Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(78)

“I’m having dinner with some friends,” he says, with a casual wave of his hand.

I only have time to realize that he planned this so I’d have a free night here and to get out the words “You jackass! Did you talk to my dad?” before Sal grins and the elevator doors slide closed.

“I’m not going to see Finn!” I yell at the sealed doors anyway, just as an older gentleman steps forward and presses the down call button. “I’m not,” I tell the stranger before glancing at my room key and stomping down the hall.

I PUT MY bag down and after a quick search on my phone leave almost immediately to find him.

The sun setting over the water is nearly too beautiful to describe, and I wish someone was here with me to agree that it’s unreal. The sky is fire orange at the horizon, fading to a deep blue-lavender with dappled clouds. The taxi drives me up along the coast from Victoria, past Port Renfrew toward Finn’s house in Bamfield, situated right on Barkley Sound.

My head is still spinning and I want to see him more than I want anything else at this moment. I ask the driver to leave me at the dock, knowing if there’s any light left that Finn is likely to be on his boat. But when I look out at the scores of boats tied to their slips, I realize finding him will be like looking for a needle in a haystack.

I wander along the slips, looking for the Linda, looking for someone who looks like they might know where to find Finn Roberts, Adventure Channel star-to-be. But the pier is quiet, and only the creaking of ropes against their ties and the water lapping at the hulls of hundreds of boats surrounds me. The thought that some of these boats are sitting here because their owners can’t afford to take them out is sobering.

“You need some help?”

I turn, looking up into the sun-kissed face of Finn twenty years from now. I know his dad from the picture, but also because Finn looks exactly like his father: looming, broad-shouldered, hazel eyes steady and unblinking.

“You must be Mr. Roberts.”

He shakes my hand, brows drawn in curiosity. “I am. And you are?”

“I’m Harlow Vega.”

Stephen Roberts’s face freezes, eyes going wide before he breaks into an elated smile. “Well, look at you.” And he does. He takes my hands, holds my arms to the side, and looks me up and down. “You sure are somethin’. He know you’re here?”

Shaking my head, I say, “He has no idea.”

“Oh, you bet I’m going to enjoy this one.”

Whether anyone else will enjoy this reunion? Remains to be seen.

He takes my arm and leads me down the dock, turning left to head down a long rickety pier. We reach the end, and stop in front of a boat with Linda painted across the stern.

“Hey, Finn,” his dad calls out. “Got somethin’ to show ya.”

A blond head appears around a corner and I immediately recognize Finn’s youngest brother, Levi.

He’s as tall as Finn, but not nearly as broad, and has messy blond hair and a baby face that I’m sure the television producers will lose their mind over.

Levi stares at me for a beat before busting out laughing. “Oh, shit. Finn! Come down.”

Footsteps clomp on the stairs leading down from the top house and I see his tall rubber boots over waders, and then his torso covered only by a soaking wet white T-shirt that is marked with grease stains. He’s holding some type of gear in a greasy rag and his shirt is so wet I can see every single line of his chest. I can see his nipples. I can see the trail of hair that leads from his belly button down to his . . . good Lord.

Universe, you’ve got to be kidding me.

His face appears then, and my chest seems to cave in on itself. He has a grease smear across his chin, too, and his tanned face glistens with sweat. He sees me immediately, his face transitioning in a millisecond from relaxed curiosity to tight confusion. “Harlow?”

“Hey.”

He glances at his dad and then over at Levi before looking back at me. I swear when our eyes meet my heart is pounding so hard I’m tempted to look down and check to see whether it’s actually moving my shirt. He looks like he’s in pain, and I want to know: Is it me? Or did you actually hurt yourself fixing the boat?

“What are you doing here?” he asks, carefully putting the gear down on a broad railing. He uses the dirty rag to futilely wipe his hands clean.

“I’m working with Sal. I had a free night, and since you left without saying goodbye to me, I figured I would come do it for you.”

He closes his eyes, rubbing his forearm across his face as his dad lets out a low whistle, saying, “Didn’t tell me that bit, Finn.”

Finn’s eyes snap to his father. “Dad, come on.”

The eldest Mr. Roberts leans over, kisses my temple, and murmurs, “Keep at him, sweetheart.”

My hands are shaking, my pulse racing, and Finn walks along the deck to the narrow ladder leading to the dock. Turning, he climbs down and slowly approaches me as if I’m either going to vanish or punch him.

He seems even more massive in his heavy waders, his muscles bunched from hours of exertion. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I can imagine,” I say. “I didn’t expect you to leave so unexpectedly.”

“It wasn’t that unexpected, was it? You knew I was heading up soon.”

I wince, looking away, and he takes a step closer to me before stopping.