone hurt you?”

I shook my head. “No, I just…I don’t know. I watched so many of my friends—famous and not—go through relationship after relationship, falling in love and breaking up, giving their hearts away and getting them broken. All through high school and all through college, I watched my friends go through this cycle of finding a guy, falling for him, and getting their hearts broken, and I just…I never wanted to go through that myself. I was the friend they called for wine and ice cream and rom-coms to get over the breakup. I was the one they cried to. I was the one they complained to about how all men were assholes. And I just…why would I put myself through that? Clearly it never worked. The one guy I ever really actually dated, it wasn’t…it was companionship at most. Someone to spend time with. Someone to have the appearance of a relationship with. He wasn’t in love with me, nor I with him. I think that’s why our relationship, such as it was, worked as well as it did for as long as it did—because it didn’t really mean anything.”

I sighed. I played with the collar of his leather jacket as I spoke.

“No guy I ever met made me feel anything, so why would I pretend? Why would I put myself through the effort and the inevitable pain of a breakup for some guy I didn’t really have actual feelings for? Then I met you, and you threw all that out the window from the first moment I spoke to you.”

“How?” he asked.

“Just…everything you are,” I answered. “Physically, I’m more attracted to you than I’ve ever been to any man, ever in my life. That’s part of what’s so crazy to me—I love sex. I need it. I’ve always had a strong sex drive and I make no apologies for that. But you…you intensify those feelings a hundredfold. Needing you, just the sheer physical need for you—that alone is so fucking intense it’s scary. And who you are—you just…fit, in some way. In my mind, my heart, my body. I don’t know how to put it. It’s like there was this hole in my life, in my heart, in my soul, in my mind—there was a hole inside me and you showed up and somehow you just fill that hole. Like I was half of a puzzle, and you’re the one piece in the whole universe that fits in the jigsaw emptiness inside me.”

I pushed the jacket over his shoulders, slowly removing it, folding it, and laying it on the bench beside us, then I let my hands roam over his shoulders and chest and stomach, needing to touch, to feel, to know he was real and here, and that this was happening.

Xavier’s laugh was breathless, disbelieving. “How can any of this be real? You—you—Harlow Grace…I’m sitting in your backyard, with you on my lap, touching me and telling me you’re in love with me. How can this be real?”

“I’m not Harlow Grace with you, Xavier. Not here, not like this, not in this moment. I’m just…Low. I’m the girl who fell over and hurt herself trying to impress you with my fancy yoga moves. I’m the girl who went fishing with you. Who watched Spartacus on my boat with you. Who broke down crying in front of your whole family. I’m the girl who fell asleep in your arms, Xavier.” I slid my fingers under the hem of his T-shirt and ran my palms up the warm solidity of his back. “Harlow Grace is…she’s someone else. Don’t think about her. Think about me. Just…me.”

“Can’t I think about all of you? Can’t I be in love with Harlow Grace the movie star and Low, the girl from the boat?” He traced his fingers up the insides of my thighs, over my hips, and up my stomach to follow the underside of my sports bra. “You are yourself, and you are both of those persons—the famous actress, and just the girl. What if I’m attracted to both? What if I’m in love with both?”

“You didn’t know I was famous when we met. You didn’t know until your family told you.”

“After you left, I talked to Bast. I Googled you. I looked through hundreds of pictures of you, and read dozens of articles about you. I researched Harlow Grace as I would any other subject: thoroughly and methodically. Many of the articles and blog posts about you—most of them, in fact—seem blatantly fictitious. Some contain what I would call kernels of truth with a thick layer of guess and speculation, and a desperation to know more. I watched interviews with you, and clips of you on the red carpet. I think I understand the cultural persona you present, as Harlow Grace, as much as someone as out of tune with popular culture as I am can understand such things, at least.” He traced the lower edge of my sports bra with a fingertip as he spoke, back and forth, back and forth across my back, as if resisting the urge to hook that finger under the elastic.

“And what did your research tell you?”

“After all that research, I sat down and watched all your movies. I even found footage of you on stage at NYU.”

I laughed. “You did? How?”

He shrugged. “If one knows how and where to look, such things are simple.”

I wasn’t sure what that meant, and decided not to ask. “And? What does all this tell you?”

“That my feelings for you encompass the entirety of you, including your public persona.” He followed the strap of my bra up over my shoulder. “But to me, you are merely and perfectly just…you.”

“You’re teasing me, Xavier,” I murmured.

His brow furrowed. “I am? How? I am not teasing. I’m telling the honest truth of my feelings.”

I rubbed my hands over his chest, under his shirt. “Not teasing me with words, teasing me with your hands.”

