Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(69)

“Alone,” I repeat. “Because Finn is gone?”

“Left ’bout an hour ago.”

“Left as in . . .”

Oliver points north. “Canada.” His Aussie accent turns the word into kin-ih-duh and even though, logically, I know what he’s said, it still takes my stubborn brain a second to let the confirmation sink in that Finn left town without saying goodbye to me.

He left town, and didn’t kiss me goodbye, or wait to make sure I’m not knocked up with his spontaneous car-sex love child, or even come find me. What a dick.

I’m suddenly so angry I want to take Oliver’s f*cking apple and throw it at the wall. “I told him I loved him last night,” I tell Oliver, as if it’s his business. As if he needs to know. But it feels so f*cking good to explain the storm pounding in my veins, the hurt and fire making me want to scream.

I want confirmation that Finn is as epic a dick as he seems to me right now. “The best part? He said it first. And now he’s f*cking left without saying goodbye?”

If any of this surprises Oliver, he hides it remarkably well. This is his superpower, I think. The comic geek always has one, and Oliver’s is a poker face that would leave even the Holy Trinity guessing what he’s thinking. Too bad Lola’s superpower is never needing to dig for information that hasn’t been offered. They’re going to Remains of the Day this thing until the end of time.

“You want to come in?” he asks.

I shake my head, hugging my arms around my shoulders. It’s almost seventy degrees out but I’m freezing. Is this what heartbreak feels like? Like a hot skewer in my chest and I’m too cold and can’t take a deep breath and want to cry all over Oliver’s awkwardly naked shoulder?

Heartbroken sucks. I want to kick it in the nuts.

“Look, Harlow,” he starts, before pulling me in for a hug. “Aw, pet, you’re shaking.”

“I’m freaking out,” I admit, leaning into him. How could Finn just leave town? “Oliver . . . what the f*ck?”

He pulls back and looks down at me. Way down at me. Holy shit Oliver is tall. “I’ve known Finn for a long time,” he says slowly. “It takes a lot to get him upset, and even more before he shows it.”

He winces a little and then says, “I can tell you’re upset, too, but he basically grunted out a few words, said we’d talk soon, and then walked out to his truck. I dunno what’s going on with him, or why he left or . . . anything, really, that might help you feel better. You sure you don’t want to come in?”

I shake my head again. “He didn’t tell you what happened?”

Oliver laughs a little. “Finn rarely tells us much of anything. He usually tells us things after he’s got them all figured out. If there’s something going on with him, and he confided in you, then he wasn’t lying when he said it first.”

“Said what—oh,” I say. He’s talking about the I love you. Ugh. Punch to the gut.

He bends, catching my eyes. “Call him, yeah?”





Chapter FOURTEEN


Finn


I DID A LOT of things in San Diego that weren’t stereotypical Finn Roberts: sleeping in, watching TV, buying Starbucks coffee, not working a steady fifteen hours a day. But this—driving away as the sun sets over the water—is the first familiar feeling I’ve had in a long time.

Oliver came home while I was packing and watched me warily from the doorway. “You want some coffee for the road?” he’d asked.

“Yeah, that’d be good.”

Things had been the slightest bit tense between us, and I knew there were probably a hundred questions Oliver would ask if given the chance. In turn, he knew there were about a hundred reasons why I wouldn’t answer any of them, and so once my bag was closed, we walked to the kitchen, stood over the Keurig in silence, both of us watching the final drip drip drip of coffee into the cup below.

“You can’t have this one,” he said, turning away from me to spoon in more sugar than any human should probably consume in one sitting.

“Of course I can’t. It’s your Aqua Man mug, you think I want to lose an eye?”

He glanced up at me, smiling weakly. “No, you can’t take that one because yours will take a few minutes to brew and I wanted the chance to talk to you before you left.”

“Ah.”

“I know you have some stuff going on.” He let the sentence hang for a moment, suspended in the air while he walked to the fridge and retrieved a carton of half-and-half.

I felt a flash of panic, worried that Harlow had decided to get even with me after all, and told him everything. But she hadn’t; I knew this even without hearing what else he had to say. Harlow may be a lot of things—meddling, na?ve, impulsive—but disloyal is absolutely not one of them.

He returned to the counter and opened up the carton, checking the date before continuing without missing a beat. Like we were just having a casual conversation after work, like he wasn’t giving me yet another chance to open up. Which of course, I didn’t.

“Just know that you can talk to me.”

“I know,” I said, grateful that Oliver never seemed to push. “Thanks.”

And that was it. He handed me my coffee, gave me a long hug that would have bordered on awkward even for Ansel, and I left.