Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(47)

Turning to him fully, I say, “Okay, they’re all the way over at the bar for a few minutes, Not-Joe is stoned out of his gourd and probably can’t even hear the music in here. Can you relax? Tell me: How did it go?”

Finn swipes a hand down his face and exhales a long breath, glancing to make sure they really are out of earshot. “I liked them. I mean, there were a couple of idiots in the room who asked things about our love lives, and what kind of women we date”—he ignores the way I do a little victory moonwalk, and continues—“but the two guys who would be producing this show are pretty sharp. They’ve clearly done their homework on the industry, and . . .” He sighs. “I liked them. I liked their ideas. It didn’t sound horrible.”

“So why do you look so miserable?” My heart aches a little. I realize while I’m watching him struggle with this that I sincerely just want Finn to be happy.

When have I cared so much about his happiness versus my own orgasms? Lola isn’t the only one who has seamlessly pulled one of these guys into her inner circle. Finn is officially one of My People.

“Because it’s easier to feel strongly against it,” he says. “This morning, I was convinced this was just a going-through-the-motions meeting. Now I see how this could work much more easily than the alternative. The alternative being we lose our family business and have nothing.”

Not to put too dramatic a spin on it, but I’m really starting to think I know what drowning feels like. Mom has finished her first day of chemo—a treatment where the goal is to kill the cancer just slightly faster than killing the host—and all I have is a few texts from my dad saying she feels good.

Finn is struggling with what is arguably the hardest decision of his life. I’ve just acknowledged that he’s My Person, and now I’m powerless all over again to help either of them through this.

It sucks because I know that what would make us both feel better right now is some naked wrestling in my bed. But the more I realize I have genuine feelings for him, the more I know I couldn’t just take him home tonight. Finn would be the first person I would have sex with who I might also love. Ugh.

He shrugs, sliding his hands into his pockets. “And that’s pretty much it.”

I’m feeling a little light-headed and have to force myself to breathe, to focus on the conversation at hand. I can lose my shit later. “When are you heading home?” I ask, going for casual, yet concerned.

He shrugs. “Couple of days.”

A sharp spike drives into my chest. “Boo.”

He smiles down at me, gaze hovering on my mouth. “Are you admitting that you’re going to miss me, Ginger Snap?”

I give him the finger and don’t answer.





Chapter TEN


Finn


HARLOW SHOWS UP bright and early the next morning, balancing a tray with three Styrofoam cups on one flattened palm, a white paper bag clutched in her other fist.

“Good morning, Sunshine!” she chirps, pushing past me into the living room. “I brought breakfast.”

“It’s seven in the morning, Snap,” I mumble after her, reaching up to scratch my jaw. I haven’t shaved in two days, I’m not wearing a shirt . . . she’s lucky I’m even wearing pants. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re going to brainstorm.” She walks into the kitchen and turns to whisper-hiss, “Is Oliver still home?”

The old house is still chilly. The floorboards are cold beneath my bare feet as I lag behind her.

“He’s in the shower.”

At least, I think he is. At home I’m up before sunrise, down at the docks. But this beach life has spoiled me and indulges my natural night owl tendencies. I don’t think I’ve slept until seven in nearly twenty years. But I’m waiting until Oliver leaves to call my brothers and fill them in on my meeting with the producers.

Any thought of my brothers at all is wiped from my head when I turn the corner and get an eyeful of Harlow bent over the dishwasher, her perfect ass wrapped in a pair of skintight yoga pants.

Oblivious to my ogling, she straightens, and begins opening cupboard doors. “Plates?”

I cross the room and stop just behind her, reaching over her head to retrieve a stack of yellow plates from the shelf. Harlow freezes, fingers gripping the edge of the countertop before she seems to relax, and leans back against my chest.

“Here you go,” I tell her, bending to say the words against her hair.

She smells so good and her ass is pressed against my dick, I have to step away before she can feel that I’m already half hard, worked up like a seventeen-year-old boy. Pushing back, I take a seat at the small island and weave my bare feet around the legs of the bar stool.

It takes a moment for her to collect herself, too, and I grin as she clumsily sets down the plates and opens the paper sack.

“You look a little breathless there, Snap.”

She looks up, shoots daggers.

“So what is it we’re brainstorming?” I ask, rolling an orange along the counter. My stomach growls on instinct when I see her reach inside the bag and pull out some of the biggest, gooiest, most frosting-coated cinnamon rolls I’ve ever seen.

“Your situation,” she stage-whispers, and slaps my hand away when I try to sneak a fingertip of icing.