With a sigh, I drop down into the couch Oliver has set up near the front of the store. Being with her doesn’t feel like our comfortable arrangement anymore. Even if Harlow hadn’t been the one to step up and say something about reining this in, I’d have had to. I watched her fall apart in my arms last night; even the most oblivious person could have seen there was nothing casual about it for either of us.

God, she was so fucking perfect. I’ve never met anyone like her, as strong-willed as me and yet, just handing me everything, letting me take her apart one touch at a time.

Pulling out my phone, I see that I have one unread message, but my finger stops and hovers over the text bubble. I should read it, I know this. And I’m such an epic hypocrite for suggesting that Harlow was at a stage in her life where she hadn’t figured things out yet. When here I am, thirty-two years old and feeling just as confused and unsure of the future as she is.

“Looks like you’re thinking pretty hard there, Hercules. Don’t sprain something.”

I jump at the sound of her voice and my heart takes off in excitement. “I didn’t see you come in.”

She takes a minute to step behind the counter and plug her phone in to charge. Then she plops down on the couch next to me, her thigh pressed right to mine.

“Are you on your way into work?” I ask her.

“When you asked me that,” she says, looking at me with a cute little smile, “did you use mental air quotes for the word ‘work’?”

“Yeah.”

“In fact yes, I am headed into”—she holds her fingers up and twitches them—“work.” She lifts my arm, looks at my watch. “I have half an hour before I need to be there to deliver a tray of mini muffins to a meeting and send some faxes.”

And so why are you here? I want to ask her, but I bite my tongue, knowing if the answer is anything other than “Because I was hoping to see you, dumbass” I’ll be disappointed.