“Now, back to my vacation idea.” Finn grinned, showing off his perfect white teeth. “Just think about it. You, Owen, me, and Bria, all happily ensconced in a swanky hotel by a beautiful beach. Bria in a bikini. You and Owen doing your own thing, Bria in a bikini. Did I mention Bria in a bikini?”

“I looked at Bria. “How do you put up with him?”Bria started to open her mouth, but Finn piped up instead.“She puts up with me because I happen to be rich, handsome, charming, a witty conversationalist, and exceptionally talented in bed,” he smirked. “Flexible too.”I groaned. “I did not need to hear those last two.”

“Any chance of getting something sweet to go with my coffee?” [Finn] asked in a hopeful voice.I arched an eyebrow at him. “You mean all those pieces of strawberry pie that you ate for lunch weren't enough?”“I’m a growing boy,” Finn said in a sincere tone. “I need my vitamins.”Bria snorted. “The only thing that’s growing on you, Lane, is your ego.”Finn sidled up to my sister and gave her a dazzling smile. “Well, other things of mine also tend to swell up in your presence, detective.”

“Hello, sexy. I knew that you couldn't get through the night without me," Finn's smug, slightly sleepy voice filled my ear. "So why don't you tell me what you're wearing?"I rolled my eyes. Apparently, my foster brother hadn't bothered to check his caller ID before he picked up the phone. I wondered if this was how he answered all his late night calls, or if he was actually expecting to hear from Bria. I really hoped it was the second one. "What am I wearing? Well, right now it would be the blood of two giants, among other naughty unmentionables," I purred. "What does that do for you, sexy?"Silence.Then Finn cleared his throat. "Uh Gin? Did you dial my number by mistake? Shouldn't you be cooing these sweet, sweet nothings into Owen's ear instead of mine?”

“It didn’t occur to me that I was glistening with sweat and wearing a bikini top until they turned off the bikes, pulled off their helmets and turned to scope me out. To make my own personal cliché perfect, Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar On Me blasted through the radio. I winced – I must look like a white-trash princess from hell, basking outside my trailer in a bikini to outdated butt rock.”

“Isn't that what your memory was about, Bria? Losing control?" I pause. "I never knew memories were about anything. Besides the obvious. You make them sound like dreams -- subject to interpretation.""I think the two are more related than we realize. It's all in how our minds frame them. How we decide what -- and how -- we remember.”