Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(44)

What a nightmare.”

My voice of reason is always Lola. “You’re a jackass.”

“You only say that when I’m being your voice of reason.”

“Out of my head, witch. And don’t piss me off,” I tell her. “I’ll buy you underwear one size too small for Christmas and make you hate life.”

“Come to think of it,” Oliver cuts in, walking around the cashwrap and leaning back against it to face us, “you aren’t really Finn’s type, so it’s probably for the best that you guys stopped messing around.”

“What?” I say, dropping my nonchalance to the side in favor of knee-jerk offense. “Why?”

“Well, you’re a bit of an unnecessary ballbuster.” I open my mouth but Lola elbows me again, sharper this time. “Plus, Finn doesn’t just mess around, as I’ve mentioned. I only met one of his ex-girlfriends, Melody, and—”

“Sorry,” I interrupt, holding up a hand. “Melody?”

He raises his eyebrows as if I’m proving one of his points and I bite my lips to keep from saying anything else.

“They were together for a few years before and just after Bike and Build. She was nice, just really quiet . . .” He tilts his head and winces, nonverbally suggesting maybe I’m not so quiet.

“But they aren’t together anymore,” I remind him.

“Nope.”

“So maybe he doesn’t like quiet. Maybe he likes chatty half-Irish, half-Spanish feisty gingers who call him on his bossy shit.”

“Well, I thought it didn’t matter anyway,” Oliver says with a little smile.

REGAL BEAGLE TONIGHT, I text Finn once I’m home. Lola, Oliver, me, Not-Joe. You coming?

I stare at my phone for at least a minute, waiting for him to reply, but nothing. Ordinarily, Finn strikes me as the kind of guy who will forget he even has a phone until he empties his pockets at the end of the day, but lately he’s been checking it nearly constantly, so I expect him to reply quickly.

But an hour later, he still hasn’t.

I text, How did it go? I can’t wait to hear about it.

Still no reply. Maybe he’s driving. Maybe the meeting went long. Maybe he’s sitting at a huge desk, signing contracts.

Lola and Oliver pick me up in his beater Nissan and I stare at the back of their heads as they jabber on and on about his store, her upcoming book launch, one of their favorite comics. How can they not see they’re perfect together?

I want to shout it and hear it echo in the car, but the certainty of a beheading at Lola’s hand keeps the words inside. When we get to the bar, I practically tear the car door off the hinges in an effort to launch myself onto the sidewalk, taking in a huge breath of air free of the Lola-Oliver-cuteness-overload.

But then my heart stops entirely, because parked behind us at the curb is Finn’s truck. He’s had it cleaned—probably before he drove up to L.A.—and it’s empty. He must be inside already. And he didn’t answer my texts.

I know I’ve been looking for him all day, but it’s in this moment outside, staring at his giant beast of a truck and just charmed to death that he would wash it before driving to this meeting—that I realize I’m smitten. Really smitten. I knew I liked him, and that I liked sex with him, but I’ve never felt this way about a guy before: longing, fear, hope, and the tingly thrill of desire.

“What are you wearing?”

I turn to see Finn standing at the entrance to the bar, his mouth tilted in a smirk. His forehead is wrinkled, communicating mild concern, but even so, his inspection gives me goose bumps all down my arms. Lola and Oliver slip past him, walking inside.

I follow the path of his eyes and look down at my chest. I’m wearing a navy silk tank top, covered in small, colorful hand-embroidered birds and faded skinny jeans. I spent about an hour getting ready for tonight, though only under the pain of torture would he get me to admit that. “Excuse me, sir, this is a gorgeous shirt.”

“It’s covered in birds.”

“You’re going to lecture me about fashion? You wear the same dirty baseball cap every day and own two T-shirts,” I say as I follow him inside and toward our booth at the back.

“At least they aren’t covered in birds.” He reaches the table and hands me a glass of water before grabbing his own beer. He’s already been here and he came to our booth? My inner girly girl squeals in delight. “Besides, if you haven’t noticed, I’m not wearing a T-shirt today.”

No, he is most definitely not. In my mind, I’m dirty dancing and perving all over this man, but outwardly I’m doing a calm inspection. He’s wearing pressed black dress pants and a white button-up shirt with a small gray diamond print.

“You approve?” he asks quietly, teasing but also not.

“Can we focus on the more interesting topic of conversation, please?” I ask. “Such as why you are dressed like this?”

He looks over my shoulder to where Oliver and Not-Joe stand only about five feet away. “Not tonight.”

“But did it go well?”

He tilts his beer to his lips, giving me a warning look.

“Nothing?” I hiss-whisper. “You’re not going to say anything?”

“No.”

I wish a dramatic-huff-and-stomp-away would work on Finn, but I know it wouldn’t. And I still like the way he’s staring at me. Although . . . now he’s not inspecting my shirt, he’s staring at my hairline.