Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(45)

“What?” I ask.

“Your hair looks . . . really red tonight.”

“I put some temporary color powder in it,” I admit, turning into the light so he can see better. “Do you like it?”

“I think you got some on your forehead.”

I deflate, dunking my thumb in my glass of water and wiping at the spot he’s pointing to. “Holy Moses, Finn Roberts, how you managed to date this Melody person for more than a week is beyond me.” I ignore his raised eyebrows at this, and continue: “You’re supposed to tell me I look pretty, and act like you’re touching my beautiful face when really you’re subtly wiping away my makeup mistakes.”

“I’m not supposed to do anything.” He gives me a dark grin. Leaning back against the side of our booth, he says, “I’m just a friend who likes to point out when you’re ridiculous. Makeup for your hair, Harlow? Really?”

“Sometimes a girl feels like she needs a little extra something, okay?”

His expression straightens, and he blinks away, looking out over the small dance floor. “Not you.

You look best first thing in the morning.” I suck in a breath. I know exactly what morning he means; it’s the only one we woke up to, together. In my bed, curled around each other. I can still feel how warm he was.

“Well, then I’m surprised you didn’t make a comment about pillow creases on my face and morning breath.”

“You did have pillow creases on your face, and your hair was a mess.” His voice drops lower when he says, “But you looked perfect.”

I’m too stunned to speak, continually swallowing around the lump in my throat. My heart feels like it’s grown ten times its normal size.

He coughs and I know I’ve been quiet too long when he changes the subject. “Who told you about Melody?”

I sip my water, finally managing, “Oliver, but it was completely against his will. I brandished a musket.”

Finn nods, taking another drink of his beer. Kyle turns the music up but even still, it feels like we’re in our own little bubble, standing a few feet away from where our friends sit together in the booth.

“I only know her name and that she was quiet,” I admit. “Will you tell me about her?”

“Why do you want to know this?”

“Probably for the same reason you asked if Toby Amsler went down on me.”

He blinks over to me. “What do you want to know?”

“Does she still live near you?”

He nods. “We went to the same high school, started seeing each other a few months after we graduated. Her folks own the local bakery.”

“Were you guys in love?”

He shrugs. “I was such a different person then. Right after we got together I left school to start fishing with my family.” Seeming to consider the question more, he adds, “I loved her, sure.”

“Still?”

“Nah. She’s a sweet girl, though.”

I know the question will burst out of me whether or not I really want to appear this interested in the topic. “A sweet girl who still gets to sleep—”

“No,” he interrupts quietly. He looks back to me, his eyes making the slow circuit of my face.

“Melody and I broke up five years ago; she’s married with a kid now.” At my expression, he murmurs, “There’s no one back home, Harlow. I promise.”

I swallow again, nodding.

“And if you remember,” he says, voice stronger now, “ you were with another man one night before you were with me.”

Shit.

“Do you know how crazy that makes me feel?” he asks.

Honestly, I can’t even imagine. He broke up with Melody five years ago and I still sort of want to scratch her face off. This situation is ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous.

“I know there’s nothing between us, we’re just friends,” he says. “But it’s not because the sex wasn’t something really good, Harlow. Before you, in Vegas, it had been two years. I’ve been with four women other than you, and never in anything but a committed relationship, so this is weird for me. I’ll tell you anything, okay? Since I know how it is to feel desperate to know every detail, I’ll tell you. But ask me, don’t ask my friends. I’d rather we find things out from each other, okay?”

What is this mad flurry of emotions? I’m relieved and guilty, swooning and overcome with the need to kiss his perfect mouth.

With a shrug, I tell him, “I just didn’t want you to know that I wanted to know.”

He laughs, tilting his beer to his lips and saying, “Sociopath,” before taking a long drink.

“How many did you tie up?”

He swallows, and turns his eyes to me. I can tell with this question his pulse has exploded in his neck. I can see it throb with the rhythm. His voice comes out more hoarse than usual when he admits, “All of them.”

My blood turns to mercury, swirling and toxic. “All of them?”

“Yeah, Harlow. I . . . like it.” He ducks his head, touching the back of his neck as he looks at me through his eyelashes. “But I’m pretty sure most of them only did it because they wanted to be with me, not because it was their thing, too.”

“Did any of them like it?”