THE HOSTESS AT the little podium smiles as I walk inside. She’s hot, in that cool, pinup kind of way, and like she’d be perfectly at home stretched across the hood of a vintage muscle car. Her purple hair is cut short and clipped with little barrettes at the sides; her lip is pierced and so is her nose; splashes of bright-colored ink cover both of her arms. I almost consider calling Colton back; this girl is exactly his type.

“I’m over there,” I tell her with a smile, and point to where Harlow is sitting, still alone, still staring at her screen and scrolling mindlessly through whatever she’s looking at. Every once in a while she picks up her phone, scrolls some more on that, and sets it down again.

The hostess smiles back and motions for me to go ahead, handing me a menu and winking before I turn away. It’s dark and blessedly cool inside. October on Vancouver Island is chilly. In San Diego, it’s as if the summer is only just getting started. Perpetual summer. No wonder everyone here is so laid-back.

Sleek black cushions and couches line the walls and create little seating areas in the front half of the restaurant, while long, well-worn tables and stools fill the back. It looks more like a club than a place you’d have pizza.

Harlow is at a long wooden table in the corner. She’s in some sort of yellow skirt thing today, her tan legs stretched out, wrapped in a pair of tall brown sandals, and resting on a stool across from her. Her hair is pulled back from her face in a knot that seems simultaneously messy and complicated, and as I near the table, I’m more than a little pleased to spot what looks to be a small hickey on her shoulder.

“Hello, Miss Vega,” I say.

She jumps at the sound of my voice and looks up, her smile vanishing and replaced by an expression of surprise... and maybe defeat.

“Finn.” I don’t miss the way she angles her laptop away as I slide onto a seat across from her. “Please,” she says dryly. “Have a seat.”

“You know, I think I actually heard your eyes roll when you said that,” I reply. “That’s talent.”

A waitress steps up to the table and I glance down, seeing that Harlow has only a glass of iced tea in front of her.

“I’ll have the same.” I blink back to find Harlow watching me.

“Planning on staying?”

“Why not? This place seems kind of cool.”

She hums in response—neck flushed but otherwise definitely pretending I didn’t tie her up and fuck her three days ago—and glances down to her phone again.

“What time do you need to head back?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I don’t have anywhere to be.”