“As much I love that you brought me food, couldn’t we have talked later? You know, after the sun was up?”

“The sun is up.”

“Barely.”

Ignoring me, Harlow pulls one of the coffees from the tray and sets it and a cinnamon roll down in front of me. “I do my best thinking when I run,” she says, and dishes up one for herself. “I have a million ideas for you.”

I lean forward and take a bite of the warm, gooey pastry, and swear to God my eyes roll back in my head. “Jesus fuck, this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.” Without thinking, I stand and round the corner, placing a hand on either side of her face, before kissing her full on the mouth.

It’s meant to be quick. It’s meant to be a funny, dramatic little thank-you between friends. But Harlow’s surprised gasp is quickly cut off by a soft moan, her palms moving up to rest on my bare stomach. Heat surges through my veins and I feel every point of contact between us: where her breasts press against my chest, her hands on my skin, her lips moving against mine.

I pull away with a shaky breath and Harlow clears her throat. “You taste like cinnamon,” she murmurs, licking her lips.

“Well, g’day you, too.”

Our heads snap to where Oliver leans against the doorway, arms folded across his chest. He scratches his cheek, giving me the smuggest fucking look I’ve ever seen.

I drop my hands to my sides and take a step back. “Just thanking Miss Harlow for breakfast.”

“I’m offended, Finn. I made you dinner the other day and would’ve appreciated at the very least a sharp pat on the ass. I see how you are.”

“Ha, yeah,” I say, returning to my seat.

Oliver beelines toward the food and Harlow hands him his coffee, along with the now-closed white sack.

“I have to apologize up front, because no way could a man hope to follow up that,” he says, nodding to me. “But thank you, pet.” He bends and kisses Harlow’s cheek.

“There’s one in there for Not-Joe,” she says, and I don’t know what it is about watching the two of them like this, but it makes me feel like I’m being slowly, carefully uncoiled, like this is how my morning should be every damn day. “Tell him I expect a lap dance at Fred’s later.”

I groan, but Oliver only laughs. “Will do. Be good, kids.”

We both watch Oliver disappear from the kitchen and sit in silence, listening as the front door closes, followed moments later by the sound of his Nissan roaring to life and heading down the street.