Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(39)

“I think you would be insane if you hadn’t.”

He nods, and turns his attention back to the game. This time, I’m pretty sure he’s done talking.





Chapter EIGHT


Finn


I CHECK THE ADDRESS Harlow gave us as we turn off the street. The restaurant is packed, and I blow out an exaggerated breath as I circle the lot.

“Looks like it might not be our night,” I tell Oliver, pretty sure that if my shifty eyes don’t give me away, my horrible acting will. “Guess we better just head back to the house. Try this another time.”

I turn the truck toward the exit but his hand on my forearm stops me. “Everyone’s already here so just keep a lookout. Too late for a change of plans anyway,” he says, peering out the passenger window before he adds, “No thanks to you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that it took over an hour to get you out of the house, and you look like you’re being dragged to the dentist, rather than a night of dinner and questionable humor with your best mates.”

“That is absolutely not true.” It’s completely true.

“Ansel flew back to surprise Mia again and wants to see us. And despite what you said last night, you’ve been bodgy all week.”

“I’m fine. It’s just weird to be gone while so much is going on at home,” I say, and offer a casual shrug for good measure. Keep it cool, Finn. Don’t fidget. Don’t avoid eye contact . “Not used to having so much free time is all.”

The radio plays some random pop song in the background and Oliver reaches over, shutting it off.

The click of the dial seems to reverberate around the cab and I make a show of squinting out the front windshield, still in search of a parking spot.

I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. Oliver knows me too well and would rip off my arms and beat me with them if he found out I talked to Harlow about all this before him.

“I’m your best mate, Finnigan. Wouldn’t lie to me, would ya?”

I start to answer but he’s immediately distracted by a spot opening up just ahead of us. “Oh, hey . . .

right there, right there.”

I pull into the spot, shutting off the engine with a heavy sigh. So I guess we’ll be going in.

I AM PRETTY sure I have never looked guiltier than I do in this moment. Ever. Like a criminal just casually strolling by the house he’s robbed.

As expected, Harlow gave me epic amounts of shit, and did what I’ve come to know as her thing: cracking jokes and using sarcasm to make light of the situation. But the look on her face when I explained why I couldn’t tell Ansel or Perry or even Oliver hit me like a punch to the chest.

I’d managed to put it out of my mind until later, with Oliver snoring down the hall and me still wide awake and staring up at the dark ceiling, thinking, Should I tell them? Was it wrong to keep my closest friends in the dark and open up so easily to Harlow? Up until that point, I hadn’t put much thought into Harlow and me. She’s been a lot of things—a wild story, a distraction, and eventually a friend—but now none of that seemed enough.

And f*ck, I do not want to face her tonight. Because not only do I have no idea where we stand or how I feel or how we should even interact, but now she has this giant secret. One I couldn’t even tell my best friends.

I should have manned up and told Oliver.

I should never, ever have told busybody Harlow.

What if they can tell I’m keeping something from them?

What if she lets something slip?

Fuck.

Inside the restaurant it’s dark and loud, so loud in fact that I wonder if I could sneak away at some point, disappear without anyone noticing.

Despite the number of bodies and booths crowding the small space, it’s a good twenty degrees cooler inside than out. Which means it’s only then I realize I’m sweating, the frigid air prickling at the damp skin along my forehead and down the back of my neck. Jesus Christ, Finn. Get yourself together.

We hear them before we see them. Even above the din of voices and music and clinking silverware, Harlow’s distinct laughter carries all the way to the door. Harlow is never quiet.

“That is the best thing I’ve ever heard,” Ansel yells, dissolving into a fit of giggles. You wouldn’t think a twenty-eight-year-old lawyer would giggle, but this is Ansel and, well, you’d be wrong.

Insecurity hums along the edges of my nerves as their voices get closer, and I feel my mouth pinch down into a frown.

“Sounds like they started without us!” Oliver shouts over his shoulder, and I can only nod, following him across the room and toward the table while trying to look like I’m not about to throw up.

They’re all seated at a large booth near the back. Ansel is on one end, his long arms splayed across the back of the seat, and he leans forward, grinning while he listens across the table. Mia is next to him, Lola sits on Mia’s right and—not for the first time since I met her—is lost in something she’s doodling on a napkin. Harlow is on the edge, eyes wide and expressive as she relays some story to Ansel, who laughs. Again.

“Having a good time?” Oliver asks, stopping at the other side of the table. “Could hear you lot clear outside.” Everyone’s eyes snap up to him—and then me—before they call out in greeting.