Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(15)

“The f*ck are they looking at?” he growls under his breath.

I no longer care about the guys in the car. I’ve never had a man other than my father take a protective stance around me. The boys I’m used to would just pretend they didn’t see the car at all, or anxiously whisper-hiss that we should get back inside. Beside me, Finn is huge. I’ve never seen his skin in the sun, but the sun has seen him a thousand times. I’m tall, but he’s inches taller, and nearly twice as wide. His chest is tanned and bulky, clear of a single tattoo, but marked with the occasional tiny scar. A snag here, a cut there. He seems larger than life on this street full of salty surfer boys and skinny thugs.

The car accelerates with a rumble, driving off down the street.

“Those *s wouldn’t know the first thing to do with you,” he says quietly, looking me over as if I’d been handled. And with that look, I see the same expression he gave me last night— possessiveness, interest, hunger—as if I’m not quite what he’d assumed . . . and that, maybe, he liked it.

My heart is hammering wildly and—with the pulse of adrenaline in my blood—even more than before I want to go inside with him and let him take over every single thought.

“Okay yes. I’m here to finish what we started.”

He waits, thinking. For the first time, I realize he’s not wearing a hat. I can see his eyes in the sun — really see them, without shadow or the diffused light filtered through the heavy marine layer. I find that I like the way he studies things, especially me.

His eyes seem so much smarter than his mouth.

Case in point: “A girl like you is way more trouble than she’s worth,” he says with a little smile.

God, he’s such a dick. But the twinkle in his eyes tells me he’s pretty f*cking happy I’m here, and the truth is, he can think I’m a high-maintenance diva as long as he’s able to make me forget for a little while . “I see.”

“We can have sex, that’s fine. But just so we’re clear, that’s all it is.”

I laugh. “I’m here for sex, not some deep bonding ritual.”

He makes a gentlemanly sweep of his arm, indicating I lead us both inside.

It takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust once I’m out of the bright sun. Finn closes the door behind him, leaning against it with his arms crossed over his chest. I turn away, pulse tripping in wild throbs in my neck, trying to calm my thoughts as I pretend to survey the room. The sheer unexpectedness of it all catches me off guard, and for a beat I forget to be nervous.

Light shoots in through the oceanside windows, causing slanted shadows to be cast across the acacia wood flooring throughout the living room and small dining room. The furniture looks vintage, but refurbished, and surprisingly well coordinated. The couch and chairs are various shades of blue. A large Aztec woven ottoman serves as a coffee table. A few framed photographs stand on a side table adjacent to the sofa, and there is a small urn with twisting bamboo growing in intricate curls on a stunning multi-tone wooden dining room table. The table’s made from random cuts of wood, light and dark wood intermingling, and although the long side is smooth and polished, the jagged edges of the short sides give the table a striking, artistic feel.

“Oliver surprises me,” I say. “This place doesn’t look like a bachelor pad.”

Finn laughs. “He’s tidy.”

I glance at the dish towel draped over his shoulder. “You’re doing dishes.”

With a little one-shouldered shrug, he murmurs, “I’m tidy, too.”

“So Ansel is the slob?” I ask with a smile. My heart is beating so hard I can hear the whoosh of it in my ears. I miss the ease of conversation after tequila. His brows pull together, and I clarify: “One of you must be messy . . . based on my completely sexist statistics.”

“Actually, he’s the biggest neat freak I know. Perry is the slob. There goes your theory.”

“Of course she’s a slob. She’s the Beast.”

Finn stays quiet, his expression unreadable. I don’t exactly expect him to start bashing one of his best friends, no matter how horrible she might be.

“Why are you still in town?” I ask finally. “I thought you never missed a shift at work.”

He smooths a hand down his mouth, over his chin, holding my gaze for a beat. “You seem to always be present for the exception to that rule.”

“That’s not really an answer.”

“Business.”

“Business?”

“Yeah.” He takes a couple of slow steps closer to me. “Why are you here?”

“I thought we clarified that outside.”

“I know what you’re here for, but not why.”

“My . . .” I stop, changing my mind against telling him what I’m really doing here. Too heavy. Too much. “I just wanted to get out of the house.”

His brows draw together, and more questions seem perched on his tongue, but instead of asking them, he holds his hands out, taking one last step closer. Palms up, he moves his hands in a seesaw gesture. “Finn . . . shoe shopping . . . Finn . . . shoe shopping.”

“I guess you won.”

He gives in to the smile he’s been fighting. “Tell me why me. You’ve got a city full of rich kids waiting for you to climb between their sheets.”