Dirty Rowdy Thing

by Christina Lauren

  “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.

  I want so much to reach forward and put my hands on his face and kiss him. I miss him, and despite how angry I am that he left the way he did, I love him. I feel awful for betraying him and talking to Salvatore alone.

  “I heard about the show.”

  He nods, pulling his cap off his head and scratching his scalp. “Yep.”

  “You okay about it?” I ask. Because yeah, I’m still angry, and yeah, I still want to hit him with something that will leave his voice about two octaves higher but, fuck, I love him and I want him to be okay.

  Shrugging, he murmurs, “I suppose. Everyone else felt pretty strongly in favor. Made the most sense.” He looks up at the boat and then back to me. “Had some news people out here earlier today.”

  “That must have been wild.”

  He lets a smile flicker across his lips. “Yeah.”

  Seagulls call in the distance and the moment feels so eerily familiar though I know it’s never happened. I just feel calm here with him. I like seeing him like this: near his boat, filthy, probably hungry. I ache with how much I want to take care of him.

  “Finn?” I start, and he looks up from where he’s wiping a spot off the back of his hand to meet my eyes.

  “Hm?”

  “I came here because the way you left town was really hard on me. I think I needed to tell you that.” Swallowing, I say, “But the main thing I had wanted to tell you is that I feel really horrible for what I did.”

  His eyebrows slowly inch up but he doesn’t say anything.

  “I should never have gone to Sal without talking to you first. I should never have offered your boat up to anyone. It was wrong, and I’m sorry.”

  Nodding slowly, he says, “Okay, then.”

  I close my eyes, wincing at the sharp pain in my chest. He’s so closed off. He’s so finished with me.

  “I just want you to know that I didn’t do that because I thought you needed my help. I did it because that’s what we do in my family when we love someone. It wasn’t about trying to save you, it was about trying to find a way to save us.”

  He swallows thickly, his eyes dipping to my lips for a beat. “Yeah?”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  I was hoping there would be more said. I was hoping he would give me more than this, more than a handful of words that leave me nowhere to go. He’s standing like a brick wall at a dead end, his posture telling me there’s no emotion to be found here.

  As we stand in silence, he looks me over, from head to toe, and under his inspection I realize how my outfit must look to him: cream jeans, navy sweater, red scarf. I must look like a WASP portrait of Out for a Day on the Boat. And I know I’m right when his lips curl into a sharp smirk and he says, “You look so out of place here, Snap.”

  Fire ignites in my belly and I suck in a breath, so wounded by his tone and his complete one-eighty and his ability to shut off his feelings like a switch. My problem? He was capital-I It for me. I don’t know where to go from here.

  “I might have thought the same thing once about you, in my town,” I tell him, “but I never would have said it. I liked seeing you there too much. I liked the way you stood out.”

  “Harlow—”

  I wrap my arms around my middle, turning to leave. But then I stop, and look back at him. “Before I forget,” I say, “I’m not pregnant. Thanks for checking in.”

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  Finn

  “SHE DIDN’T EXACTLY look happy when she left,” Levi notes, leaning back against the wall of the wheelhouse and studying me as I climb up the ladder.

  I let out a little noncommittal grunt and hop over the railing. My stomach feels like it’s been pumped full of battery acid. What the fuck just happened back there? Did I really let Harlow walk away?

  Did I really forget she could have been pregnant? Even at the time it didn’t seem like a real possibility, maybe because that fear was quickly overshadowed by our declarations, the party, and then the fights that followed.

  I am the biggest, most self-absorbed asshole of all time. And just the memory of that night, of her climbing over me, my hands pushing aside her tiny scrap of lace and how easily I slid into her, how quickly we both unraveled . . . it rocks me. We hadn’t been just fucking in the car. Already I loved that girl so much it made me reckless.

  My little brother grabs his sweatshirt and keys from the deck. “You got everything you need done?”

  I nearly laugh. Every day feels like it just creates more things on my list of worries. I’m still reeling from Harlow’s appearance at my boat and now she’s gone. The boat’s getting fixed, Levi, Colton, and Dad are all thrilled with our plan, but do they have any idea how our lives are going to look in four months when the film crew descends and starts taking stock footage of the area, of us? When they start following us into our favorite haunts? What happens when they set me up on dates with women and the only woman I want has just disappeared down the dock?

  I’m the only one who hasn’t signed every page of the contract. I’ve agreed to the show, sure. I signed my name on every page but one: I didn’t agree to the relationship clause. I owe Salvatore for that one, too. Apparently it wasn’t enough to break the deal, because after talking with him the network was happy to send the press release to Variety without it.

  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 fucking 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 fucking 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 fuck, 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.”

  For a beat, my eyes meet Harlow’s and I wonder if she knows what I’m thinking, that I don’t give a fuck 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 fucked 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 fuck? 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 fucking 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, fuck 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.

  “What do you want, Finn?”

  What do I want? I want her. I want her to open the door wider, let me in. I want to pull the tie open at her waist, pull off her robe, kiss her. I want to get back together and make it last longer than twelve hours.

  But first . . . “I want you to wash the mask off so it doesn’t look like your face is breaking.”

  With a sigh, she slams the door in my face.

  The hall extends down for what feels like a mile and I wonder how many men have had doors slammed in their faces here. It’s a pretty fancy fucking hotel. I’m going to guess a lot.

  I lift my fist, knocking again.

  It takes a long time for her to answer, as if she’s walked away, and is considering leaving the door closed.

  But then it swings open, and Harlow is immediately walking away toward the bathroom.

  “Come in. Sit anywhere but on the bed. Don’t look cute, don’t get undressed, and don’t touch my underwear.”

  I move to the chair in the corner, biting back a laugh.

  “I’m rinsing it off because it’s time, not because you told me to. If it didn’t feel like it was breaking my face I would leave it on for the extent of your short visit just to piss you off, you enormous fuckwit.” She walks into the bathroom, closes the door, and I hear the sound of running water as she starts the shower.