Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(27)

“No,” he said flatly, and the only thing charming about him was the way his accent seemed to run through every vowel with one syllable. Lola’s eyebrow twitched in her single tell—mildly annoyed— and she lifted her flashing LED drink cup to her lips.

Lola wears mostly black, including her glossy dark hair, and has a tiny diamond pierced into her lip, but, even still, she’s never been able to pull off the full physical manifestation of the angry Riot Grrrl. With her perfect porcelain skin and the longest eyelashes in the world, she’s simply too delicate. But once she decides you’re an *, it no longer matters to her what you think. She gives good glare.

“The flower suits you,” she said, tilting her head to study him. “And you have pretty hands, kind of soft. Maybe we should call you Olive.”

He grunted out a dry laugh.

“And a really beautiful mouth,” I added. “Gentle. Like a woman’s.”

“Aw f*ck off.” He was laughing outright by then.

Somehow we all went from tipsy strangers to hammered best friends to spouses that night. But Lola and Oliver were the only couple that didn’t consummate anything, and, even at the time, Lola was pretty convinced Oliver wasn’t interested at all.

Now I’m pretty sure she was wrong.

“Where’s Finn?” Oliver asks, sliding into the booth, then saying, “Hey, Joe,” to Not-Joe.

“Driving Miss Harlow,” I say.

He stares at me, confused.

“Getting Harlow a drink,” Lola translates again.

Oliver nods once, satisfied, glancing over at the bar and then back to me. “Be nice to my boy,” he says, giving me a wink, but his tone tells me he’s serious.

“Because he’s delicate? Please,” I scoff. “I’m just using him for his enormous penis and surprising skills with rope. Don’t worry about his finespun man feelings.”

Oliver groans, covering his face. “More than I needed to know,” he says, at the exact same moment Lola shouts, “Overshare alert!”

“That’ll teach you to lecture me,” I tell them with a grin. “How’s the store?”

“Good. Really busy. I reckon it’ll be right if it keeps up like this, yeah?”

I see Mia lean to Ansel, who laughs as he repeats more slowly what Oliver has just said.

“Do I need to speak slowly, Mee-ahh?” Oliver drawls in his exaggerated version of an American accent.

“Yes!” she yells.

“How’s the front reading nook?” I ask. “Bringing in lots of newbies?”

“I think so?” he says, stealing Mia’s untouched beer. “I need to get a feel for who my regulars will be.”

“How long until you bang someone up there after hours?” I ask, leaning my chin on my hands.

He laughs, shaking his head. “That front window is pretty enormous. Reckon never.”

“Some girls are into that.”

He shrugs, grinning down at the coaster he’s playing with, not glancing at Lola even once. I will break this boy if it kills me.

“Maybe Oliver’s first go-round there will be in the stockroom,” Ansel joins in and oh, he is my favorite.

Mia leans into Ansel’s side, and he bends to say something near her ear. Her happiness is the best distraction from my own worries. Maybe the alcohol helps, too. I’m so happy for her that her guy’s here for more than just the usual day and a half. He seems to come visit every couple of weeks, but it’s a mix of giddiness when he arrives and the constant dread of another goodbye when he leaves.

“You guys look so good together,” I say, leaning halfway across the curved bench to kiss Mia’s cheek.

“Imagine what we look like when we’re having sex!” Ansel yells across the table. “It’s unreal!”

I ball up my cocktail napkin and hurl it at him. “Too far.”

“It’s my superpower.”

“What’s mine?” I ask.

Ansel cups his hands around his mouth, calling out over the music, “Doing shots?”

He nods to the shot that Finn apparently snuck in front of me. Despite our wild night at Lola and London’s, and my spectacular drunkenness in Vegas, I rarely drink more than a couple of cocktails.

But I guess Ansel is right: When I do it, I really commit. I toss back the drink in front of me, tasting sweet and sour and then the burn of vodka as it warms a path to my stomach.

Letting out a roar, I stand, announcing, “I’m drunk and I’m going to dance.” Pointing to Finn, I say, “You. Follow.”

He shakes his head.

“Oh, come on,” I groan, running my hands up his chest. God he feels good—so sturdy and hard, his pectorals tensing under my touch—and now I’m on fire for him.

Thursday night at Fred’s is Ladies Night, and they play music for dancing because we ladies like to dance. Also? I like Drunk Me. Drunk Me doesn’t have any problems, and Sober Harlow might be too proud to turn on the coy, begging female act. But put a little liquor in her? Showtime.

“Please?” I whisper, stretching to kiss his neck. “Pretty please, with Harlow naked on top?”

“Is she always like this?” Finn asks my girlfriends without taking his eyes off me. He’s watching my mouth, looking at me like he might throw me over his shoulder and carry me the five miles to Oliver’s house.