Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(53)

I always expected to fall in love and feel jittery or hyperaware or overwhelmed. I never expected falling in love with someone would just make me feel even more comfortable in my own skin. I sort of want to tell him, “I think I love you,” because I suspect he would make a soft sound of sympathy and agree that it’s unfortunate timing.

I glance over at him, at his angled, stubbly jaw, his long tan neck and the arms that give me an odd sense of safety I never knew I craved. But didn’t I? Isn’t that who my father has always been until recently—not only my sounding board, but my rock, my guardian? I did know I always wanted any man in my life to live up to that expectation.

My chest hurts with how tight it’s grown from recognizing that steady, passionate, loyal Finn is what I always hoped I’d find.

He looks out across the water, his eyes narrowing and I wonder what he’s thinking. His chest lifts with a deep inhale and he closes his eyes as he exhales, his expression looking as torn as I feel.

I know I’m right when he opens his eyes and glances over at me. And this is terrifying, because if there’s one thing I know about my heart, it’s that it isn’t fickle. Once someone gets inside, they burrow deep in there, permanently.

Just when I open my mouth to say something—and I have no idea what is going to come out, but sincere emotion has risen high in my throat—my rod jerks in front of me, the entire top half bowing sharply.

“Whoa, okay,” Finn says, eyes lighting up with excitement as he steps forward and guides me closer to my rod. “You’ve got one.”

Fishing with my dad in the rivers of Northern California when I was a kid in no way prepared me for the process of hauling a fish in from the ocean. When it’s a nine-inch trout in a river, your bobber dunks underwater and your skinny twelve-year-old arms can easily reel that sucker in. Here it takes every muscle in my body to pit myself against this swimming beast. I tug the rod, turn the reel in mere centimeters, each one a victory. Beside me Finn shouts and whoops as if I’m hauling in a great white shark. A couple of men gather behind us to watch, calling out their encouragements.

“Want me to take over?” Finn yells over the cheering.

“Fuck no!”

But now I know why he took his fleece off; I’m sweating, swearing, cursing the moment I decided deep-sea fishing was a good idea. But when I get the first glimpse of the halibut on my line—of the spikes along its spine, of the sheer size of it—I’m giddy.

“My fish is so much bigger than your fish!” I yell.

Finn steps behind me to help me pull, taking over the reel after about ten minutes, when my hand starts to shake and grow numb. With both of us holding the rod, we pull, and pull, and finally the halibut comes out of the water, glorious. It flops on the deck, and I hate that part a little, but then Finn holds it and does something so fast I can barely see, and it goes still. The fish is ice cold from the water when he hands it back to me, and with a little gesture he indicates that I hold it up by the gills so he can take a picture.

I need to use both hands, it’s that huge. It’s the biggest fish we’ve caught so far, and the feeling is amazing, though not nearly as good as when Finn looks at me as he lifts his phone.

“Hold it up, baby,” he says quietly, eyes gleaming in pride. “Let me see that fish.”

My arms are shaking under the weight but I hold it up for him to see. He snaps a picture and then moves to my side, taking the halibut and handing it to Steve to tag for us.

“We gonna talk about how you just called me ‘baby’?” I ask as he ducks down, getting my line rebaited.

I feel more than hear his quiet laugh as he stands and kisses the top of my head. “No.”

I do everything I can to tamp down the ridiculous smile that’s tugging at my mouth. Like murder it with my bare hands tamp down. I am so giddy right now I could burst into an enthusiastic Disney medley right here on a boat full of salty old men.

WHEN WE GET back to the dock, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom, but really I need to call and check in on Mom. We’ve been gone all morning and into the afternoon, without cell service. It was both wonderful and terrifying. What if something happened?

Dad answers on the first ring, sounding relaxed and easy. “Hey, Tulip.”

“Hey, dude. How’s the queen?”

“Good,” he says. “We’re out for lunch.”

“So nothing going on? No complications?”

Dad sighs on the other end of the line and I wince, knowing I’m sounding like a maniac. We’ve been told at least five times by her doctors that this first round of chemo should feel relatively easy for Mom. It’s the later rounds that get hard.

“You have to pace yourself,” Dad says, and I can tell he’s smiling but I also know he’s serious.

“This is the long haul.”

Sighing, I say, “I know, I know.”

“How was fishing?”

“It was awesome. I’m smitten.”

“With the sport, or with the guy?”

It’s my turn to sigh. “Maybe both.”

“Good. Bring Finn tonight. I’ve told Salvatore I’ll be available when Release Horizon begins filming in April.”

Tonight is a party hosted by Dad’s colleague and good friend Salvatore to celebrate the launch of Sal’s new production company. Release Horizon is their new Oscar-hopeful-baby, the sweeping drama Dad told me takes place on—drumroll—a ship. I honestly can’t even imagine Finn at the party, but that knee-jerk reaction makes me feel surly and rebellious against my own instincts. If Finn is one of My People, then he belongs there, whether he knows anyone or not.