2. Sammy
CHAPTER TWO
sammy
My day started with a two-mile run, and then slapping raw pizza dough like it was an ass cheek.
I pressed the red button on my phone, ending the video recording. I stood in my kitchen shirtless, a towel thrown over my shoulder, flour scattered over the counter. All of the lights were on, including the soft-boxes that made everything look professional.
My videos were recipe thirst traps, which put me in the crossroads of internet scorn and worship. But I loved doing what I did. I was proud of it too. The amount of money I made from online work snuffed out the worries that my brothers were embarrassed by me.
Out of the three Harlow boys, I was the odd one. Hunter had the farm, and Cam had the winery and bar (or would, once everything was rebuilt).
Both had steady, reasonable jobs.
Meanwhile, I created content online, played guitar, and sang at different venues in Austin, in addition to picking up odd jobs here and there around Citrus Cove.
It all certainly paid the bills, but there were moments where I still felt aimless. It was hard not to question my sanity when my first thought upon waking up this morning was whether the dough would make a good slapping noise for my video.
I pressed the record button again and reached for a bottle of olive oil. I squirted a generous amount on the dough, rubbing it over the surface and kneading.
One could never go wrong with sex pizza, right? Fondling boiled tomatoes, pulling off the skin after an ice bath— how did this end up being my life?— slicing fresh onions and basil to make a homemade sauce, sucking a bit of it off my fingers.
I washed my hands for the tenth time in the last hour. I rolled my shoulders and started the camera again.
“Dammit,” I mumbled, turning up the stove heat for the pasta sauce.
Pause, restart, different angle. I reviewed it and frowned. How could I make it hotter?
Arm flex?
“My god, I’ve lost it,” I sighed.
And now I was talking to myself.
An hour later, I had a fully baked pizza, all the footage I needed to edit for next week’s video, and my kitchen was a mess. I washed my hands, humming to a melody I was working on as I cleaned up.
Just another Thursday, slapping dough. I cut the pizza into slices, snatched one as I made coffee, threw the rest in the fridge, and settled on my couch.
I pulled out my phone and sent my oldest brother a text.
Me : Got leftover pizza, do you want any?
Hunter : what kind?
Me : margherita
Hunter : no meat?? ?
I snorted. Of course he’d say that. And dammit, he had a point. I could have cut up some sausage.
Oh well. Next pizza.
Me : brother you need to eat some veggies
Hunter : you’re the one eating pizza for breakfast
Pizza was the breakfast of champions, and he wouldn’t convince me otherwise.
Me : no pizza for you
I could text Haley. She was always happy to accept leftovers and liked to tease me about some of the comments I got on my videos.
I could also text Colt. He felt like a safer bet.
Me : Hey, I made a pizza for one of my videos but have too many leftovers. Do you want it?
Colt : Pizza before 9? Hell yeah. I’ll stop by in a few
Me : perfect, see you soon
I should probably put on a shirt, but decided against it. I was certain Colt watched my videos sometimes, seeing as he occasionally commented.
Speaking of… I probably needed to check on those.
Most of the time, I didn’t pay too much attention to what people said unless it was actually harmful, then it was a quick delete and block. Ninety-nine percent of the comments rolled off my back, but I’d occasionally see something shitty and get in my head about it.
Living in a small town helped, though. Having my family around me did too. There was the internet persona and there was the real me—the people I loved knew the real me.
I opened up the app as I sipped my latte. I sighed happily, thankful I’d invested in an espresso machine. I’d spoiled myself and was now disappointed if I didn’t have a latte in the mornings.
The sheer amount of notifications made my stomach twist. I took a deep breath, steeling myself to skim over them all. The video from a couple days ago had gone viral and was sitting at two million views.
God this guy needs to get a fucking life.
How did I get here???
Why is this on my FYP bro
Built this FYP brick by brick.
Oh my god you’re so hot. I wish I was there to suck that sauce off your fingers
We love it Daddy, keep it up
Why the fuck can’t you cook like a normal person???
I’d do anything he wanted
Are you married?
Are you single?
Does your mom know what you do?
I’d fuck him
You should K I L L yourself
That comment made me pause. I clicked on the profile, blocked them, deleted the comment, and continued to wade through it all to make sure there was nothing else like that. I’d set up filtered words, but they’d spaced out the letters on ‘kill’ so it’d slipped through.
When I first started doing videos like this, it was just for fun. I’d wanted to share recipes while also being myself. That had somehow progressed over the last couple of years to what it was now.
I sat my coffee down and leaned across the couch, grabbing my acoustic guitar from its stand. I’d had it since I was a teen, and it held all of my angst, happiness, horniness, and sadness. My muscles instantly relaxed as I cradled it, fingerpicking the bronze strings absentmindedly.
This was the guitar I wrote songs on. The one I played on stage hung on the wall above my desk—a cherry red Martin that was my prized possession. A vine with blooming flowers curled into a beautiful design on the pickguard, and the morning light that filtered through my sliding glass door highlighted the inlays along the fretboard.