“I am?” he asked, still sounding confused.

“You keep making me think you’re going to do something. Like touch me under my shorts, or take off my bra. But you never actually do it.”

“If I allowed the way I touched you to become overtly sexual, wouldn’t it cheapen the emotional impact of what we’re talking about?” he asked, his eyes searching mine with his disconcertingly open intensity. “I don’t want you to think I’m only saying this to…get into your pants, so to speak.”

“Xavier,” I whispered, “you getting into my pants is a foregone conclusion.”

“It is?”

“If…if that’s what you want, then…yes.” I swallowed hard, heart thundering with barely restrained need. “I want you so bad I can’t stand it.”

“Then why don’t you touch me?”

“Because…” I let out a shaky breath, sitting back again to meet his gaze, taking his hands in mine, palm to palm between our bodies, fingers tangled. “Because I want you to make the first move. I want you to show me how you feel. I need to know you want me as much as I want you.”

“I do. I told you how intense my desire is.”

“Don’t tell me, Xavier, show me.” I closed my eyes, thinking, trying to put what I really wanted as clearly as possible. “I’ve always been strong and in control, and like I’ve said—you make me feel weak and out of control. Being vulnerable with you is scary, but if I’m going to be totally honest—I want to be that way with you. I want to let my guard down. I want to be…not in charge, not in control, not the one directing and guiding and making all the decisions.”

Xavier nodded, but I could tell he was thinking, so I sat in silence, letting him have the time he needed to formulate his thoughts.

“My brothers, especially the older four, are these big, tough, dominant alpha male types. They take what they want and don’t apologize for it, and somehow, they always seem to give their women exactly what they want just by taking what they want. And I’ve always wanted to be like that, but I don’t know how.”

I hesitated, considering my next words carefully. “I don’t ever want you to try to be anyone but yourself, Xavier. Don’t hide who you are. If you need to flap your hands, flap them. If you need to stare off into space, stare into space. If you need to count, count. If things are too much and you need a break, tell me.” I slid my fingers through his hair, grazed his beard with my palms. “Give me all of you, Xavier. Every little part of you. I’ll love all of it, if you’ll let me.”

He blinked rapidly, and when he spoke, his voice was thick and rough and hesitant. “Why? How?”

“I’ve never loved anyone before, Xavier. I never knew how. More than that, I never knew why. Why would anyone love someone? It always seemed like so much risk for so little reward, but I get it, now. I don’t have a choice about loving you—I can pretend I don’t and be miserable, or I can admit that I do and accept it and go for it with everything I have.”

“What does this have to do with what I said about wanting you, and what you said about why you want me to make the first move?”

“Because the other part of it is that I…I want to open my heart and be soft and vulnerable with you, and trust that you’ll take care of me. And I want to need you and want you, and know that…that you need me and want me back.” I stared into his eyes and just breathed for a moment. “I want you to take what you want and not apologize for it. Because I want everything with you. All that intensity you were talking about? Xavier—I want that. All of it. No matter how intense or scary or powerful it is.”

He stared past me, over my shoulder, unblinking, unseeing—or perhaps seeing more than I could comprehend. Once again, I allowed him the silence and the space to say what he had to say in his own time.

Eventually, Xavier turned those fiery green eyes to mine, and when he spoke his voice was deep and thick and husky, rough with emotion and need. “You’re telling me that if I want to touch you, that I should just touch you. Don’t wait for you to ask me, or to show me you want me first.”

“That’s what I’m saying, Xavier.”

“Just take what I want.” His eyes flicked to mine. “What if what I want was…rough, or wild? What if I took what I wanted and lost control of how badly I wanted you?”

“You are a gentle person, Xavier. And if you went wild, I would go wild with you.” I met his gaze, letting the fire I felt in my blood and bones, in my core and my hands and tongue and lips blaze into my eyes. “Give it all to me. You want rough and crazy? I’ll meet you there, Xavier, and take you miles beyond it.”

His jaw tensed, flexing, the dark stubble on his jaw shifting in the morning sunlight. His hands slid up my back, roamed over my shoulders. Paused, and then danced up my nape, to the high ponytail that had my hair off my neck and shoulders while I was running. With a slow gentle tug, he pulled the elastic ponytail holder out of my hair, letting my strawberry blonde curls explode around my shoulders.

“I like your hair down,” he murmured.

I waited, breathless, for whatever would come next.

He skated his palms back over my shoulders, tracing the band of my sports bra around my back, his fingers running along the lower edge as he’d done minutes earlier.

