Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(81)

For a beat, my eyes meet Harlow’s and I wonder if she knows what I’m thinking, that I don’t give a f*ck about the relationship clause. I’m spoken for, whether the producers know it or not. But she blinks away, looking out the window, and I see her jaw flex. It’s possible I f*cked it up so much yesterday that even when I find her later, it won’t matter.

I hope I’m wrong.

The waitress fills our water glasses, gives us time to look at the menu, and Sal and I chat casually about the area: the weather, the sports, why I follow the Mariners over the Blue Jays (they were my mother’s favorite team), how often I make it down to Mariners games (as often as I can, which is hardly ever).

Harlow remains quiet—making note of useful information but otherwise aloof—and Sal doesn’t push her to engage. I wonder how much he knows about what’s happened between us. I want to catch her eye, tell her with my expression that we aren’t finished here, that I have my shit together and my words have bubbled to the surface, but she hardly looks up.

The waitress returns to take our order and she’s standing so close to me I feel her skirt brush against my arm. I slide over in my chair to give her more space, and Sal gestures to Harlow to begin.

“I’ll order for the table, actually,” she says and out of the corner of my eye I can see Sal look up in surprise and delight.

Pointing to him, Harlow says, “He’ll start with a Caesar, have the chicken caprese for his main course, and iced tea, no sugar.”

His eyes twinkle. “I was gonna get a steak, kid.”

“Nope.” She looks at him and winks. “Mila told me no red meat.”

“Well, shit.”

Pointing to me, she says, “He’ll have the bisque to start—”

The f*ck? She’s not even going to ask me? “Actually—” I begin.

“The halibut for his main.” She gives me a knowing look and my heart hurts remembering that perfect f*cking day on the water with her. “And a glass of Chardonnay.”

I blink. Chardonnay?

Beside her, Sal barks out a laugh.

Harlow hands her menu to the waitress, saying, “I’ll have the filet, bloody, and a huge plate of fries.” Glancing at me, she says, “Also a Stone IPA to wash it all down.”

The waitress smiles, her eyes sliding over to me again as she collects the menu and leaves.

Harlow glances up, her lips twitching at my expression.

“Chardonnay?” I ask.

She licks her lips, giving me a sweet, wet smile. “You look a little parched.”

“I was going to order the steak, too,” I tell her, fighting a grin.

“Well, you can covet mine while enjoying your freshly caught halibut.”

Sal is watching us with open amusement, his chin perched on his fist. “The audience is going to love watching you two.”

“Not happening, Salvatore,” Harlow says, still staring right at me.

“It might happen,” I say back, unable to fight my smile anymore. “Seeing as how there was one particular page in that contract I didn’t sign.”

Her face registers surprise but she quickly hides it. So okay, I guess Salvatore left out a few details of our conversation, like where I made a fool of myself and told him I couldn’t imagine being with anyone else. Ever. Harlow is it for me; I’ll shout it from the top of Mount Fairweather if I have to.

“Well, relationship clause or not, we won’t be interacting much in any form until you admit you were a complete dick yesterday.”

Sal chuckles, and lifts his water to take a sip. If Harlow is comfortable doing this here, well, f*ck it.

I lean my elbows on the table, saying, “I was a complete dick yesterday.”

Harlow studies my face for a long moment, looking at my mouth, my forehead, my eyes. She blinks down to the table, drawing her finger around the rim of her water glass as she thinks. And then, lifting one shoulder in a little shrug, she ends this perfect moment: “I think you and Sal should probably get started.”

CAREER-WISE, LUNCH IS a huge success. Sal has a million questions and I’m able to answer them all and give him some information it’s clear he didn’t even think to ask for. I signed an official consultant agreement—paying me a hefty five-figure consulting fee—so I can help immediately with set design and certain aspects of the film. I’m a little stunned over the complete one-eighty my life has done in the past three weeks.

Harlow-wise, the lunch was a bust. She took pages of notes, seemed to keep up with everything I said, and even asked a few good questions of her own, but after our brief back-and-forth toward the beginning of the meeting, she didn’t really look at me again.

But it was more than I expected. To be honest, I expected her to ignore me entirely or at the very least for the conversation to never veer into personal territory in front of Sal. The fact that she couldn’t help flirting with me gives me the confidence I need to drive to her hotel after dinner.

When the door to her room swings open, I think I’ve knocked on the wrong door and Lola was totally messing with me. But then I realize the mystery woman who has answered is Harlow in a huge bulky robe, a towel on her head and with her face covered in some white, cracking . . .

“Is that the kind of masque that ends in a q-u-e?” I ask.

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing. It causes the entire facial concoction to crack.