Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)

HARLOW LEAVES BRIGHT and early like she said she would. She wakes me with kisses and invites me to take a shower. I fuck her against the bathroom wall before we ever manage to get in.

San Diego smells like the ocean in the morning, like salt and wind and something sharp that wraps like an old blanket around everything. It smells so close to home some days, that if I close my eyes I can almost forget where I am, over a thousand miles and a lifetime away from where I’m supposed to be. It’s a little unnerving.

Even scarier? How much it’s starting to feel right, and how many times I’ve considered not leaving at all.

A call from Colton first thing out of the shower pops the Harlow bubble I’ve been floating in, and brings me crashing, face-first back into reality.

I’d texted him after the initial meeting with the Adventure Channel, with a brief “It was good, lots to talk about, I’ll fill you in later.” But I never did—not that night or the next morning—hoping I could put them off just long enough to decide what the fuck we should all do with the rest of our lives.

I still have no idea. Of course when I call him back it goes straight to voicemail—because it’s eight in the morning and they’re actually working—and I promise to get back to him later that night, to explain everything.

Now I just have to decide what the hell I’m going to tell them.

On the one hand, I’m glad my brothers are clearly so busy they’ve barely had a moment to worry about the meeting, or even realize that I’ve been avoiding the discussion altogether. I’ve never been this irresponsible in my entire life.

Do we sign on for the show? Do we not? The terms they’re offering are great, the money a godsend.

But it will change everything: How we live, how people see us. How we see ourselves. And what about Harlow—how would that even work? Before recently the impact this would have on a potential relationship was the furthest thing from my mind. But now, it fucking matters. Unless I leave the business and my family, I can’t see a time I’d ever be in California on a more permanent basis. And unless Harlow has an even bigger surprise up her sleeve, she won’t be moving to Vancouver Island anytime soon.

Harlow on the deck of our run-down boat . . . now that’s a sight I don’t think I’ll ever be prepared to see.

I’m positive I’d feel better if I talked to Ansel and Oliver, and am feeling more than a little guilty about not having told them what’s going on. The truth is that I haven’t seen as much as them as I’d like lately, which is why I find myself navigating the narrow streets of the Gaslamp Quarter, attempting to parallel park my giant truck to meet them both for breakfast.

The sidewalks are fairly empty this early in the morning, the streets littered with delivery trucks and a handful of ambitious healthy types out for a morning run. I spot Oliver’s beat-up car as I turn up Fifth, walking toward Maryjane’s.

I see the guys in a booth near the back, a set of stylized Mick Jagger prints hanging on the wall above them, and a TV tuned to a music channel just off to the side.

“Ladies,” I say, and slide into the seat next to Ansel. “Gorgeous day outside.”

“Finn,” Ansel says. He reaches for the mug in front of me and fills it with hot coffee from a carafe left by the waitress. “We ordered for you. I got you the most manly thing on the menu.”

I laugh. “Thank you.”

Oliver is sitting directly across from me. “You seem decidedly less surly this morning. Anyone in particular we should thank?”

“Good morning to you, too, Olls.”

Oliver leans forward, pushes his glasses up his nose before resting his forearms on the table.

“You’re right, where are my manners? Good morning, Finnigan. How are you?”

Ansel chuckles next to me.

“I’m excellent, thank you. And how are you, Oliver?”

“I’m good, I’m good,” he says, nodding. “I did notice you didn’t come home last night. In fact, you haven’t been spending much time at home, at all lately. I was beginning to grow concerned. Young man, alone in a big, strange city, wandering the streets all night . . .”

“This sounds like a story I’d like to hear,” Ansel agrees, taking a sip of his coffee.

But Oliver isn’t done. “You’ve never really been a one-time-hookup kind of a guy, so I can’t help but wonder who you’re spending all your time with.”

“I was at Harlow’s,” I admit. “We’ve been, um . . . seeing each other.”

I’m saved from their interrogation when the waitress arrives with our breakfast. “Wow. This is certainly . . . manly.” I study the towering sandwich made of toast, bacon, and fried eggs with bright yellow yolk oozing out onto the plate.

“Would it be possible for me to get more of this,” Ansel asks her, holding up a small white bowl filled with some sort of brown sugar mix. “I have a . . .” He stops to tap a finger against his mouth, searching for the word. “A, um . . . comment ce dire? When you like sweet things?”

The waitress blinks at least three times, and even sways a little where she stands. I’m about to reach out and steady her when she finally shakes her head, eyes coming back into focus.

“A sweet tooth?” she asks.

“Yes! That’s it, a sweet tooth! And I would love more of this.”

Pink floods her cheeks and she nods, taking the bowl from him before wandering away from the table, in search of Ansel’s brown sugar.

“Jesus Christ, Ansel,” Oliver says.

“What?”

“I am totally telling Mia you did that,” I say.

Ansel dumps a bowl of blackberries into his oatmeal and looks up at each of us, blinking innocently. “Did what?”

“Why didn’t you just fuck her on the table?” I ask. “It would have been only slightly more awkward for us.”

“She’s probably pregnant now.” Oliver points his knife in the direction of the kitchen. “Try explaining that to your wife.”

Laughing, I say, “I bet she brings him every goddamn bowl of brown sugar they have in the place.”

“You’re both very funny,” Ansel deadpans.

“How is Mia, anyway?” I ask.

Ansel looks up at me with the most goofy, dimpled smile I’ve ever seen. “Perfect.”

“Ugh,” Oliver says, setting his fork down. “Do not get him started. Lola says she’s had to start warning them before she comes over. Last time she could hear them all the way down Julianne’s driveway.”

Ansel only shrugs, looking disgustingly pleased with himself. “What can I say? I am quite the vocal lover, and would never stifle the loud, satisfied cries of my wife during what is possibly the best sex anyone has ever had.” He leans in, looks us both in the eye in turn, and repeats, “Ever.”

Both Oliver and I burst out laughing when we realize that, at some point during this monologue, our waitress has materialized at the table and placed a giant bowl of brown sugar in front of Ansel.

I’m not sure how much she just heard, but judging by the blush creeping up her neck and flashing hotly across her face, I’m guessing it was enough.

“Merci,” Ansel says again, smiling widely.

The poor girl mumbles “You’re welcome,” before she turns and heads back to the kitchen.

“I hate you,” Oliver says.

“You wouldn’t hate anyone if you were getting a little yourself.”

“He’s got a point,” I agree.

Oliver takes a bite of his breakfast, shrugging.

“Come on. You’re a good-looking, successful guy,” Ansel says. “Why aren’t you seeing someone?”

“Are we really doing the Sex and the City thing right now? In case you haven’t noticed, Carrie, I just opened the store. When would I have the time to meet anyone?”

“Who’s Carrie?” I ask.

Ignoring me, Ansel says, “Are you kidding me? I’ve only been there a few times and it’s crawling with weird hot chicks.”

“Eh. I’m not really looking.”