Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(11)

I groan and, without realizing it, move my hand away and use it to wipe my mouth. But my fingers are covered in Harlow. And now I can smell her, and taste her, and I’m so f*cking hard my jaw clenches tightly with tension.

She watches me, but it’s hard to see her face since she’s backlit from the city lights. If I don’t leave with them, I’ll need to cab it. And the Roberts family business needs every one of the measly five thousand we have in the bank, so I really don’t think I should pay thirty bucks for a cab tonight.

“I gotta head out with them,” I tell her.

“I know.” She doesn’t sound angry or even all that disappointed . . . just tired.

“Don’t try to drive home,” I tell her. “You’ve had too much to drink.”

She blinks, and when she looks back up at me, I can see whatever shutter she keeps over her emotions has been slotted back in place. Disappointment cools me when she says, “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“No.” I move to retrieve my phone, sliding it into my back pocket. Oddly, I feel a little like she’s played me tonight. “Do you want a ride home with us?”

She shakes her head. “I’m good.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” I lean in to kiss her, but she turns her head away and pushes me. It’s half annoyed, half playful.

“Go away, Sunshine. Goodbyes with emotion aren’t part of the arrangement.”

Right. This detached Harlow is much more familiar. I adjust my cap and give her a little nod before walking to the door.





Chapter THREE


Harlow


I’M STARTING TO see that despite Oliver’s gentle and mildly aloof demeanor, he really is a pretty shrewd businessman. After scouting for months for the best location for his store, he settled on an updated, bright space on G Street in the Gaslamp, nestled between a trendy tattoo parlor and a bar.

The place is amazing, and I can tell this even without the gathering crowd or the row of apparently famous comic artists sitting at a table in the back signing books.

Catching Lola’s eye from where she stands several feet away, I can tell she’s impressed, too.

I can count on zero hands the number of times I’ve been inside a comic book store, but I immediately get the sense that the layout is genius. I expected cluttered and narrow rows filled with floor-to-ceiling racks of brightly colored books and magazines, but Oliver has built-in cube-shelves— asymmetric, with panels of different sizes to look like pages of a comic book—along the walls.

They’re filled with books and merchandise, but there’s also lots of open space for tables shaped like a stack of upward-curving pages displaying featured titles. Up front and nestled in a bank of giant windows are a couch and a matching set of bright red leather lounge chairs. A space just for reading.

“Won’t people just sit and read and not buy anything?” I ask Oliver, who’s just finished giving me the tour.

But he’s already stepped away to greet a customer—the place is getting busy—and instead I hear Finn’s voice. “I asked him the same thing.”

The sound is gravelly, and faint, like it was overused last night. I can feel the echo of his fingers on me, the thrill of the dirty things he said, a feeling that only intensifies when I hear him take a step closer.

Turning, I meet his eyes. I expect it to be a little awkward after last night’s cockblock, but he holds my gaze and smiles. His eyes are greener than brown today, and his lashes seem thicker, even darker.

His lips look a little swollen, but the effect is to make me want to suck on them, soothe them.

I make out with him in a drunken haze and he gets hotter? Unfair, Universe.

I can tell we’re both trying to play it cool, but I wonder if I’m failing as badly as he is. His attention dips to my lips for a beat before he says, “But Oliver says comic geeks like to have hard copies of their favorite books. He wants people to hang out, maybe find new titles. He wants newbies to feel comfortable taking the time to find a book they’ll want to follow.”

With this explanation, I think Finn has just used more words in one breath than he has with me up to now, cumulatively. “Did you memorize that?”

“Yep.”

“Makes sense. I like the feel of it.”

I pause, waiting. He closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You okay there, Roberts?” I ask. “You’re passing up a pretty epic that’s-what-she-said opportunity.”

He opens one eye. “Never drinking again.”

This makes me laugh. Finn the Invincible has a wittle hangover? “You’re too old to say that now.”

“Practically middle-aged,” he agrees. “Might as well skip out and go get a beer for breakfast.”

“Breakfast?” I make a point of lifting his wrist and looking at his giant, manly waterproof watch.

“It’s almost eleven.”

“I was a little slow to start this morning. Late night,” he growls, smiling darkly. When he looks at me like that, I immediately recall the way he slid his fingers over and inside me— God, when did your * get so sweet? —the way his breath warmed my neck. I remember the feel of his hungry mouth sucking at my neck, my shoulders, the hard press of him through his jeans between my legs.