Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(80)

Tomorrow, the repair crews begin their full-boat makeover. I could leave town, leave them to it, and take another mental breather, but I won’t. I’ll be here every day, backseat driving, driving the crew crazy. A lot of the guys they’ve hired are local guys, guys I would have called myself if I had the money to fix the boat.

“Finn?”

I look up at Levi as he reaches the ladder.

“Don’t be a f*cking idiot. That woman was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and she came here looking for you.”

I scrub my face, waving him away with my other hand. She did look beautiful, but Harlow’s beauty isn’t the only thing that knocks me sideways. It’s her ferocity, her emotional honesty, it’s that she’s ten years younger than I am—younger even than Levi—and although I always scoff at what she considers life experience, she’s still better at fixing her shit than I am.

I SIT DOWN on my bed, the water from the shower still dripping out of my hair and onto my comforter. It’s nearly midnight, but I don’t think I’ll be able to calm down until I fix this. A phone rings somewhere in San Diego and after an eternity, Lorelei answers.

“This is a Canadian number,” she says by way of greeting.

If she’s cutting to the chase, then so am I. “Harlow’s even more pissed at me now, isn’t she?”

After a little pause, she says, “The short answer is yes.”

Hope spreads thick and warm beneath my ribs. “What’s the long answer?”

“The long answer? Yes, she is.”

Laughing dryly, I say, “Thanks, Lola. That’s helpful.”

“You want me to be helpful? It took a lot for her to come see you today. Harlow doesn’t stick her neck out for people she doesn’t love—some people think she’s selfish, but it’s the opposite of that.

She’ll go to the end of the earth for you if she loves you. I’m pretty sure she loves you, and from what she said, you spoke about five words to her.”

“That’s pretty accurate.”

Letting out a little huff, she growls, “You’re a prick.”

I laugh again, moving my phone to my other ear to drag my towel down my chest. “Yeah, that’s probably accurate, too. It’s a bad habit.”

“I think she enjoys it, usually. But not when she’s putting herself out there. I’ve literally never seen Harlow spend more than five minutes thinking about a guy. And I also don’t think I’ve ever seen her so sad.”

My stomach clenches and I feel nauseous. “Where’s she staying?”

“No way. She’s sleeping.”

“I’m not going tonight. I’m going tomorrow.” Somehow, I don’t expect our business lunch with Sal will be the time for Harlow and me to kiss and make up.

“If you go there, and make this worse, you know I will cut your balls off when you sleep.”

“Lola.”

Silence rings through the line for ten seconds. Twenty.

“Lola, I swear I’m not going to make this worse. I f*cking love her.”

“The Magnolia Hotel in Victoria. Room 408.”

SALVATORE AND HARLOW have already been seated when the hostess leads me back to the table.

I’ve never eaten at the Mark at the Hotel Grand Pacific, but I should have known it would look just like this: like something out of a glossy catalog for the beautiful tourist stops in Victoria.

I can immediately sense Harlow isn’t going to look at me much during lunch. When he sees me behind the hostess, Sal stands to greet me, and Harlow follows reluctantly. I shake his hand and we all sit. Apparently not even Sal expects Harlow and I to greet each other.

Her notepad is out and she’s ready to play the role of the assistant. Maybe with anyone else she could fade into the background . . . though she’s physically stunning and hard to ignore, so I doubt it.

And with me, it would be impossible. She looks so unbelievably beautiful it constricts my throat, ropes something tightly in my chest. Her hair is down, she’s wearing a sweater as green as an emerald, and tight black pants with these sexy little strappy heels. Jesus f*ck, I want a picture of her in this outfit glued to my ceiling.

But I’m here for business and I really do want to be a consultant for the film. My noncompete clause with the Adventure Channel doesn’t apply to film consulting, and I’m still so terrified of this unknown future that I’m grasping at any footing, any new contact. Besides, in our first conversation, Sal said he needed someone who could “talk fish from A to Z” and I don’t know anyone better qualified to do that around here than me.

“How’s the boat?” Sal says by way of official opener, and it actually makes me laugh. Seeing it myself once I was home . . . it was depressing.

“It’s busted.”

He laughs, this genuine, warm laugh I wasn’t expecting. He looks slick but he speaks real, and I glance over at Harlow, seeing her in a new way. This guy is the real thing—a decent man in Hollywood—and he’s plucked my girl up to be his right-hand man because he knows she’s the real deal, too.

“Congratulations are in order,” he says. “The show sounds great, Finn.”

“We’ll see,” I hedge. “It’ll be different, that’s for sure.”