I wait for him to give me his real name—obviously he can’t have known Oliver long enough for him to be called Not-Joe more than a few months—but he doesn’t. “So you go by Not-Joe?”

“Yeah!”

“All the time?”

“Yep.”

“Well, okay then, it’s nice to meet you.” Despite the fact that I fear Not-Joe is a few synapses short of an invertebrate, I look him over and instantly like him, anyway. He’s wearing board shorts and a T-shirt and clearly has absolutely nothing but earnest giddiness to be right here, doing exactly this. “So you’re going to work at the store?”

When he nods, gulping down half his wine cooler in a single swallow, I add, “Tomorrow should be pretty exciting for you guys.”

“It’s gonna be good. Oliver is the best boss. Or, I can tell he’s going to be. He’s just so laid-back.”

I look across the room at where Oliver is concentrating so hard on the cards in his hand I fear they might incinerate. Unlike Finn, who doesn’t seem to worry much about his appearance, but tilts the odds in his favor by keeping his hair cut short, his face usually clean-shaven, Oliver is hot in an accidental sort of way. I haven’t really decided if he’s as oblivious about it as he seems, but I do know he’s a pretty intense guy, and given that he’s only thirty and opening a high-profile comic store in the hippest area of San Diego, I don’t think he’s quite as laid-back as Not-Joe is hoping.

I look back to the hippie boy. “What are you going to be doing there?”

“Selling comics and stuff.”

I laugh. This guy unsupervised must be a sight to behold. “Oh, you mean working the front?”

“Yep. Working the front. And sometimes the back.” He laughs to himself. “The re-gis-ter,” he sings.

“Exactly how high are you, Not-Joe?”

He stops moving and seems to do a lengthy mental inspection. “Pretty high.”

“Want to do some shots?”

Because really, there’s no way I’m ever having sex with Not-Joe, but my second favorite thing to do with guys is watch them get drunk.

We line up a couple and toss them back, just as I see Finn stand from the table. He tosses down his cards, clearly folding as he pulls off his cap, scratches his head with the same hand, and then slips it back on again. I hate that I find the maneuver so completely sexy. When he looks up and sees me in the kitchen with Not-Joe, he narrows his eyes for a beat and then starts to walk toward us.

“Oh, shit,” I mumble under my breath.

“Does the Hulk belong to you?” Not-Joe asks, tilting his head.

“Not even a little.”