I focus on the feel of Harlow pressed to the side of my body, and how natural it seems. I keep waiting for her to give me shit, or make some joke at my expense, but she’s completely poker-faced—cool and steady—barely sparing a glance in my direction. I’m trying to decide if it’s intentional or not; is she really not looking at me, or is she just not looking at me as much as she normally does?

I manage to “accidentally” bump her arm once or twice, tap my knee against hers. I even manage to sneak over and fork a piece of her steak. Nothing.

And the more I watch her, the more I want her to look at me, talk to me, pick me out of all these other assholes. I like how she talks to everyone, always focused on that one person without overdoing it or having it ever come across as flirting. And why would she? She’s easily the most beautiful person in this place. She doesn’t need to chase anything.

But... she did chase me, I remind myself. In Vegas, all the way to British Columbia and here, too. Fuck, I want to brag about that to someone.

And I want her to flirt with me, maybe just a little.

Not-Joe’s phone vibrates across the table, and he climbs out of the booth, insisting he needs to go. Everyone else follows soon after. I note that Harlow hasn’t checked her phone for close to an hour, but when she does, there’s a visible change in her posture. Her shoulders stiffen and I’m pretty sure I watch the color slip from her cheeks.

Harlow has barely had anything to drink, but as the others head for their cars or start making the walk home, she hangs back.

“Want a ride?” I say.

She lifts a brow and I laugh. “That’s not what I mean,” I say. “Olls and I came together; would you like a lift back to your apartment?”

“Actually, yeah. That’d be great.”

Her entire demeanor has changed, but I don’t ask any questions. She hitches her bag over her shoulder and follows us out to the truck, insisting on climbing into the backseat and letting Oliver have the front.

The drive is quiet, and my eyes instinctively flicker to her reflection in the rearview mirror. I can’t see much of her, only the briefest flash of light and shadow as we pass beneath the city streetlights, or she looks at her phone, but she’s just so fucking beautiful. I blink up once to find her watching me and it’s all I can do to look away, focus on the traffic, and not kill us all.