Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)

A glance at the clock shows it’s not even 5 a.m., and for a moment I consider texting her back, suggesting where exactly she should put her thirty minutes. I need to go back to sleep. I need to talk to Colton and Levi. I need to figure out what the fuck I’m doing with my life.

I drop my phone to the mattress and stare, blankly, up at the ceiling. My heart is pounding in my chest and I rub a hand over my breastbone, feel the quickened beat just under my palm. My stomach feels both light and heavy at the same time, and even though the idea of shutting off my phone and sleeping for another three hours sounds amazing, I’m kidding myself if I think I might actually do it.

Harlow will be here to pick me up in thirty minutes, and regardless of what I should be doing this morning, something tells me we both know I’ll be standing outside, waiting.

AND LIKE SOME boy with a school yard crush and no real responsibilities, I am. Harlow’s car pulls into the driveway exactly twenty-nine minutes later, and I’m already sitting on the porch, two cups of steaming coffee in hand.

She steps out and crosses the damp grass toward me, dressed in jeans and a faded blue long-sleeved T-shirt, hair in a high ponytail, wearing a bright smile and not a trace of makeup.

I’m pretty sure she’s never looked more beautiful.

“Ready?” she says, stopping just in front of the porch. She looks so much younger right now, innocent, and if the reappearance of that nosedive feeling in my stomach is any indication, I’m in way over my head.

“Not remotely.” I glance down at her outfit again. She’s gone pretty casual today. I lift an eyebrow.

“Looks like for once I meet the dress code.”

“You’re perfect.”

Steady, Finn.

I hand Harlow her coffee and she looks at me, brows raised. “Such a gentleman.”

I ignore this, not wanting to obsess any more over the five-minute conversation I had with myself on whether it would be weird, or give Harlow some giant glimpse into my head if I made her a cup of fucking coffee. I am insane.

“So where are we going?” I say instead.

Harlow turns and leads us back to the car. “Fishing,” she says, climbing in and starting the engine.

I look up from where I’m currently trying to wedge all six foot, three inches of me into the front seat of her sports car. “What?”

She checks her mirrors and backs out of the driveway, pulling out onto the street before she answers. “I figured we’re here, and you’ve got to be so fucking tired of doing what everyone else wants to do. Plus I’m sure you miss home,” she says. “So why not give you a little taste of home, here?”

She must misread my stunned silence, because she quickly adds, “I mean, I know it won’t be the same for you, but trust me, Sunshine. It’ll be fun.”

And, okay. I’m sort of at a loss for words. Just when I think I have Harlow figured out, she does something to obliterate it. “Thanks,” I manage, and quickly busy myself with my coffee.

“And maybe we’ll see some trees you can cut down or something,” she adds, and bites her bottom lip to keep from smiling.

“Do they even have trees by Barbie’s dream yacht?”

With that, we’re back to normal. The heaviness is gone from my chest, and this ever-evolving tension between us has settled back into its place.

“Have you ever been fishing before?” I ask her.

She hums to herself while turning on the blinker, and merges into the next lane. “A few times up north with my dad. River fishing, though, not ocean. I never really caught anything.”

“That’s because it’s called fishing, not catching, Ginger Snap. Sometimes you’re lucky and sometimes you’re not.”

“Right.” She shifts in her seat and rests her elbow on the door, fingers twisting the ends of her ponytail. “Pretty sure this’ll be different than your usual day of fishing, too. I assume you’re not sacked out in lounge chairs while someone brings you sandwiches and beer.”

“Uh, no.”

“So tell me, Finn. What do you guys do? Do you just throw some lines in the water and wait?”

“Some do.”

“But not you guys.”

I shake my head. “Linda is a seiner, so we fish with nets.”

“Nets, right.” She pauses, looking over at me. “Wait, who’s the captain of your boat?”

“That’d be me, Einstein.”

She gives me a cheeky grin. “Can I call you Captain?”

“No.”

“Can I be your first mate? Will you swab my decks?”

I laugh as she wiggles in her seat. “You’ve lost your damn mind.”

“Just trying to speak your language, Huckleberry.” She merges onto the freeway and spares me a tiny glance once we’re settled in the fast lane. “Okay, we have a little drive before we get to Point Loma. It’s time for you to school me in the art of Vancouver Island fishing.”

I look out at the passing scenery: the blur of the freeway, the houses rushing by, the palm trees. The sky is just starting to lighten up at the edges and there’s something so peaceful about being out here like this. And I’m realizing that I sort of do want to tell Harlow about life on the boat. I like talking to her, and the time we spend together is pretty much the only time I’m not worrying myself toward an ulcer.

“So first we have to be on the fish,” I start, my thumb tracing the fancy emblem on the dashboard.

“That means we locate a school in the water. Then we drop the nets and circle the school. When the fish are surrounded, we cinch up the bottom and the fish are trapped inside. Basic concept, but there’s a ton to do besides that. When we aren’t actually fishing, someone has to check the float line and floats, the lead lines, make sure there aren’t any holes in the nets, as well as the power skiff and all the other electrical and hydraulic equipment. The skiff used to pull the nets up is run on equipment powered by the auxiliary engine. Which is why we have to have both engines in working order and why it’s so devastating when one goes down.” I pause and look at her again, certain she has to have zoned out. She hasn’t. “You’re still listening? That’s a miracle.”

“Well, it’s not like twittering or shuffling papers at NBC,” she teases. “But I am kind of fascinated by what you do all day. Feel free to add the little details, if you want, like how you guys do all of this with your shirts off and the ocean sprays your muscles so you glisten in the sun. Just to help with the visual a little.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I assume your days are pretty long, huh?”

“Start working when it’s light, stop when it’s not. Normally I’m up before the sun, without an alarm, but I swear my internal clock is a mess here. Well,” I say, smiling around my coffee cup, “unless you’re on the porch at dawn to wake me up.”

We go on like that for a while as the beautiful scenery zooms past us, and before I realize it Harlow’s pulled into a parking lot and shut off the engine.

“Well, and look, the sun is here to greet us.”

I look out the windshield and point to the forty-three-foot diesel docked in the harbor. “That the one we’re on today?”

“That’s right, Captain.”

I give her a playfully reprimanding look and then say, “You ready to get schooled, Ginger Snap?”

She laughs and drops her keys into her bag. “I’m ready for whatever you’ve got, Sunshine.”