“Take it down a notch there, Finnick,” she whispers. Any other moment and I’d tell her exactly where she can put her cute little nicknames. But right now, I’ll settle for just keeping my shit together.

“What?” I ask, trying to look confused. “I was curious.”

“Curious? You looked like you were ready to flee the scene of a crime there for a second. You’re all fidgety and...” Her eyes make a circuit of my entire face. “Jesus. Are you sweating?”

“I’m fine,” I say. I wipe my palms across the denim on my thighs and exhale as I lean back. “Just, you know. Feeling a little weirded out by all this.”

“By what? You didn’t think I said something, did you?” She actually looks a little offended and so I answer quickly.

“What?” Probably too quickly. “No. Absolutely not. Just worried that, you know, maybe you don’t have the best poker face.”

“A poker... what the fuck are you talking about?”

“You’re always meddling and shit. I thought maybe you’d slip.”

Before she can answer—or, you know, elbow me in the balls—Oliver makes his way back to the table and refills everyone’s glass, before dropping into the seat at the end of the booth, jostling me toward Harlow.

I straighten and mumble an apology but she shakes her head and laughs, leaning close and whispering so quietly I have to close my eyes to focus on her words: “I got news for you, Finn. I faked orgasms for six years before you and have more secrets than you could fit in that giant empty head of yours, so if one of us is gonna give away your big dating show secret, it’s not going to be me.”

“It’s not a da—” I pause, and take another deep breath before reaching for my beer. “Never mind.”

I know I’m being ridiculous, and yet, I don’t relax. Because now, not only am I waiting for Harlow to slip up, but I’m watching her so closely I notice everything. I’m sure I’m staring at her like some kind of a serial killer, but the thing is, she’s not looking back. At all.

A waitress appears at some point and takes everyone’s order, and I’m so lost in my head that I have no idea what I’ve asked for until she returns, setting a giant salad in front of me. Wonderful.

Not-Joe stops by and helps himself to a beer, even crawling under the table to pop up next to Harlow, wedging his way against her side.

“Have a seat,” she tells him with a laugh, and scoots over. Her thigh is pressed against mine and I have to force myself to keep my hands where everyone can see them, and far, far away from where they’re currently itching to go.