Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(52)

As the engine chugs and pulls us away from the dock and into the open water, my brain is a mess, my body is on fire for this hot fisherman version of Finn (which—I giddily recall—is everyday Finn) . . . and I have no idea how to handle a rod and reel as big as the one he retrieves for me.

He hands it over silently, giving me a patronizing pat on the head, and we step closer to listen to the safety guidelines with the other dozen tourists gathered on the deck. I expected Finn to space out during this, or carefully slip away to go check out the boat, but he seems riveted. Whether he’s seeing how sportfishing is handled on a professional level, or he’s just that in love with fishing, I can’t tell.

But I love that he isn’t acting like it’s beneath him. He’s excited, even for this little half-day trip.

When Captain Steve has finished his spiel, we find a spot at the back corner of the boat, and Finn works quietly with the wind whipping his fleece flush against his chest. He sets up our rods, adjusts my line and my reel, and then leaves, telling me to “hang on.” A few minutes later, Finn returns with a pair of boots in one hand and a baseball cap with the boat’s logo in the other.

“It gets messy,” he says. He hands me the boots and puts the cap on my head, carefully feeding my ponytail through the back, whispering, “There,” once it’s situated. His hazel eyes dip down to my mouth, as if he’s considering kissing me again, but when he blinks, the look is gone. “Ready?”

“Am I ready to kick your ass in fish counts?” I ask, pulling the cap lower over my eyes before stepping into the giant boots. “You betcha.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Okay, you heard the captain say all of this but I’m sure you were thinking about my naked body or buying new makeup for your hair, so I’m going to remind you: This boat fishes halibut, rockfish, and bass. The halibut can get pretty big, but don’t worry”—he gives me a winning smile—“I’ll help you pull them in.”

“I’ll have you know I am a regular at kickboxing class,” I tell him, acting offended. “And I surf.”

“Right, but you won’t be pulling these fish up with your legs.” He grabs my skinny arm and shakes it like a chicken wing before taking my rod from its stand and casting the line deep into the water. The fish bait on the end lands with a heavy plunk and Finn grins as he hands the rod over to me. “Put it in the stand. Your arms will get tired if you’re fighting the water while we move.”

I do as he says and watch him cast his line out. He looks so happy, and I’m torn between wanting every viewer in America to see this expression on this face on their giant HD televisions and wanting his private joy to stay that way.

“Do you think you would hate having a camera on you while you do this?” I ask.

He shrugs. “It’s not that so much as the idea that the show wouldn’t really be about fishing.”

“But what if it was?” I ask. “What if that’s your condition?”

He pulls his cap off his head and scratches his scalp with his little finger. “Yeah. I don’t know.”

I think neither of us wants to think about it after that, because we fall quiet, watching the water and the birds and, probably more than anything, each other.

ALMOST AS IF the fish sense that Finn will more quickly put them out of their misery than I will, he catches three before I’ve even had a bite: two rockfish and a huge halibut. If I said it bothered me that he’s crushing it and I’m sucking, I’d be lying. Nothing is better than watching Finn reel a forty-pound fish up onto the deck.

That’s not entirely true. Sex with Finn on this very deck might be better . . . but only slightly. The sun is warm out on the open water and he’s taken off his fleece; the sight of his tanned forearms as he pulls and reels the line in . . . it . . . it might cause me to spontaneously orgasm.

“It’s going to be weird to leave, even though it’s only been a couple weeks,” he says, oblivious to my leering, and casting his line back into the water. I blink, clearing the fog of my Finn Lust and wait to hear what he means. It seems to me, from watching him today, that he would want nothing more than to get back to his life on the water.

“Weird how?”

He surprises me, saying, “I don’t think I’ll like not being able to see you whenever I want.”

This is not at all what I expected. I expected him to mean he’s going to miss the Southern California weather or awesome burritos or hanging with Oliver and Ansel.

I want more than anything to reach up, cup his face in my hands, and kiss him like I’ve never kissed anyone before, out of relief that he’s nearly perfect.

Instead I say, “I masturbated thinking about you last night.”

He bends over, bursting out laughing when I say this. Finally he manages, “You did?”

“Absolutely.”

When he straightens, I can see a hint of a blush on his face beneath the shadow of his baseball cap.

That’s new. “Me, too,” he admits.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Was I awesome?”

He turns and looks at me. “You sucked dick like a champion, Ginger Snap.”

“I would, too.” I give him a proud lift of my chin.

He reels in his line a couple of feet. “You would.”