Page 25 of Hearts Adrift (A Texas Beach Town Romance #4)

I take my coffee to the back porch, early morning.

In plain view of the Hopewell house by the water.

I flick the back porch light on, illuminating me.

I’m doing this on purpose. I imagine Finn’s taking his coffee at that kitchen window in his house like he always does, the one with a perfect view of this very porch.

The light is on right now. It is more than possible he’s standing right there, watching me as I watch him.

I want to imagine him wondering about the message I sent, debating if he should take the bait and visit me.

I really hope he takes the bait. I need to see that man again—before my reckless self does something else stupid.

It was so much fun, staying with him and Brooke in his house. Waking up with him, even if in separate rooms, and meeting in the kitchen like a secret rendezvous. I got to see his sleepy eyes. His happy eyes. His “give me a sec until I’ve had my first sip of caffeine” eyes.

Then the kitchen light goes off.

Stillness. Roaring waves. The cool sea air over my face in the semidarkness of an impending sunrise.

Perhaps it was his dad. Or a sister.

Not Finn.

It pains me so much to have left that behind.

But I just couldn’t stomach what my being there was doing to them.

The way Brooke panicked and redirected her dad and sister to her kissing booth thing, causing a whole other drama—all because I was afraid of mystery eyes on the bungalow tracking me like a gaggle of deadly stalkers.

I’ve put my burdens on top of them.

It feels so shitty in hindsight, how selfish I’ve been.

After the sun’s up, I’m lounged on the couch again.

I feel like such a good boy, doing as I’m told, staying inside, staying unseen, letting Finn’s sister work her social media magic while I twiddle my thumbs.

I feel so useless. I open an app on my phone, and the first thing I see is my face—but it’s laughing.

#RiverSoReal . Did Brooke move on from the video-doubt-planting already to posting endearing stuff about my goofy, human side that apparently exists?

I didn’t think to ask how close together her first and second waves of her strategy were.

I figured this kind of thing would take weeks, not days.

But here I am, scrolling through post after post, amazed at how a tide can turn so quickly.

The hateful comments are still there, calling me out for my past acts of arrogance, but now they’re seasoned with people laughing with me (or at me, which is probably just as useful) and commenting about how adorable I look while trying to keep a straight face, or tripping on a simple answer in an interview—or this shot of me picking at my nose when I thought no one was looking at last year’s Oscars.

Where did Brooke even find these clips? How long did it take her to dig these up? She did so much work on her own with little to no assistance from me.

I’m back on the porch again, elbows on the railing, and gazing down the shore at the house.

In the bright daylight, it’s difficult to see any activity there.

For all I know, Finn is keeping his mind as far away from thoughts of me as he can, throwing himself into his work at the Fair.

I wouldn’t blame him. If I was in his shoes, seeing me the way he likely sees me now, I’d probably keep my distance, too.

I decide that’s how it’ll be: I’ll give him space. That is clearly what he’s communicating by not dropping in or answering my cryptic text to the guest line. I’ll stay here in this quaint little house on the rocky shore, mind my own business, and not stir up any further trouble in his life.

Ten minutes later, I’m texting the guest line again.

“I am in need …” I narrate out loud as I type.

“… of the cute guy …” This is why I need more friends: to stop me from doing these impulsive things.

“… who was here the other day. There is a … spider … in the corner of the … room … that requires immediate … exterminating . Please … and … thank you . Heart emoji, praying hands, kiss, kiss, spider emoji, skull and crossbones. And … send .”

So much for giving space.

Am I literally incapable of honoring my own choices?

There is seriously something fucking wrong with me.

I put myself to bed, toss my phone at my opened bag of belongings on the floor, and pretend I never sent the text.

At midnight, I’m wide awake and texting.

Again. “I … think I may … be in need … of a … human-sized pillow to cuddle … that may or may not … be in the shape … of the cute guy … who was here the other day. Wink emoji, cry-face emoji, monkey hiding face emoji three times. And … send .” Then I toss my phone at my bag again and sit there on the edge of the bed, drumming my fingers on my skull.

Four minutes later, I’m at it again. “Disregard message about pillow … Send me the real thing … I would like … to talk … please … thank you …” I change my mind seven times about using any emojis, write and delete “sorry” nine times, then finally throw my phone away from me and collapse back onto the bed, frustrated, and shut my eyes.

I don’t understand boundaries.

And I’m really the first person who should, considering how many people in my life have crossed mine.

Last guy I dated, he was a total disaster and left me doubting whether I knew the first thing about love at all.

The one before that moved in after dating me for a week, then cheated on me with my local hairstylist. And the one before that got my face tattooed on his back, which I only found out about the final time we had sex and I stared at my own face the whole time, distorted across his shoulder blade in off-putting bluish-black and red ink.

I have no savable history with love.

Might as well flush it all away and call me a virgin.

I’m probably a decent handful of years older than Finn and here I am, playing the role of a lovesick schoolboy. No clue what to do with my big feelings. No friend to process them through. I don’t know what’s right or wrong. What’s too much or not enough.

Finn makes me wonder if I ever even had feelings for someone before. Real feelings. This might be the first time in my life that someone has meant something to me.

Is it possible for something like this to develop so fast? How am I supposed to know, considering my history with men? Against what standard can I possibly measure this?

