Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(40)

Everyone except Harlow.

Her gaze locks on mine for the longest five seconds of my life before she blinks away, addressing Oliver. “Finally,” she says, smile a little too bright. Nervous, maybe? Guilty?

“Did you—” she starts to say, but I interrupt.

“What was so funny?” I snap, and immediately want to smack myself.

Everyone turns to me, each of them with varying expressions of What the f*ck?

Lola looks up, and I register that while she might not look like she’s paying attention, she hears every single word. “Harlow was just telling the story of the time we locked ourselves out while skinny-dipping and we decided she was the one who had to climb through the upstairs window.

Naked.”

“Oh,” I say, too horrified by my own reaction to linger over the mental image of Harlow, naked, scaling a wall, a window . . . anything.

Harlow watches me through narrowed eyes, and Ansel is looking at me like I’ve just shown up with my underwear on the outside of my pants.

“Right,” Oliver says. “Gonna find the toilet, order me a burger if they come around, would ya?”

With Oliver gone my only options are to stand here like an idiot, or take the seat next to Harlow.

With a sigh, I steel myself and slide into the booth, careful to keep at least a few inches between us.

Lola and Mia start talking about . . . something, and Harlow leans in.

“Take it down a notch there, Finnick,” she whispers. Any other moment and I’d tell her exactly where she can put her cute little nicknames. But right now, I’ll settle for just keeping my shit together.

“What?” I ask, trying to look confused. “I was curious.”

“Curious? You looked like you were ready to flee the scene of a crime there for a second. You’re all fidgety and . . .” Her eyes make a circuit of my entire face. “Jesus. Are you sweating?”

“I’m fine,” I say. I wipe my palms across the denim on my thighs and exhale as I lean back. “Just, you know. Feeling a little weirded out by all this.”

“By what? You didn’t think I said something, did you?” She actually looks a little offended and so I answer quickly.

“What?” Probably too quickly. “No. Absolutely not. Just worried that, you know, maybe you don’t have the best poker face.”

“A poker . . . what the f*ck are you talking about?”

“You’re always meddling and shit. I thought maybe you’d slip.”

Before she can answer—or, you know, elbow me in the balls—Oliver makes his way back to the table and refills everyone’s glass, before dropping into the seat at the end of the booth, jostling me toward Harlow.

I straighten and mumble an apology but she shakes her head and laughs, leaning close and whispering so quietly I have to close my eyes to focus on her words: “I got news for you, Finn. I faked orgasms for six years before you and have more secrets than you could fit in that giant empty head of yours, so if one of us is gonna give away your big dating show secret, it’s not going to be me.”

“It’s not a da—” I pause, and take another deep breath before reaching for my beer. “Never mind.”

I know I’m being ridiculous, and yet, I don’t relax. Because now, not only am I waiting for Harlow to slip up, but I’m watching her so closely I notice everything. I’m sure I’m staring at her like some kind of a serial killer, but the thing is, she’s not looking back. At all.

A waitress appears at some point and takes everyone’s order, and I’m so lost in my head that I have no idea what I’ve asked for until she returns, setting a giant salad in front of me. Wonderful.

Not-Joe stops by and helps himself to a beer, even crawling under the table to pop up next to Harlow, wedging his way against her side.

“Have a seat,” she tells him with a laugh, and scoots over. Her thigh is pressed against mine and I have to force myself to keep my hands where everyone can see them, and far, far away from where they’re currently itching to go.

“Watching your figure there?” Not-Joe asks, pointing to my plate with a giant fry he’s snatched from Lola.

“He’s not as young as he used to be,” Harlow says.

And she’s still not looking at me.

Instead she nods to Oliver. “So, how’s the Wonder Woman situation?” she says, grinning while she cuts into her steak. I wanted a steak. “Any improvement?”

Oliver shakes his head and drains the last of his beer. “Don’t ask.”

Ansel, who up until this point has had some part of his face latched onto Mia, suddenly speaks up.

“What Wonder Woman situation?”

“Jesus Christ,” Lola says. “Got a little thing for Princess Diana, do you?”

Harlow breaks into giggles and Ansel blushes clear to the tips of his ears. “I . . . uh . . .”

“I’ve got to hand it to her,” Harlow says, reaching for an onion ring. “Wonder Woman just keeps proving she’s got it.”

“I’m completely confused,” Mia says.

“That’s because Ansel’s over there trying to suck your soul out through your mouth like some sort of Dementor,” Harlow says, and then whispers in my direction, “It’s a Harry Potter reference, Sunshine. Keep up.”