He blows out a breath and I can practically hear him calculating. “I need to unbolt and pull panels from the wheelhouse floor,” he says. “At least a couple of days.”

It could be better. It could definitely be worse. I do the mental calculation of how much money we’ll lose being off the water. “You serviced the engine?” I ask.

“We serviced number one,” he says.

“And? Same? Worse?”

He hesitates. “A little worse.”

“Fuck. How long will it hold?”

“Report says at least six months. But it said that six months before that, Finn. And six months before that. There’s only two percent more shavings in this oil sample than there was the last time. I’d say we have at least a year, easy. By then we’ll have finished the season and we’ll be good. We can do this.”

“Right,” I say, and push off the building. I pass several shops, restaurants, and small bars, the sidewalks growing more crowded the farther I go. The San Diego sun beats down, and I feel the heat of it seep into my black T-shirt, through the thick denim of my jeans. Colton is right; we’ve been through worse. We don’t need to push the nuclear button quite yet.

Why the fuck am I here, then?

“So you’re all ready for the meeting?” he asks, a hint of anxiety finally coloring his tone.

“Doesn’t sound like I need to be.”

His nervous laugh rings through the line. “Finn, let’s keep the option open, okay?”

“I know, Colt. I’m just fucking with you.” Though I’m not. Not really. I want my business to stay the way it always has, and the L.A. Option, as I’ve been calling it, is not an option.

“When do you go?” he asks, like he doesn’t have the date burned into his brain. Like we all don’t.

“Next week.” I lean against a building, scrubbing my face. “Why did I come down so fucking early? I could be there fixing shit and—”

He groans. “God, would you stop worrying? Spend some time with Ansel and Oliver, have fun. Remember fun, Finn? And for all our sakes, please, get laid before you head up to L.A.” I almost trip when he says this because Jesus Christ, my abs are still sore from the marathon sex with Harlow the other afternoon. “All this will still be waiting for you when you get back. Got it? Fun?”

There’s a run-down large brick building to my right, and I glance inside the windows as I pass. My reflection looks back at me against the busy street, but I stop in my tracks. Because there, sitting at a table and frowning down at her laptop, is Harlow.

Fun, I think.

“Yeah, I got you.”