Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(48)

“My situation . . . ?”

“Dreamboats on the Pacific? Try to keep up, Finneus.”

I roll my eyes. “You know that’s not what it’s called.”

“Only because they never asked me for ideas.”

“As much I love that you brought me food, couldn’t we have talked later? You know, after the sun was up?”

“The sun is up.”

“Barely.”

Ignoring me, Harlow pulls one of the coffees from the tray and sets it and a cinnamon roll down in front of me. “I do my best thinking when I run,” she says, and dishes up one for herself. “I have a million ideas for you.”

I lean forward and take a bite of the warm, gooey pastry, and swear to God my eyes roll back in my head. “Jesus f*ck, this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.” Without thinking, I stand and round the corner, placing a hand on either side of her face, before kissing her full on the mouth.

It’s meant to be quick. It’s meant to be a funny, dramatic little thank-you between friends. But Harlow’s surprised gasp is quickly cut off by a soft moan, her palms moving up to rest on my bare stomach. Heat surges through my veins and I feel every point of contact between us: where her breasts press against my chest, her hands on my skin, her lips moving against mine.

I pull away with a shaky breath and Harlow clears her throat. “You taste like cinnamon,” she murmurs, licking her lips.

“Well, g’day you, too.”

Our heads snap to where Oliver leans against the doorway, arms folded across his chest. He scratches his cheek, giving me the smuggest f*cking look I’ve ever seen.

I drop my hands to my sides and take a step back. “Just thanking Miss Harlow for breakfast.”

“I’m offended, Finn. I made you dinner the other day and would’ve appreciated at the very least a sharp pat on the ass. I see how you are.”

“Ha, yeah,” I say, returning to my seat.

Oliver beelines toward the food and Harlow hands him his coffee, along with the now-closed white sack.

“I have to apologize up front, because no way could a man hope to follow up that,” he says, nodding to me. “But thank you, pet.” He bends and kisses Harlow’s cheek.

“There’s one in there for Not-Joe,” she says, and I don’t know what it is about watching the two of them like this, but it makes me feel like I’m being slowly, carefully uncoiled, like this is how my morning should be every damn day. “Tell him I expect a lap dance at Fred’s later.”

I groan, but Oliver only laughs. “Will do. Be good, kids . ”

We both watch Oliver disappear from the kitchen and sit in silence, listening as the front door closes, followed moments later by the sound of his Nissan roaring to life and heading down the street.

Harlow carries her own plate and coffee to the counter, sitting on the stool next to me, her foot tangling with mine. “You look like crap,” she says, looking at my mouth like she wants to lick it.

“So do you.” I look at her perfect tits, all perky and f*ckable in her little running tank. “I’m almost embarrassed for you.”

She tilts her head, exposing her long, tanned neck. “Hideous?”

“Revolting.” I reach forward, wiping a tiny smear of frosting from her lower lip.

She stares as I stick my thumb in my mouth, sucking the frosting off, and I blink away, working to get my shit together. This isn’t how we keep our clothes on and stay friends-only. This is how she ends up ass-up on the couch, getting spanked and f*cked until dinnertime.

It’s so strange being with her like this: eating in companionable silence and having it feel so . . .

normal. This is what I have to remember: Sex with Harlow is amazing, but being friends with her isn’t so bad, either.

“Thanks for breakfast,” I say, wiping my mouth with a napkin.

“No problem. Like I said, I think better when I run, and unfortunately for my half-Latina ass, the bakery is right at the end of the best running trail in La Jolla. Now let’s get back to the reason behind my visit: fixing your problem.”

“I appreciate the thought, but I don’t need you to—”

“Shut up. I have ideas.”

It’s obvious Harlow has made up her mind, so I decide to humor her. Instead of telling her not to bother, that I’ve probably thought of it all already, I reach over and tear off a chunk of the center of her cinnamon roll, popping it in my mouth.

She scowls at me. “That was the best bite. You’re a menace.”

“Mmm hmm,” I hum around it.

She turns on her stool to face me. “What about tourists? Taking people out on your boat?”

I swallow, washing the bite down with a gulp of coffee. “No way.”

“Why?”

“Commercial fishing boats are dangerous places, Snap. Things fall, lines get tangled, people trip.

No way am I having a bunch of paying idiots wandering around my boats.”

“Okay,” she says. “What about investors?”

“You think I haven’t thought about that?”

“There has to be someone who—”

“The only reason people loan money is to make money. The fishing industry isn’t just going to recover overnight,” I tell her. “Development, climate change, disease, it’s all had an impact and as far as I can see, it won’t get better anytime soon. I can’t borrow money if I don’t have the hope of paying it back.”