Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(73)

The dock is old and weather-worn, but I swear I could draw the pattern of grain in the wood from every plank from memory.

“The last few months, things haven’t been good,” I tell him. “Fish counts are down, the cost of fuel is at a premium. People are losing everything left and right. Dad was going to take a loan out on the house. I was pretty sure I was going to have to, too. And you’ve seen my house, Olls. You know we’re not talking about a huge line of equity, okay? We were scraping the barrel.”

“Shit,” Oliver mumbles.

“So,” I continue, “a month ago we got a visit from a couple of suits at the Adventure Channel. They wanted to film on the boat, document our lives and what we go through. Document us. My first reaction was that they were totally f*cking with us. My second reaction, when I realized they were for real, was to say no, because it’s clear that the goal of the show isn’t about fishing, it’s to show us and our lives.”

“The lives of four eligible, brawny blokes up in Canada, you mean.”

“Exactly,” I say, rubbing my face. “But the guys—my brothers and my dad—they thought we should hear them out. They’re tired of fighting so hard, you know?”

Beside me, Oliver nods.

“We talked, and it was decided that since I was the only holdout—and believe me, I was dead set against it—I’d be the one to go out to L.A. and meet with the production company, get all the details, and come back. We’d decide together.”

“Okay,” Oliver says. “Hence the visit.”

“The more I thought about it, the more I knew I didn’t want to do the show. Even as I was driving down to San Diego, I knew. I didn’t want to make light of what people are going through up here. I didn’t want us to be some kind of a joke. But then I got to California and . . . one of the engines threw a rod and it was one thing after another and pretty soon, it was either that or lose it all. No way would any loan help us dig out of the mess.”

“But you didn’t tell me. You didn’t tell Ansel.”

I shake my head. “I didn’t.”

“You did tell Harlow.”

I take a deep breath and look out over the horizon. A seagull circles overhead before it swoops down, dipping its beak into the ocean. “Yeah,” I say finally.

“Should I be mad that you told her but not me? You were in a relationship with her for, what, twelve hours?” Oliver says. “We’ve been friends for over six years.”

“You’re right. But you and Ansel, you’re a permanent part of my life. Harlow was temporary.”

Oliver lifts a brow and I quickly add, “At first.”

“And that made it easier to talk to her? Someone you barely knew, rather than someone you’ve known most of your adult life?”

“You don’t think that makes sense? I didn’t want you to know what was happening until I knew what was happening. I didn’t want it to change how you saw me.”

“You are a stubborn, prideful idiot, Finn Roberts.”

I adjust my hat on my head. “I’ve heard that before.”

“So what I’m hearing is, you left when you found out Harlow was doing basically the same thing.”

I pull my brows together, not understanding.

“She didn’t want to talk about her mother with you, you didn’t want to talk about your boat problems with us. You both wanted to keep things separate.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. Realization sinks in. He thinks I split town because Harlow didn’t tell me about her mother. Jesus. Do I really come off as that callous? “I didn’t leave town because Harlow didn’t tell me about her mom, Oliver. For f*ck’s sake. That stung because of my mom, and because I told Harlow everything about my problems, and the night before we’d basically confessed our undying love. But if that was the only thing that happened I wouldn’t have just bailed.”

“Okay, clearly there is a lot more going on, and Harlow is just as tight-lipped as you are.”

I rub a hand over my eyes. “I left town because I had to get back here. And . . .” I pause, looking up at him. “I left town because I was pissed at Harlow for trying to find a way to save my business without talking to me.”

Oliver pulls back, shaking his head to tell me he doesn’t understand. “What?”

I explain to him how Harlow approached Salvatore Marìn without talking to me first. How she discussed details about my life that weren’t hers to share. How she offered something—access to my boats for months—when she wasn’t even sure I could deliver.

“So she didn’t tell you because she wasn’t sure it would work out, right?” Oliver asks, and his voice is gentle and curious as if he simply wants to know, but I can feel his laser-sharp point lurking just behind. “She didn’t want to share it with you before it was a real possibility?”

“Yeah,” I say, wary. “That’s probably what she’d say.”

“Just like you didn’t want to tell us about what was happening with the television show before it was a real possibility?”

I see the point he’s making, but it just doesn’t add up. “Oliver, the whole situation is messed up.

Yes, I should have told you out of courtesy because you’re my friend. But Harlow should have told me out of necessity because it’s my f*cking livelihood. These two aren’t the same.”