Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(41)

Oliver explains the situation and if possible, Ansel’s face is even redder.

“I wonder if anyone’s had sex in there,” Lola says, and we all turn to her. “ What? I’m just saying, a little voyeuristic rendezvous surrounded by nerd porn?” She offers a small shrug. “I get it.”

“Of course you do,” Harlow deadpans.

“Well, I’m not having sex in that bathroom,” Not-Joe says. “The couch? Maybe.”

“Nobody is having sex in my store!” Oliver shouts, and then almost as an afterthought adds, “And don’t get any ideas, because that includes all of you.”

“Thank God there aren’t any cameras back there,” Not-Joe adds. “Can you even imagine the terrifying things you’d catch on film? The coolest, weirdest people come in there, it would make the sickest reality show.”

I choke on my beer, coughing like I’m losing a lung.

The entire table jumps, arms go flying and cups falling over like dominoes, beer and foam soaking everything in sight.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” Mia asks.

I cough again, and feel Harlow’s hand on my back, patting and moving in small circles.

“Pull yourself together, man,” she mumbles, and I nod, reaching for a napkin to wipe off the front of my shirt. “He’s fine,” she tells the rest of the table, “just went down the wrong pipe.”

When I finally get myself together, I sit back, carefully sipping my beer and trying not to make eye contact with anyone. Like a psychopath.

I focus on the feel of Harlow pressed to the side of my body, and how natural it seems. I keep waiting for her to give me shit, or make some joke at my expense, but she’s completely poker-faced— cool and steady—barely sparing a glance in my direction. I’m trying to decide if it’s intentional or not; is she really not looking at me, or is she just not looking at me as much as she normally does?

I manage to “accidentally” bump her arm once or twice, tap my knee against hers. I even manage to sneak over and fork a piece of her steak. Nothing.

And the more I watch her, the more I want her to look at me, talk to me, pick me out of all these other *s. I like how she talks to everyone, always focused on that one person without overdoing it or having it ever come across as flirting. And why would she? She’s easily the most beautiful person in this place. She doesn’t need to chase anything.

But . . . she did chase me, I remind myself. In Vegas, all the way to British Columbia and here, too.

Fuck, I want to brag about that to someone.

And I want her to flirt with me, maybe just a little.

Not-Joe’s phone vibrates across the table, and he climbs out of the booth, insisting he needs to go.

Everyone else follows soon after. I note that Harlow hasn’t checked her phone for close to an hour, but when she does, there’s a visible change in her posture. Her shoulders stiffen and I’m pretty sure I watch the color slip from her cheeks.

Harlow has barely had anything to drink, but as the others head for their cars or start making the walk home, she hangs back.

“Want a ride?” I say.

She lifts a brow and I laugh. “That’s not what I mean,” I say. “Olls and I came together; would you like a lift back to your apartment?”

“Actually, yeah. That’d be great.”

Her entire demeanor has changed, but I don’t ask any questions. She hitches her bag over her shoulder and follows us out to the truck, insisting on climbing into the backseat and letting Oliver have the front.

The drive is quiet, and my eyes instinctively flicker to her reflection in the rearview mirror. I can’t see much of her, only the briefest flash of light and shadow as we pass beneath the city streetlights, or she looks at her phone, but she’s just so f*cking beautiful. I blink up once to find her watching me and it’s all I can do to look away, focus on the traffic, and not kill us all.

I have no idea how it happened, but I like Harlow Vega. A lot. I respect her. I want to get to know her. I want to f*ck her for reasons that have nothing to do with distraction or my instinctive need to release semen.

I am so royally f*cked.

We pull up to her building too soon and I jump out, opening her door and helping her climb down.

“Thanks,” she says.

I nod. “And thank you,” I tell her. “For listening and . . . for keeping it between the two of us.”

“No problem. I’ll catch you around, okay?” she says, before adding, “Bye, Oliver!” over her shoulder.

He peeks his head out the window and says his own goodbye, and then she’s gone, making her way up the winding path and to the glowing building.

Harlow Vega walking away, still one of my favorite views. And definitely the image I’m going to use when I get home.

OLIVER AND I get back to the house and after a quick good night we each head in the direction of our rooms. I don’t waste any time, clearing the hall in just a few long strides and closing the door behind me. I don’t even think, can’t manage to walk to the bed, or even do the respectable thing and make it to the shower, before I straighten against the wood and reach for my belt. My brain is fuzzy, my muscles tense as I fumble with my fly and push my jeans down just enough to get to my cock.

The relief is so instantaneous that I hiss through my teeth and have to still my hand, remind myself that Oliver is at the other end of the house and the walls here are paper-thin.