I’d considered making a whole new account focused on my music, but that was far more vulnerable than licking a glob of icing up on video.
I needed to sit at my desk and work on video editing, but my mind felt too distracted. Restless. I continued to sip coffee, pick at my guitar, and stare at the wall.
A melody had been haunting me for months now, but something wasn’t quite right with it. I’d written some words down, but it was… lacking.
A yellow notepad permanently lived on my coffee table. I leaned forward and grabbed the pencil next to it, tapping my chin with the eraser as I stared at the scrawled lyrics of the first verse.
“All of this is bad,” I muttered.
With a grunt, I put my guitar aside. I raked my fingers through my hair and decided it was time to carry on with the rest of my workday. Which meant editing for six hours, following up on any emails from brand partners, and maybe seeing if anyone had plans tonight.
If they didn’t, I’d pick up the book someone had recommended online. Yes, it was an alien romance. Yes, it was hidden on my bookshelf, even though I lived alone. And yes, I was envious I didn’t have tentacles, because goddamn— that would be fun.
Ever since the old barn burned down, all of us had felt slightly off. Our routines had changed dramatically. I wasn't picking up bar shifts anymore, which had given me more time to work on my platform and music, but I missed seeing people a few times a week. It helped keep me sane.
Thomas Connor had fucked over everything. Aside from being a serial killer and ruining countless lives, the aftermath of finding out the truth had rocked all of us. Both Haley and Cam had almost died, and I'd never forget feeling so helpless.
The good news was that there’d been space for them to heal—space for Sarah, Haley’s sister, and her boys to start healing too.
The way Colt looked at Sarah always made me feel a little envious. The history there was sticky. I didn’t even know what had happened, but I knew Colt had never stopped loving Sarah, even while she was married to someone else.
Was that love?
I wanted to look at someone that way one day—and to be looked at like that in return.
The lyrics stared back at me, empty of the passion I longed for. Maybe because it was a love song? How was I supposed to write a love song if I’d never been in love?
Three brief knocks startled me from my thoughts. I got up and unlocked the door. Colt was on the other side, wearing a smirk, his eyes crinkling with mischief. A brow slowly raised as his gaze landed on me.
My heart beat a little faster. “Hey,” I said.
“You gonna let me in or am I waiting out in the cold?” he asked.
“Sorry, yeah. Come in.” I stepped aside, all too aware of the fact that I wasn’t wearing a shirt now.
Colt slid past me, sliding his hands in his jacket pocket as he looked around my living room. “I don’t think I’ve actually been inside your apartment before.”
“It’s not much,” I said.
“I like it,” he said with a shrug. “Coffee smells good.”
“I can make you one if you’d like,” I offered.
“Actually, yes, if you don’t mind. I’ll buy you lunch sometime.”
I smiled as I entered the kitchen and pulled out containers. “A date, huh?”
Colt snorted as he followed me. “Do you want to go on a date, Sammy?”
I knew he was just teasing, but my stomach still twisted. “Do you like your lattes sweet?”
“A latte? Oh, you have one of those machines.” He leaned against the counter, looping a thumb through his belt loop. As always, there was something effortlessly hot about him.
Don’t even think about him that way.
Colt wrinkled his nose. “Make me what you like to drink. Can I help?”
“No,” I said. “Just stand there and look pretty.”
Silence settled over us as he waited and watched. Heat creeped up the back of my spine. What were these nerves? It was silly. I’d known him my entire life. But I still felt unsettled as I grabbed the handle of the portafilter, banged the coffee grounds into the trash, and reloaded it with fresh beans.
The machine roared to life at the press of a button. I grabbed a to-go cup and pulled two shots of espresso, the woodsy scent of coffee filling my lungs. “Whole milk okay?” I asked.
“Yep,” he said. “You know how to do so many random things.”
I smiled as I poured milk into a stainless steel pitcher. He watched as I steamed the milk with precision. Threads of tension glowed between us, making me wonder again if I was losing my mind. Why did I feel like my heart was going to give out? I poured milk into the cup and wiggled the spout like I’d taught myself, creating a heart shape.
He leaned in closer, his shoulder bumping mine. Colt grinned. “You make me wonder what we are.”
“Friends, of course.”
“Right.” Colt picked up the cup and took a sip, foam clinging to his upper lips. He swiped it away with his tongue.
Heat crawled up my spine and then to my cheeks.
“Thanks for the coffee and pizza.”
“You were helping me out,” I said.
I handed him two containers of pizza. He tucked them under one arm. “I’ll get out of your hair, but let me know when you want to grab lunch.”
“Will do. I’ll see you later.”
He winked and headed for the door.
I blew out a steady breath as it closed behind him.
“Back to work, Romeo,” I muttered to myself.
I had videos to edit and lyrics to torture myself over. It was just another Thursday, Colt was just a friend, and I was just a hopeless romantic.