Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(14)

“Distractions are sometimes nice,” he says, watching me. The problem with being raised by such an amazing man is that it’s nearly impossible not to compare every boy I meet to him. Every single one falls short.

I shrug.

“With everything going on in your life, it’s too bad he lives so far away.”

I look over at him. “He’s here for a couple of weeks.”

Dad laughs at my grim expression and lifts himself out of the pool. Water pours off him into puddles at his feet, reflecting a hundred dots of sun on the ground.

“I adore you, my beautiful, fierce girl.” He bends for a towel and dries off his chest and arms as he says, “And I know you. I bet you’re thinking of all the reasons why you shouldn’t spend time with him.”

“Of course I shouldn’t—”

He cuts me off with a hand gently raised in the air. “I know you never let anything come before family; that’s how I raised you. But soon you’ll want to be at every appointment, sitting nearby for every possible second. You’ll be online, reading every detail you can find. You’ll be hovering, offering her food, a sweater, movies, gifts. I’ll be doing the same. And together we will drive your mother crazy.” Crouching down in front of me, he whispers, “Please, Tulip, let yourself be distracted when you can. Have some fun. I envy you.”

OLIVER’S HOUSE IS a tiny, single-story stucco cottage in Pacific Beach, with ocean-breeze-dulled blue paint and faded, chipped red windowsills. The sidewalk out front is cracked and uneven, and the lawn is a mottled calico of yellow, green, and brown. Unlike his glossy new store downtown, this place isn’t much to look at. But I know the area well enough to guess what it cost him and that being able to climb up to his roof at night and see the sunset over the ocean is part of the appeal.

After swimming for a while, I’d gone inside to find Mom and Dad in the living room, cuddled together on the couch and reading their books in easy silence.

I offered to make them lunch. They weren’t hungry. I offered to run some errands. They had nothing for me to do. So I stood, fidgeting at the perimeter of the room until Dad looked up at me and gave me a sad little smile.

Mom will need me, but she doesn’t need me today. She doesn’t need anyone but her guy, and what he needs is to be her entire world right now.

I drove to Oliver’s in a fog, on autopilot, trying not to second-guess what I was going to do. My father was basically telling me to enjoy Finn—though not in those exact words—and why not? It isn’t like Finn and I have misaligned expectations. We’ve spent a combined total of maybe one full day together, and have been naked for most of that. Before this weekend, our most meaningful conversation occurred when I showed up at his house and he told me to help myself to anything in the fridge while he ran out to get condoms.

I smile at the R2-D2 knocker and rap twice at the door with it.

The house inside is silent, and all around me the ocean wind whips past the tall, willowy palms.

Finally, I hear footsteps just in front of the door and it swings open.

Finn pulls a dish towel off his shoulder, using it to dry his hands. He’s shirtless, and his jeans hang low on his hips, revealing the black waistband of his boxers.

“Hey, Ginger Barbie.”

In one heartbeat I’ve gone from relieved anticipation, to hating this moment. I feel vulnerable and on the verge of tears, but there’s nothing particularly sympathetic about Finn. Drunk Finn was an anomaly, all soft expressions and playful. Daylight Finn is efficient and brusque, good for fishing, f*cking, and—apparently—washing dishes.

“You know what?” I say, looking at my car parked at the curb. “This was a stupid idea.”

“Wait. You came here to see me, not Oliver?” He takes one step closer.

“Yeah . . .”

“Did you come here to finish what we started last night?”

I turn to leave, having no idea what to say to such a blunt question. I mean, yes, I did come for that.

But it’s bigger than just wanting to fool around: What I want with Finn is the sex that absorbs me and shuts off my brain. I don’t want to play cat-and-mouse, I don’t want to discuss it. I just want to do it.

I can hear the playful mocking in his voice when he calls, “If that’s what you want, you just need to say it, Harlow.”

I stand, facing the street for several deep breaths. A car drifts by, its frame lowered so it almost touches the asphalt, stereo bass blaring, vibrating up through my feet. The car slows, and the man in the passenger seat lifts his chin to me.

“The next young freak I met was Red,” Too $hort raps from the car, his voice distorted through the crappy speakers.

I square my shoulders, staring down the guys as their attention moves past my face to my chest.

“I took her to the house and she gave me head.”

At the lyric, the man in the passenger seat smiles lewdly, raising his eyebrows at the next line as if to ask me whether it’s true, whether I like to freak, and the car stops, idling in the middle of the street as if the driver expects me to jump in and party with them. I want to walk to my car but feel trapped between these guys and the cocky * behind me.

Finn steps out of the house, pulling the dishrag off his shoulder as he comes to stand with one shoulder in front of me, and stares down the men in the car.