Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(35)

According to Levi, engine one has thrown a rod, and the damage is so severe it’s actually penetrated the motor casing and rendered it unsalvageable. Worse than that, because of the extra strain being put on engine two, the oil sample came back full of metal shavings, meaning we are only weeks from its complete failure. A few days ago we knew we were in rough shape but assumed we could limp through another season. Now we know we are, just as Colton said, royally f*cked. We’ve all put nearly every penny we make back into the family business, and without income, have barely enough left over to cover our living expenses for the next six months. We can’t take the boat out on the water until we fix it, and I have no idea how we’re going to afford to do that.

Oliver crosses the room, turning down the stove before walking to the sink to wash his hands. “You all right, mate?” he says, watching me with concern.

“Yeah. Just ruining dinner.” The next words are just sitting on my tongue: I’m f*cked. My future and the future of my entire family has just gone up in smoke—and oh, by the way, how’s the store?

I can’t do that. But I know I need to talk, to hear myself say what’s going on and hear someone else tell me it’s not as bad as it seems, that everything will work out eventually.

Basically, I need someone to lie to me.

Normally, Ansel would be the best person for this job. He’s stupidly optimistic, and has this way of making every doom-and-gloom situation sound like a perfectly timed stroke of luck. Unfortunately, he’s not even in the same country right now, and there’s no way I’m calling him and taking up what little free time he has to burden him with my problems. He’s out.

Perry would be the next obvious choice, because she’s bored and has historically been a good listener. But, Jesus Christ, I can’t. I know I shouldn’t take sides but even I’m mad at her for what she did to Ansel and Mia, and none of us are really talking to her right now anyway. She’s out, too.

Oliver has enough going on, with the store opening and his long days on his feet. The last thing he needs is for me to unload how my business is ending just as his is taking off.

And if I’m honest, I don’t really want to tell any of them. It’s not that I don’t think they’d be concerned, it’s that I don’t want them to worry. I don’t want them to know how dire it all is.

Oblivious to my mental breakdown, Oliver crosses the kitchen and pulls a cutting board out of a drawer. “So you and Harlow,” he says, reaching for a knife.

“Harlow?” I say, distracted, her name coming out a bit sharper than I intend. “There’s nothing between me and Harlow.”

“Course there’s not. Just noticed how cozy the two of you seemed today.”

Even with everything going on, I still manage to roll my eyes. “She’s a pain in the ass,” I tell him, and it’s such a lie. With most women, the novelty of a pretty face would have worn off and I’d be ready to move on. But with Harlow, I find myself liking her more and more with each conversation.

“You sure you’re okay?”

I turn to see Oliver watching me closely. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

He shrugs, looks like he wants to throttle me, but then he blinks and the expression has vanished, and I wonder if it was ever there. “Don’t know, really. Just . . . you never did tell me what you were doing out here. Everything good at home?”

“Great. Just here to meet with a few investors. Thinking about making some improvements during the off-season.”

I can see a flash of relief on his face. “Finn, that’s great. Look at us, look at our lives. Everything f*cking coming up roses, mate.”

Right.

I blink away, looking out the window. There’s really only one person I want to talk to right now.

“Listen,” I say, shutting off the stove. “I just remembered I promised my dad I’d give him a call tonight. You’re okay eating without me?”

If Oliver is suspicious, he’s a good enough friend to not call me on my bullshit. “Yeah, of course.

Think I’ll call Lola and see if she wants to hang out. You think you’ll be back?”

I reach for my wallet on the kitchen table and push it into my back pocket. “Not sure. Just save me a plate and I’ll heat it up when I get back. I just really need to make this call.”

Oliver is already nodding, dishing up his plate before he waves me off.

My hand is wrapped around my phone before I’m even out the door.





Chapter SEVEN


Harlow


I’M MOPPING THE floor. Why, when the house cleaner was at my parents’ house today, am I mopping their floor?

Because I can’t seem to focus on even the smallest task, and dropped an entire casserole dish of enchiladas on the tile.

Dad walks in, looks at me in my ripped jeans and his old flannel shirt, and then at the stained-red mop and the smear of sauce on the white tile, and doesn’t even say anything. He just walks to the fridge, opens it, grabs a yogurt for Mom, and kisses my head on the way back out.

I make a couple of decisions in the next twenty seconds. First, I need another job.

There’s a tiny chance I’ll be offered a full-time, paid internship at NBC starting in January, but just talking about my current situation with Finn briefly made me realize I’m just spinning my wheels. I’m useless there and no self-respecting woman of the twenty-first century with no other earthly responsibilities works twelve hours a week.