Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(56)

He stands, kissing my jaw and intentionally misunderstanding me when he says, “We could skip the party and I could show you.”

I start to answer, “Absolutely,” but then pause. Something clicks, like a lock turning in my thoughts. There is one way to salvage his business without him having to do the show, and it’s been right in front of me this entire time.

WE WALK INTO the party holding hands. Something has shifted between us, and it’s so achingly tender that I want to launch myself at him every time he looks at me, or speaks to me, or puts his hand around my back and curls his fingers around my hip as if there’s a hold there made just for him.

Dad, who came here alone without Mom tonight, sees us as we walk into the kitchen and excuses himself from the small group conversation he’s engaged in to come greet us.

“You must be Finn,” he says, holding out his hand. “I’m Harlow’s father, Alexander Vega.”

Only two boys I’ve dated have ever met my father, and they were stammering, anxious messes the entire time. In a way, it’s understandable. For one, my father has won two Academy Awards, and is a fairly well-known name for a cinematographer. But he’s also tall, and muscular, and perfectly capable of being intimidating when he wants to be.

But right now, I can tell he doesn’t want to be. And it doesn’t matter anyway, because Finn—who is admittedly enormous in comparison—greets him with a firm shake, a confident smile, and a “Thanks so much for inviting me along.”

My father puts his arm around Finn’s shoulders and leads him deeper into the room to be introduced to some people. Dad tilts his head to me, indicating I join them, of course, but I’d rather watch the two of them greet Dad’s colleagues and do the guy-bonding thing I’ve never seen my father do with a guy I’ve so much as kissed.

This guy-bonding thing is exactly what I need to happen tonight.

I head into the kitchen to get a drink and say hi to Salvatore’s daughters. They’re six and eight years older than I am and still living with their parents; Valentina and Ekaterina Marìn are two of the most spoiled “children” I’ve ever met in the film industry, but it’s easier to just be friendly than avoid them, because Dad and Sal work together on more than half of their projects.

I kiss each of them on the cheek and smile that this time, Valentina smells like Chanel, and Ekaterina smells like something new . . . Prada Infusion d’Iris, maybe. Their biggest fight two years ago caused them to not speak for three months and was over which sister could claim Chanel No. 5 as her signature scent.

This is what Finn used to think I was like.

“Your boyfriend sure is something,” Valentina says, lifting her chin in Finn’s direction.

I pour myself a glass of sparkling water. “He is.”

“Rugged,” she purrs.

“I love the blue-collar ones,” Ekaterina adds.

Oh, here we go. I look back into the room at Finn and know exactly how they spot it even though he’s wearing dress pants and a dress shirt: He just looks out of place here. He’s muscular in a way that bucks the Hollywood slender trend, his hair is cut short, and he stands with his legs set shoulder-width apart, as if constantly steadying himself against an incoming wave.

“He owns a fishing business,” I tell them.

“Ooooh,” Ekaterina coos. “Niche.”

I plaster on a smile that turns genuine when their father walks into the kitchen, and I tilt my head to him when he leans to kiss my cheek. His daughters may be unbearable, but Salvatore has been like a second father to Bellamy and me.

“And how is my darling girl?” he asks.

“I’m doing fantastic. Congratulations again on the new business, Fancypants. You must be excited.”

“I am. I’ve also been gunning to get your father to come on board for Release Horizon.”

“It sounds like he’s already there,” I tell him.

“Now I just need to get you to come work for me and the world will be settled perfectly.”

I take a deep breath and say, “Actually, Sal, I wanted to talk to you about that . . .”

FINN PRESSES ME against the wall outside my apartment, growling into my neck over how long it’s taking me to find my keys. We nearly pulled over to the side of the road four times on the short drive back to my place, because his hand was in my dress, his mouth on my neck, his fingers guiding mine to his lap when he pulled his cock free, whispering for me to feel him.

You’re getting me all f*cking messy, Harlow. You gonna lick this clean when we get there?

He was messy and slick when I slid my hand all the way down his length. I’d stroked him until he’d lifted his hips from the seat, began grunting quietly with every stroke of my hand over the head of his cock as I steered with the other hand. I’d brought him to the edge—panting and rigid—and then parked in front of my building.

He groaned, stilling my hand. “Not in the car again.”

The metallic ring of my keys echoes down the hall as I jangle them free of my purse, and, still smashed up against me, Finn grabs them from my hand, opening the door and pushing me inside. I’m on my back on the floor only a split second before the sound of the door slamming shut rings through the apartment.

Finn hovers over me like a predator, inspecting his hunt. I slide my hand down his body, gripping the thick, inflexible shape of him through his dress pants, intent on finishing what I’d started in the car. But he seems to have regained control, and reaches for my hand, moving it away.