Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(6)

“All the time?”

“Yep.”

“Well, okay then, it’s nice to meet you.” Despite the fact that I fear Not-Joe is a few synapses short of an invertebrate, I look him over and instantly like him, anyway. He’s wearing board shorts and a T-shirt and clearly has absolutely nothing but earnest giddiness to be right here, doing exactly this. “So you’re going to work at the store?”

When he nods, gulping down half his wine cooler in a single swallow, I add, “Tomorrow should be pretty exciting for you guys.”

“It’s gonna be good. Oliver is the best boss. Or, I can tell he’s going to be. He’s just so laid-back.”

I look across the room at where Oliver is concentrating so hard on the cards in his hand I fear they might incinerate. Unlike Finn, who doesn’t seem to worry much about his appearance, but tilts the odds in his favor by keeping his hair cut short, his face usually clean-shaven, Oliver is hot in an accidental sort of way. I haven’t really decided if he’s as oblivious about it as he seems, but I do know he’s a pretty intense guy, and given that he’s only thirty and opening a high-profile comic store in the hippest area of San Diego, I don’t think he’s quite as laid-back as Not-Joe is hoping.

I look back to the hippie boy. “What are you going to be doing there?”

“Selling comics and stuff.”

I laugh. This guy unsupervised must be a sight to behold. “Oh, you mean working the front?”

“Yep. Working the front. And sometimes the back.” He laughs to himself. “The re-gis-ter,” he sings.

“Exactly how high are you, Not-Joe?”

He stops moving and seems to do a lengthy mental inspection. “Pretty high.”

“Want to do some shots?”

Because really, there’s no way I’m ever having sex with Not-Joe, but my second favorite thing to do with guys is watch them get drunk.

We line up a couple and toss them back, just as I see Finn stand from the table. He tosses down his cards, clearly folding as he pulls off his cap, scratches his head with the same hand, and then slips it back on again. I hate that I find the maneuver so completely sexy. When he looks up and sees me in the kitchen with Not-Joe, he narrows his eyes for a beat and then starts to walk toward us.

“Oh, shit,” I mumble under my breath.

“Does the Hulk belong to you?” Not-Joe asks, tilting his head.

“Not even a little.”

“Still. Look at the intensity in his eyes,” he whispers drunkenly. “The lion prowls.” With a little shiver, he seems to clear his trance and chirps, “I’m headed to the little boys’ room.”

“Thanks,” I grumble to his retreating back, as Finn slides between me and the counter, leaning a hip against it.

Tonight I’m missing my usual armor—my social enthusiasm, my confidence, and the ease that comes with knowing life is okay for everyone I love. A tiny alarm in my brain signals that talking to Finn right now might be a terrible idea. We will either end up fighting or f*cking, and Finn does neither with any sort of tenderness. But I refuse to step back and can feel the heat coming off his chest. His hat is pulled low over his eyes, so I have to rely on the curve of his mouth to interpret his mood. So far, he seems . . . bored, angry, pensive, or asleep.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

“Finn.” I acknowledge him with a little nod.

His smile starts at one corner and twists across his lips. Damn him and his amazingly flirty mouth.

“Harlow.”

I saw my teeth over my bottom lip as I consider him.

Mindless chatter won’t work here, but I’m not entirely sure I can handle his rough edges tonight when I’m feeling so threadbare myself. Finn doesn’t fit into any of my easily predetermined boy-categories, and maybe there’s a challenge in that.

He is hard to read, easy to look at, and no matter how bad an idea it may be, it’s nearly impossible to resist pulling him closer.

Fighting or f*cking.

Both of those options are starting to sound pretty good.





Chapter TWO


Finn


I DON’T REMEMBER THE last time I was at a house party surrounded by a bunch of obnoxious twentysomethings on their way to varying degrees of hammered. I am not a party guy, but I agreed to come along because Ansel is in town, and the last time we saw each other was Vegas, when the end of a fun reunion crumbled into matrimonial chaos. But somehow tonight I end up nowhere near the kid, with a keg cup in my hand, and halfway to buzzed for the first time in months, standing close enough to Harlow Vega to touch her.

It doesn’t surprise me that we’re standing this close or that I’d really like to touch her.

What surprises me is that Harlow is the one separated from the rest of the party, hanging out in the kitchen with Oliver’s stoner employee. Despite our Vegas nuptials and Vancouver Island bangfest, it’s fair to say I don’t really know much about her. But I do know her type, and if there’s a table at a party, girls like her are usually pounding, lying, or dancing on it.

“Why are you in here and not wiping the floor with us at poker?”

Harlow shrugs, placing her hands on my waist so she can move me aside and open the cabinet overhead. “I’m distracted tonight.” She frowns up into the crowded cupboard. “And why is this such a mess? Dear God.”