Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(65)

“Where are you going?” Oliver says.

I shake my head. I can feel my pulse pounding inside my ribs, hear the rush of blood in my head.

My heart hurts for her, but I’m frustrated and confused about why she didn’t just tell me. My face feels hot and I’m not sure if I want to find Harlow and ask what the f*ck is going on . . . or if I just want to hit the road and drive.

“I’ve got some calls to make,” I say instead. “I haven’t been the best captain or brother lately and I need to catch up. They’re doing some repairs and I need to check in on a few things. I’ll talk to you guys later.”





Chapter THIRTEEN


Harlow


ONLY ONE HOUR into my five hour shift at NBC and I get a call from Salvatore, telling me he’s agreed to my proposal. He loved my idea, and also? He is going to find a place for me on the staff of his new production company.

“No way in hell you should still be shuffling papers at that place,” he’d said. “You’ve got places to be, kiddo.” And for the first time, I agreed.

I’m ready.

I can barely concentrate on the giant stacks of folders I need to file, what copies I’m making or whose coffee I’m pouring. Finally, I think we might have a solution that works for everyone: It could save Finn’s family business . . . and it could allow me to be closer to him far more often.

The first thing I do Monday afternoon when I get out of work is text Finn: You at Oliver’s?

I see him begin to type, and then stop. And then I’m in the elevator, and leaving the building, and walking to my car, staring at my phone and nearly walking into a telephone pole and getting hit by a bicycle because I’m not watching where I’m going.

I’m already almost home by the time his text appears: Yep.

OK, headed there, I reply, laughing over how long it took him to write one word.

It also takes him forever to answer the door, even though his truck is parked out front. And when he does, he looks . . . bad.

Sour, even.

“Hey,” I say, stepping close and stretching to kiss him. I can tell he’s just showered, but he didn’t shave. He’s scratchy and smells like soap and coffee. But he doesn’t bend to me, and instead offers the stubbly angle of his jaw.

“Hey.” He steps back, avoiding eye contact, and letting me walk past him into the house.

“You’re awfully . . . surly,” I mumble, sitting down on Oliver’s couch. Unease bubbles in my belly, and I study his expression, mentally rifling through everything I’ve said or done in the past twenty-four hours that might make him act this way. “Did I do something?”

He hums, shrugging, and then asks, “So what’s up?”

I pause for a beat; he didn’t answer my question at all. But the good news I have pushes forward in my thoughts. Whatever his foul mood may be, I have the power to cheer him up. “I came over because I wanted to tell you something. Something really good, actually.”

“Something good?” he says, looking at my face. His expression turns from dark into hopeful. “Is it good news about your mom?”

I freeze, not sure I heard him right. “What did you just say?”

“Your mom,” he repeats. “Is it good news about her?”

“How . . . ?” I pause, closing my eyes as my heart drops in my chest. I haven’t told Finn yet, which means he heard it from someone else. “No. I . . . how did . . . ?” I trip around, trying to find my footing. Who told him and what does he know? My stomach sinks. Now I understand his mood. “Finn, I was going to tell you about that, but that isn’t what—”

His face is tight again, jaw clenched. “You realize your mother has the same thing that killed my mom? I thought maybe you would want to confide in me since, of anyone in your life right now, I understand what you’re probably feeling. Also, you know, because you love me.”

I pull back, anger rising like steam in my chest. “You’re giving me shit for not sharing this immediately?”

He closes his eyes, pressing his fingers to his forehead. “I’ve been all over the map about this today, Snap. I get why you wouldn’t want to talk to me about that at first, I do. But then later . . .” He shakes his head. “I felt like my shit was falling apart and it really helped me to have you there. You, specifically. It’s part of what helped me let myself see this thing between us as more than just physical. But apparently you didn’t need the same thing from me.”

I start to interrupt, but he holds up his hand to stop me. “And even after it was clear it was more—





even before we said it concretely that it was more between us, we knew it was—you didn’t tell me about all of this. I know what your family is to you, Harlow. I know how close you are. I get why you were such a desperate mess early on and probably didn’t want to think about it when we were together.

I get that. What I don’t get is why last night, or all of the other times it was just you and me understanding each other perfectly, you couldn’t just . . .” He trails off, running his hand down his face and lowering himself into a chair across from me.

“I just haven’t really been talking—”

“Don’t say that,” he interrupts, angry now. “Everyone else knew. Ansel, Oliver, Lola, Mia. They all f*cking knew. I’m the one in your bed, I’m the one you’re looking at like I’m someone, and I’m the only person who doesn’t know what’s eating you up inside so bad that you came looking for me in the first place.”