Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(21)

Fun, I think.

“Yeah, I got you.”

THE HOSTESS AT the little podium smiles as I walk inside. She’s hot, in that cool, pinup kind of way, and like she’d be perfectly at home stretched across the hood of a vintage muscle car. Her purple hair is cut short and clipped with little barrettes at the sides; her lip is pierced and so is her nose; splashes of bright-colored ink cover both of her arms. I almost consider calling Colton back; this girl is exactly his type.

“I’m over there,” I tell her with a smile, and point to where Harlow is sitting, still alone, still staring at her screen and scrolling mindlessly through whatever she’s looking at. Every once in a while she picks up her phone, scrolls some more on that, and sets it down again.

The hostess smiles back and motions for me to go ahead, handing me a menu and winking before I turn away. It’s dark and blessedly cool inside. October on Vancouver Island is chilly. In San Diego, it’s as if the summer is only just getting started. Perpetual summer. No wonder everyone here is so laid-back.

Sleek black cushions and couches line the walls and create little seating areas in the front half of the restaurant, while long, well-worn tables and stools fill the back. It looks more like a club than a place you’d have pizza.

Harlow is at a long wooden table in the corner. She’s in some sort of yellow skirt thing today, her tan legs stretched out, wrapped in a pair of tall brown sandals, and resting on a stool across from her.

Her hair is pulled back from her face in a knot that seems simultaneously messy and complicated, and as I near the table, I’m more than a little pleased to spot what looks to be a small hickey on her shoulder.

“Hello, Miss Vega,” I say.

She jumps at the sound of my voice and looks up, her smile vanishing and replaced by an expression of surprise . . . and maybe defeat.

“Finn.” I don’t miss the way she angles her laptop away as I slide onto a seat across from her.

“Please,” she says dryly. “Have a seat.”

“You know, I think I actually heard your eyes roll when you said that,” I reply. “That’s talent.”

A waitress steps up to the table and I glance down, seeing that Harlow has only a glass of iced tea in front of her.

“I’ll have the same.” I blink back to find Harlow watching me.

“Planning on staying?”

“Why not? This place seems kind of cool.”

She hums in response—neck flushed but otherwise definitely pretending I didn’t tie her up and f*ck her three days ago—and glances down to her phone again.

“What time do you need to head back?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I don’t have anywhere to be.”

I make a show of looking at my watch. “I don’t mean to be nosy—”

“I find that hard to believe,” she interrupts in a mumble.

“—but don’t you have a job?”

“I do,” she says, more to the screen than to me. Her eyes are still down and the little pendant she wears swings ever so slightly with each of her exhales. It’s too easy to remember how she looked on her back, nothing but that necklace resting above her breastbone and my rope around her— Focus, Finn.

“Then shouldn’t you be in an office, or out with ladies who lunch?”

She makes a show of closing her laptop slowly. “Not today.”

“Why?”

She’s definitely growing irritated with my questions, which—let’s be honest—only makes me more curious. “Because I don’t work today. My mom isn’t feeling well. I was just looking some stuff up.”

“So when you work, what exactly do you do?” I ask.

“I’m an intern at NBC.”

I make another show of looking at my watch—more dramatically this time—at the fact that it’s one twenty in the afternoon on a Tuesday, and she’s sitting in a pizza place staring at a laptop and playing on her phone.

“Part-time,” she clarifies, adding, “I work about twelve hours a week.” Twelve? At my less than impressed expression she throws in, “What?”

“Unpaid?”

“In-tern?” she says, as if saying the word more slowly will help me understand. “I want to work in the film industry but you have to start somewhere, and NBC is local.”

“I see. So you, like, get coffee and stuff.”

“Occasionally.”

“Doesn’t that bug you? You’re the kid of a famous actress and a big Hollywood guy, and yet they make you the lowly coffee girl?”

I’m only partly serious. I mean I am curious, but in truth, she’s just really fun to wind up.

“That’s not all I do,” she says, and then reconsiders, smiling at me with surprising self-deprecation.

“Actually, yeah, they love to make me do the grunt work because of who my dad is. I’ve worked on





his sets for as long as I can remember, and probably know more about how movies are made than most of the people I work under now. But Dad always told me my first lesson in work should be how to earn respect through humility, so I guess that’s what I’m doing here. It won’t always be this way.”

Huh. Wasn’t expecting that. And it’s a little disquieting how much it sounds like something my own dad would say. “So you went to college and majored in . . . ?”