Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(43)

I wonder if he’s told Finn. But if he has, wouldn’t Finn ask me about it?

“Statistical analysis and data reconfiguration,” I lie, playing along. “What’s Finn doing in L.A.

anyway?”

“Dunno,” he says, and I love the way his accent puts an “r” sound at the end of every word ending in a vowel. He frowns. “He’s not really talking about what he’s doing here at all. Finn’s always been that mysterious broody type, but I don’t know. Quite secretive, really.”

I nearly high-five myself, knowing now that I know something Oliver doesn’t. Oliver knows Finn better than almost anyone. We’ve talked about his job and his family a little, but Bedroom Finn’s history is an absolute mystery to me, and the more I want to see him, the more I hate the idea of him with hordes of girls, doing what we did at Oliver’s house, and on my couch . . . acts that had left me feeling like my view of sex and intimacy had been wiped clean of a cloudy film I hadn’t even known was there.

And now here we are, alone in the store without the man himself. No way am I going to miss this opportunity to dig.

“So you don’t know what Finn is up to down here for a few weeks”—I decide to start slowly, keeping it about professional things—“but it seems like he’s the one basically in charge of his entire family business?”

Oliver nods. “His mum died when he was twelve, right? Then a few years later his dad had a heart attack and a stroke, so Finn’s running the ship. Literally.”

“That must make it pretty hard to date.” Oops. My slow-and-subtle plan crashes and burns.

Lola snorts next to me, flipping the page in her comic book without looking up, and Oliver gives me a dubious glance.

“I know Finn would tell me anything,” I assure him. “If I asked.”

Oliver studies me for a moment, running his finger under his lower lip. “So just ask him, then.”

“I don’t want him to know I want to know,” I say, wearing my Captain Obvious expression. “Duh, Oliver.”

Laughing, he says, “You two are messed up.”

“Oh, because we are the only ones with secrets?” I tilt my gaze to Lola, still reading obliviously beside me.

Oliver gives me the touché face, and says, “Fair enough.”

He’s all but admitted out loud he has a thing for Lola! I—am—giddy!

“Besides,” I tell him, coiling my hair into a bun on top of my head, “I may not know him like you do, of course, but we all know he’s a fisherman who works all the time so basically only has time to bang skanky Canadian hockey muffs that he meets at the local Moose N’ Brew.”

“He doesn’t bang hockey muffs,” Oliver says, mildly offended.

Bingo.

“So just a parade of regulars down at the docks, then?”

Oliver scowls.

I lace my fingers behind my head, grinning at him. “You’re making this so easy.”

He starts to organize some receipts. “I can’t believe you married him for twelve hours, knobbed him at his place in Canada, and have been fooling around for almost two weeks here, yet haven’t discussed any of this.”

“We aren’t fooling around anymore,” I tell him. When he looks up, surprised, I say, “We were too good at it. It was a little too distracting.”

And here is where I know Lola has talked to Oliver about my mom: His eyes go a little sympathetic, a little soft. “Right. Sorry, Harlow.”

“Gah, don’t. She’s going to be fine.”

“Knowing your mum, yeah, she is.” He bends to pick something up from behind the counter and it’s all I can do to not hurl myself across the glass to hug him for sounding so confident. He’s met my mom three times since he’s moved to San Diego—at a barbecue, at Mia’s official welcome-home party, and at a birthday party for Lola’s dad, Greg—and I could tell Mom and Oliver have one of those unspoken über-calm-person bonds where they just automatically clicked.

“I haven’t talked about it with anyone but the girls,” I tell him meaningfully. He stands back up and nods, making the zips-lips gesture. “Anyway,” I say, “tell me more about Finn’s steady girlfriend.”

Laughing, Oliver says, “You’re relentless. He doesn’t have a girlfriend. Though I will tell you that the steady act is far more his speed than the wild trench-coat-surprise act you prefer.”

I let this settle in for a minute. Is that my preference? Trench coat flings and date-count maximums





of two? It has been, I guess. My longest relationship was the four months I dated Jackson Ford in college. It never really got off the ground, though, in part because it spanned the summer I was off with Dad filming in Greece, and because spending time with Jackson was about as interesting as reading the back of a shampoo bottle. I’ve always thought of myself as wanting to be in a relationship.

But most guys fail to measure up almost as soon as they start speaking.

Lola nudges me with her elbow. “Why are you trying to find a reason that you guys can’t be together?”

“Because he’s horrible?” I lie.

She snorts out a laugh. “He’s built like a man who works with his hands, has a sense of humor drier than the Sahara, and the thing that gets him off more than anything in the world is giving you orgasms.