“Besides,” I tell him, coiling my hair into a bun on top of my head, “I may not know him like you do, of course, but we all know he’s a fisherman who works all the time so basically only has time to bang skanky Canadian hockey muffs that he meets at the local Moose N’ Brew.”

“He doesn’t bang hockey muffs,” Oliver says, mildly offended.

Bingo.

“So just a parade of regulars down at the docks, then?”

Oliver scowls.

I lace my fingers behind my head, grinning at him. “You’re making this so easy.”

He starts to organize some receipts. “I can’t believe you married him for twelve hours, knobbed him at his place in Canada, and have been fooling around for almost two weeks here, yet haven’t discussed any of this.”

“We aren’t fooling around anymore,” I tell him. When he looks up, surprised, I say, “We were too good at it. It was a little too distracting.”

And here is where I know Lola has talked to Oliver about my mom: His eyes go a little sympathetic, a little soft. “Right. Sorry, Harlow.”

“Gah, don’t. She’s going to be fine.”

“Knowing your mum, yeah, she is.” He bends to pick something up from behind the counter and it’s all I can do to not hurl myself across the glass to hug him for sounding so confident. He’s met my mom three times since he’s moved to San Diego—at a barbecue, at Mia’s official welcome-home party, and at a birthday party for Lola’s dad, Greg—and I could tell Mom and Oliver have one of those unspoken über-calm-person bonds where they just automatically clicked.

“I haven’t talked about it with anyone but the girls,” I tell him meaningfully. He stands back up and nods, making the zips-lips gesture. “Anyway,” I say, “tell me more about Finn’s steady girlfriend.”

Laughing, Oliver says, “You’re relentless. He doesn’t have a girlfriend. Though I will tell you that the steady act is far more his speed than the wild trench-coat-surprise act you prefer.”

I let this settle in for a minute. Is that my preference? Trench coat flings and date-count maximums of two? It has been, I guess. My longest relationship was the four months I dated Jackson Ford in college. It never really got off the ground, though, in part because it spanned the summer I was off with Dad filming in Greece, and because spending time with Jackson was about as interesting as reading the back of a shampoo bottle. I’ve always thought of myself as wanting to be in a relationship. But most guys fail to measure up almost as soon as they start speaking.

Lola nudges me with her elbow. “Why are you trying to find a reason that you guys can’t be together?”

“Because he’s horrible?” I lie.