“So, if I want to see your breasts bare—if I want to nuzzle my face between them and kiss them,” he said, his fingertips curling under the elastic band at my diaphragm, “then I could just remove your bra? Right here, right now, and you wouldn’t mind?”

I couldn’t speak, though a million versions of go ahead and find out ran through my mind.

He hesitated another moment, and then slowly lifted the sports bra upward, as if waiting for me to stop him. Instead, I lifted my arms over my head. He tugged the tight purple undergarment up and off, folding it neatly and placing it on top of his jacket.

Naked from the waist up, the air was cool on my skin, and his hungry gaze made my nipples pucker and stand out hard as diamonds, aching, sensitive, and begging for his attention.

He gave them the attention they were begging for—he buried his face between my breasts, his stubble rough and scratchy on my skin, making me gasp and whimper in delight at the contrasting sensations of his soft lips and wet tongue and rough beard. He kissed and kissed, everywhere, over my breastbone and down the upper slope of my breasts, down between them, his beard scratching the insides, and then he kissed his way to my left nipple first, his tongue flicking over the erect nub. I gasped, arching my spine, burying my fingers in his hair.

“God, yes,” I breathed.

“You like that?” he asked in a gruff murmur.

“Fuck yes,” I growled. “More.”

Cupping them, holding them up, he licked and lapped and flicked his tongue against my nipple until I was throbbing all over, and then he transferred his mouth to my other breast, teasing his way from the underside and around the circumference of it and across the slope before finally taking my aching, begging nipple into his mouth again.

“Jesus, Xavier—”

I was panting, breathless, and my core was throbbing. I seriously felt like I was approaching the edge of orgasm just from his mouth on my breasts.

Abruptly, he pulled away, brows furrowed, eyes narrowed, jaw flexing. His hands latched onto my hips and he pushed me off his lap.

“Xavier, what are you—” I began, confused by the sudden absence of his touch and heat and mouth.

He stood me up, facing him, his hands resting on my hips. Keeping his eyes on mine, he hooked his fingers in the stretchy white fabric of my running shorts, which was all I had on, nothing beneath them except bare skin. I exhaled a tremulous breath; my thighs clenched together, core aching. His eyes raked over my body, pausing at my tits before traveling down to the V between my thighs.

“If I want to taste you again—if I want to bury my face between the warm silk of your thighs and taste the sweetness of your pussy—” his voice dropped to a whisper at the last word, his cheeks flushing as he said it, “then all I would have to do is this…”

He drew the shorts down a few inches, baring the upper swell of my pudendum, his eyes on mine, waiting for the demurral, the reproach—and when I didn’t offer one he tugged them off all the way, picking them up as I stepped out, folding them and placing them on the pile with my bra.

Naked, then, I stood aching and trembling, flesh pebbling from the cool air and from desire, nipples damp from his mouth and throbbing for more, my pussy seeping the essence of my need, clenching around nothing.

He didn’t move, just sat staring at me, his eyes roaming my body as if no matter how long and hard he looked, he simply could never get enough, could never believe I was real, that I was for him.

“Touch me, taste me, kiss me, make me come,” I whispered. “Take me inside and give me a dozen orgasms in a row.” I swallowed hard, licking my lips, shaking all over. “Please. Anything.”

He reached for me, his hands cupping around my buttocks and pulling me closer, so I was standing between his knees. “Anything?”

“Anything,” I repeated. I ran my hands through his hair, gazing down between my breasts at his handsome face. “Everything.”

“Show me your bedroom.”

I took his hand and led him inside, through the gleaming marble and stainless steel of my kitchen, past the heavy dark beams and stark white walls and white leather of my living room, up the stairs and to my suite of rooms, which took up the whole upper floor. My bed faced a wall of windows, with a view of LA spread out beyond, the hillside falling away. Dawn bathed the room in shades of gold and orange and grapefruit-pink light.

I led him to my bed, and I sat down on the edge, holding his hands. He stood over me, a lean, masculine god in black leather and white cotton, his hair gloriously messy, his eyes sharp and fiery and fiercely green. His zipper bulged, his erection straining behind it.

He leaned forward, bending over me, taking my face in his hands and tilting my mouth up to his, and he kissed me breathless, kissed me stupid, kissed me dizzy.

“I want to make love to you,” he murmured, his lips moving against mine, his voice a rough whisper.

“God, please…” I murmured.

He lay me down on the bed, bent over me, kissing my throat and my tits. “Allow me to clarify.” My feet were still flat on the floor, my ass at the edge of the bed, and he dropped to his knees in front of me. “I’m going to go down on you until you scream, and then I’m going to make love to you.”

Fuck.

Could he get any more perfect?

His tongue hit my clit and I realized that yes, in fact, he could.