Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(20)

Nodding, I close my eyes, count to ten, and then move to stand. I begin to dress, feeling his eyes on me from the bed.

“Jesus, Harlow. You don’t have to rush off,” he says, his voice thick and sleepy. The sky outside is deep lavender post-sunset. “Oliver won’t be home until late.”

I open my mouth, saying, “I should . . .” and pointing vaguely north, toward home.

He nods, watching me put everything back on before he pats a heavy hand on the bed. “Harlow, you shouldn’t run off.” Pushing to sit at the edge of the mattress, he says, “Stay. Let me . . . f*ck, I don’t know. Set up a bath for you, or . . . just stay here. It was intense. Wasn’t it intense?”

It was. It was so intense that I’m suddenly second-guessing everything that brought me here.

As I gather my things to leave, I’m not sure if being with Finn is an escape, or a new dangerous obsession.





Chapter FOUR


Finn


THE LIGHT CHANGES and I step off the curb, crossing the street in the middle of a small crowd.

With my phone pressed to my ear, I listen as my brother Colton rattles off a list of things that will have to be repaired, most of which need to be done before the boats can leave the dock again.

“And you’re sure the wiring’s shot?” I ask. My stomach churns and I feel the need to clarify. “Do you know if it’s the wiring itself, or have you checked the fuse panel?”

I hear him sigh and can imagine him taking off his hat, using the brim to scratch the top of his head. It’s Tuesday and he’s worked straight through the weekend on this. I’m sure he’s beat. “Checked the panel myself while Levi was in the wheelhouse with a meter. We replaced any bad fuses and every goddamn one of them blew as soon as we flipped the breakers.”

“Fuck.”

“Pretty much.”

“So what’s the plan?” I ask, stepping into the shade of a bright red canvas awning. The sun is high this time of day, the sidewalks clean and nearly empty of shadows.

“I need to replace a bunch of wires, figure out how to pigtail them in on the damaged lines. It’s gonna take some time.”

“Jesus. I need to be home, not in f*cking California of all places.”

I lean against the wall of a brick building, trying to figure out exactly how all this happened. It feels like it’s been one thing after another this year; add that to a long line of years with not enough fish and not enough money and well, I’m in f*cking California.

But Colt isn’t having it. “Stop,” he says. “We’ve got it handled here. We need you there, figuring out the next step. We’ve made it through worse. We’ll make it through this, too.”

I take a moment before I ask the question I’m dreading. “So how long?”

He blows out a breath and I can practically hear him calculating. “I need to unbolt and pull panels from the wheelhouse floor,” he says. “At least a couple of days.”

It could be better. It could definitely be worse. I do the mental calculation of how much money we’ll lose being off the water. “You serviced the engine?” I ask.

“We serviced number one,” he says.

“And? Same? Worse?”

He hesitates. “A little worse.”

“Fuck. How long will it hold?”

“Report says at least six months. But it said that six months before that, Finn. And six months before that. There’s only two percent more shavings in this oil sample than there was the last time. I’d say we have at least a year, easy. By then we’ll have finished the season and we’ll be good. We can do this.”

“Right,” I say, and push off the building. I pass several shops, restaurants, and small bars, the sidewalks growing more crowded the farther I go. The San Diego sun beats down, and I feel the heat of it seep into my black T-shirt, through the thick denim of my jeans. Colton is right; we’ve been through worse. We don’t need to push the nuclear button quite yet.

Why the f*ck am I here, then?

“So you’re all ready for the meeting?” he asks, a hint of anxiety finally coloring his tone.

“Doesn’t sound like I need to be.”

His nervous laugh rings through the line. “Finn, let’s keep the option open, okay?”

“I know, Colt. I’m just f*cking with you.” Though I’m not. Not really. I want my business to stay the way it always has, and the L.A. Option, as I’ve been calling it, is not an option.

“When do you go?” he asks, like he doesn’t have the date burned into his brain. Like we all don’t.

“Next week.” I lean against a building, scrubbing my face. “Why did I come down so f*cking early? I could be there fixing shit and—”

He groans. “God, would you stop worrying? Spend some time with Ansel and Oliver, have fun.

Remember fun, Finn? And for all our sakes, please, get laid before you head up to L.A.” I almost trip when he says this because Jesus Christ, my abs are still sore from the marathon sex with Harlow the other afternoon. “All this will still be waiting for you when you get back. Got it? Fun?”

There’s a run-down large brick building to my right, and I glance inside the windows as I pass. My reflection looks back at me against the busy street, but I stop in my tracks. Because there, sitting at a table and frowning down at her laptop, is Harlow.