Harlow hands her menu to the waitress, saying, “I’ll have the filet, bloody, and a huge plate of fries.” Glancing at me, she says, “Also a Stone IPA to wash it all down.”
The waitress smiles, her eyes sliding over to me again as she collects the menu and leaves.
Harlow glances up, her lips twitching at my expression.
“Chardonnay?” I ask.
She licks her lips, giving me a sweet, wet smile. “You look a little parched.”
“I was going to order the steak, too,” I tell her, fighting a grin.
“Well, you can covet mine while enjoying your freshly caught halibut.”
Sal is watching us with open amusement, his chin perched on his fist. “The audience is going to love watching you two.”
“Not happening, Salvatore,” Harlow says, still staring right at me.
“It might happen,” I say back, unable to fight my smile anymore. “Seeing as how there was one particular page in that contract I didn’t sign.”
Her face registers surprise but she quickly hides it. So okay, I guess Salvatore left out a few details of our conversation, like where I made a fool of myself and told him I couldn’t imagine being with anyone else. Ever. Harlow is it for me; I’ll shout it from the top of Mount Fairweather if I have to.
“Well, relationship clause or not, we won’t be interacting much in any form until you admit you were a complete dick yesterday.”
Sal chuckles, and lifts his water to take a sip. If Harlow is comfortable doing this here, well, fuck it.
I lean my elbows on the table, saying, “I was a complete dick yesterday.”
Harlow studies my face for a long moment, looking at my mouth, my forehead, my eyes. She blinks down to the table, drawing her finger around the rim of her water glass as she thinks. And then, lifting one shoulder in a little shrug, she ends this perfect moment: “I think you and Sal should probably get started.”
CAREER-WISE, LUNCH IS a huge success. Sal has a million questions and I’m able to answer them all and give him some information it’s clear he didn’t even think to ask for. I signed an official consultant agreement—paying me a hefty five-figure consulting fee—so I can help immediately with set design and certain aspects of the film. I’m a little stunned over the complete one-eighty my life has done in the past three weeks.
Harlow-wise, the lunch was a bust. She took pages of notes, seemed to keep up with everything I said, and even asked a few good questions of her own, but after our brief back-and-forth toward the beginning of the meeting, she didn’t really look at me again.
But it was more than I expected. To be honest, I expected her to ignore me entirely or at the very least for the conversation to never veer into personal territory in front of Sal. The fact that she couldn’t help flirting with me gives me the confidence I need to drive to her hotel after dinner.
When the door to her room swings open, I think I’ve knocked on the wrong door and Lola was totally messing with me. But then I realize the mystery woman who has answered is Harlow in a huge bulky robe, a towel on her head and with her face covered in some white, cracking . . .
“Is that the kind of masque that ends in a q-u-e?” I ask.
She tilts her head, eyes narrowing. It causes the entire facial concoction to crack.
“What do you want, Finn?”
What do I want? I want her. I want her to open the door wider, let me in. I want to pull the tie open at her waist, pull off her robe, kiss her. I want to get back together and make it last longer than twelve hours.
But first . . . “I want you to wash the mask off so it doesn’t look like your face is breaking.”
With a sigh, she slams the door in my face.
The hall extends down for what feels like a mile and I wonder how many men have had doors slammed in their faces here. It’s a pretty fancy fucking hotel. I’m going to guess a lot.
I lift my fist, knocking again.
It takes a long time for her to answer, as if she’s walked away, and is considering leaving the door closed.
But then it swings open, and Harlow is immediately walking away toward the bathroom.
“Come in. Sit anywhere but on the bed. Don’t look cute, don’t get undressed, and don’t touch my underwear.”
I move to the chair in the corner, biting back a laugh.
“I’m rinsing it off because it’s time, not because you told me to. If it didn’t feel like it was breaking my face I would leave it on for the extent of your short visit just to piss you off, you enormous fuckwit.” She walks into the bathroom, closes the door, and I hear the sound of running water as she starts the shower.
Holy shit.
I think she’s going to forgive me.
Harlow emerges about ten minutes later, again wrapped in the robe but her hair is wet and loose and her face is scrubbed clean of the mask. I feel like I can’t properly inhale, like the sight of her has short-circuited my most basic instincts: breathing, blinking, swallowing. She looks unbelievable.
“Did you touch my underwear?” she asks, walking to her suitcase.
With effort, I close my mouth, inhale, and swallow so I can speak. “Yeah. Rubbed it all over my sweaty chest.”
She snorts and throws me a dirty look. “Don’t flirt. I’m mad at you.”
My smile vanishes without effort. “I know.”
Reaching for a brush in her bag, she pulls it through her hair, watching me. “It’s hard to stay mad at you when you come in here looking like that, though.”
“That’s . . . good, right?” I look down at my faded UW T-shirt, my old 501s, my favorite old red Chucks. I don’t see anything special, but the way she’s looking at me makes me feel like I’m wearing a tux. The knot in my chest loosens.
“Is this easier?” she asks quietly, adding, “Seeing me here in a fancy restaurant, or fancy hotel wearing a masque with a q-u-e, rather than trying to fit in down by your boat?”
The knot tightens again. “I was mad, Harlow. It made me act like a dick.”
“I know. I’m just an insta-forgiver. If someone I care about says they’re sorry, it’s done.”
“I’m not like that,” I admit. “You’d already left by the time I decided you were forgiven.”
She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth and sucks it, eyes wide and vulnerable. I know she has no idea she’s looking at me this way, and it makes me want to open up my chest, let her see how fast my heart is beating.
I lean forward, looking around the room. “You know I’ve never stayed overnight in a hotel except for that Vegas trip?”