It’s sort of strange to see this version of Harlow: prim and proper and dressed in her slim black skirt, heels, and bright orange silk blouse, long hair brushed and smoothed down her back. She’s funny and charming, composed, and so different than the Harlow I see in bed, the one who begs me to spank her, begs for harder and more. And though it might seem like I’m the one calling all the shots, she’s clearly been using me, using my body to forget herself and get off. It’s a little worrisome just how much I like the idea that I’m the only one right now who gets to see the secret, unraveled version of this golden, beautiful girl.

“Since we’re doing the just-friends thing,” I say, “I can tell you that you look really fucking pretty today, Ginger Snap.”

She blinks at me, surprised for a moment before she grins. “Thanks.”

“Because the last time I saw you this early, you looked like you’d just rolled out of someone else’s bed,” I say, completely bypassing the fact that I saw her just this morning. She doesn’t correct me and... well, good. I think we both know that particular conversation is a land mine, one definitely better left alone.

“Not one of my finer moments, so I’m going to breeze past that and agree with you. Definitely no more Toby Amslers in my future. I’m running out of fingers, so it’s time for me to be more selective in the screening process.”

“Running out of... fingers?”

“Fingers,” she says, holding up both hands and wiggling all ten fingers in front of my face. “This is an incredibly personal decision, and one that can be approached in so many different ways, but I always said I didn’t want to have sex with more guys than I could count on two hands. Eight fingers are accounted for, so I don’t have room for any more mistakes.”

It takes me a second to understand that this means Harlow has only had sex with eight guys.

Or rather, Harlow has had sex with seven guys that aren’t me.

And... I’m conflicted. On the one hand, I’m sort of surprised. It’s not that I had some sort of preconceived notion about any of this, but rather that Harlow herself seems to go out of her way to make people think her sex life is something it’s clearly not.

On the other hand, I think of myself as a pretty progressive guy, and as long as you’re not cheating or hurting anyone, you should be able to love or marry or fuck whoever you want. Still, as hypocritical as it is, there’s something about listening to Harlow talk about the others guys she’s been with that’s making it hard to just sit here and nod.