Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(50)

We stand there for a moment—her lips against my bare shoulder, my face in her hair—before Harlow seems to remember herself. She straightens and I feel the absence of her immediately. My arms fall to my sides and I watch as she turns back to the counter and gathers up our plates.

“So, I guess we’re back to square one?”

I shove my hands in my pockets and rock back on my heels. “I guess so.”

Harlow cleans the rest of the mess up before reaching for her keys.

“Don’t you worry, Finnigan. I’m a genius and I’m not giving up yet. I’ll figure this out.”

“Harlow, I don’t need you to—”

“Again, Finn?” she says sweetly. “Shut up. Stop being so stubborn and let someone else shoulder the worry for a few hours, okay?” I’m not sure how to respond, and so I stand dumbly as she stretches up onto her tiptoes, and presses the briefest kiss to my cheek. “I got you.”

I USED TO think my dad was the most persistent person I knew. When I was eight, he was up and walking hours after major back surgery to fix two ruptured disks. When I was nine, he spent a winter fishing the shores off of Alaska, and lost the tips to three of his fingers when they were crushed between two steel crab pots. He went back again the next year. When we lost Mom, Dad buried himself in work, sometimes spending nearly eighteen hours straight on the boat. And when he had his heart attack the summer I turned nineteen, and the doctors told him to stay the hell off the boats, he insisted on showing up the day he was released from the hospital, just to make sure we weren’t doing anything wrong.

I fear he has nothing on Harlow Vega.

Two days after cinnamon rolls and hearing the words pecker spit come from Harlow’s mouth—I’m not sure I’ll ever become unhorrified—my phone vibrates on the nightstand. It’s hours from sunrise, and the little guest room in Oliver’s house is still completely dark. I reach for my phone—managing to knock over a bottle of water and I have no idea what else in the process—and stare with bleary eyes.

What if something’s happened to Dad? Colton or Levi? The boat?

Make yourself pretty. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.

Harlow.

A glance at the clock shows it’s not even 5 a.m., and for a moment I consider texting her back, suggesting where exactly she should put her thirty minutes. I need to go back to sleep. I need to talk to Colton and Levi. I need to figure out what the f*ck I’m doing with my life.

I drop my phone to the mattress and stare, blankly, up at the ceiling. My heart is pounding in my chest and I rub a hand over my breastbone, feel the quickened beat just under my palm. My stomach feels both light and heavy at the same time, and even though the idea of shutting off my phone and sleeping for another three hours sounds amazing, I’m kidding myself if I think I might actually do it.

Harlow will be here to pick me up in thirty minutes, and regardless of what I should be doing this morning, something tells me we both know I’ll be standing outside, waiting.

AND LIKE SOME boy with a school yard crush and no real responsibilities, I am. Harlow’s car pulls into the driveway exactly twenty-nine minutes later, and I’m already sitting on the porch, two cups of steaming coffee in hand.

She steps out and crosses the damp grass toward me, dressed in jeans and a faded blue long-sleeved T-shirt, hair in a high ponytail, wearing a bright smile and not a trace of makeup.

I’m pretty sure she’s never looked more beautiful.

“Ready?” she says, stopping just in front of the porch. She looks so much younger right now, innocent, and if the reappearance of that nosedive feeling in my stomach is any indication, I’m in way over my head.

“Not remotely.” I glance down at her outfit again. She’s gone pretty casual today. I lift an eyebrow.

“Looks like for once I meet the dress code.”

“You’re perfect.”

Steady, Finn.

I hand Harlow her coffee and she looks at me, brows raised. “Such a gentleman.”

I ignore this, not wanting to obsess any more over the five-minute conversation I had with myself on whether it would be weird, or give Harlow some giant glimpse into my head if I made her a cup of f*cking coffee. I am insane.

“So where are we going?” I say instead.

Harlow turns and leads us back to the car. “Fishing,” she says, climbing in and starting the engine.

I look up from where I’m currently trying to wedge all six foot, three inches of me into the front seat of her sports car. “What?”

She checks her mirrors and backs out of the driveway, pulling out onto the street before she answers. “I figured we’re here, and you’ve got to be so f*cking tired of doing what everyone else wants to do. Plus I’m sure you miss home,” she says. “So why not give you a little taste of home, here?”

She must misread my stunned silence, because she quickly adds, “I mean, I know it won’t be the same for you, but trust me, Sunshine. It’ll be fun.”

And, okay. I’m sort of at a loss for words. Just when I think I have Harlow figured out, she does something to obliterate it. “Thanks,” I manage, and quickly busy myself with my coffee.

“And maybe we’ll see some trees you can cut down or something,” she adds, and bites her bottom lip to keep from smiling.

“Do they even have trees by Barbie’s dream yacht?”