Either I’m playing the role of a lonesome actor who’s caught feelings and is losing his mind, or some sad stalker fan with an obsession. I’m not sure I’m comfortable with either role. Bit off-brand for me.

Regardless of which role I’m cast in, it doesn’t help me get any closer to ridding my mind of Finn’s face when we spoke at his bedroom door the other night. If only he knew how unappealing the idea of returning to my life is at this moment. How meaningless it feels. How lonely .

But no text is going to convey that.

It’s a miracle I ever fall asleep, because the next time I open my eyes, it’s morning.

My texts have gone unanswered. That’s for the best .

I have a bowl of cereal while thumbing through my social feeds. Stunningly, I am hard-pressed to find anything about me being an arrogant director-hating fiend anymore. The entire conversation has shifted to how “relatable” and “dorky” and “cutely clumsy” I am.

I don’t feel like any of those things right now. Maybe being a lovesick monster really is more on-brand for me .

And it honestly doesn’t matter anymore.

Next thing I know, I’m pacing the house, one room to the next. Then I’m jogging circles. I know every creak of every floorboard. Every discolored spot on every wall. And the number of steps it takes to get from one end of the bungalow to the other. It’s not many.

Would it kill you to reply to a text, Finn?

Even if you just tell me to give up and fuck off?

I’m on my fourteenth lap when I hear the knock.

I freeze in place.

Finn. It’s Finn. He finally decided to put me out of my misery, heed my annoying texts, and came here in person.

I rush eagerly to the back door—only to realize there’s no one there.

The knock comes again.

From the front .

I turn, alarmed.

He wouldn’t knock at the front door. Why would he do that? To drive the point home that he’s being professional? That whatever we had is truly over with? That I really am, by all definitions, simply his family’s tenant?

I go to the front door and put an eye to the peephole.

What the fuck?

I open the door. “Anya??”

Anya, my loving lesbian lawyer friend whose height is always greater than I remember, sidesteps her way into the house and shuts the door on my behalf without a word.

All six-foot-yikes of her faces me, her short hair matted to her head and sweaty from the heat, despite her short shorts and tank top.

“I’m gonna step out on a limb and assume your team is, as of yet, still completely fucking useless. ”

“How’d you find me?” I blurt out before anything else.

“Remember the night your booty-call boy toy showed up with food? You never hung up with me. I heard it all.”

I blink, completely lost for a second. “You mean Finn? The night Finn came over—?”

“And after you had words, you offered to rub his dick, or his shoulders—I don’t know, I tuned out by that point as I’d gotten what I needed to track you down.

Hopewell Fair. Rentals. Dreamwood. Bungalow.

Took little effort to figure the rest. So after I sorted out some affairs at the office, I packed a bag and—Do you have water?

You’re being a terrible host, and I’m fucking thirsty.

” She marches right to the kitchen, leaving me at the door, head spinning.

Anya is very quick.

And aggressively smart.

So it takes no time at all to catch her up on everything that has happened over a pair of plain-ass water bottles at the table by the back door. She picked the wobbly chair, but it hasn’t wobbled once. How masterful she is, to be able to wrangle even a broken chair into submission.

“So you’re telling me your boy toy’s sister is the one responsible for turning the tides?” Anya’s so much rougher around the edges in person. Even her voice. And especially when she’s on the hunt for someone else’s blood. “Can you trust the Hopewells? You’ve known them for a week.”

“Almost two weeks, actually,” I correct her, then smile dreamily.

“Finn and I, we ran around the isle together last week.” I’m reminiscing like it’s already a tender memory.

“It was so much fun. Felt like we were on the run from the paparazzi. Or a dangerous criminal. He was like my brave guardian, that Finn. He’s a short guy …

but the protective way he handled me, you’d think he was a mountain —”

“Are you hearing yourself?” she cuts me off. “Riv, you need to take this seriously. This isn’t a love story. This is your life, and it’s ending one article at a—Oh.” She pokes at her tablet. “She’s really good, your boy toy’s sister.”

“Yes, she is. And Finn is his name …”

“This is actually … kind of brilliant. She’s not painting you as a victim. She’s painting you as a human.”

“And he’s not my ‘boy toy’ …”

“It doesn’t even seem like it’s coming from the same person.

Maybe it’s not. Her posts are really infectious …

I bet they’re inspiring others to make their own posts.

Have their own opinions. Reject the narrative that was shoved down their throats.

Making them believe some vague secret truth that isn’t even fully there or confirmed.

Simple doubt in the viral video was enough.

She’s used people’s natural skepticism as her kindling to start a …

a seriously helpful fire here. And boy, has it taken . ”

“I said his name’s Finn.”

She takes a breath, then slowly sets down her tablet. “If you want me to help you, you’ve got to make a choice.”

“A choice?” I frown. “What do you mean ‘a choice’?”

“Between your career or … whatever the hell it is you think you’re doing here in this sleepy beach town with this person you’ve known for a week and some change.

This?” She gives a vague gesture around us with the tablet—the house, Dreamwood Isle, my “boy toy”, who knows what she’s encompassing with that single word—and says, “This isn’t who you are. ”

I sit back in my chair, annoyed, but silenced.

It’s difficult to argue with Anya. Even before she went and became a lawyer, back when we were just struggling actors in college laughing off our failures, she analyzed her scripts like cases in court with just as much depth and severity.

I trust her implicitly. She never has any ulterior motives.

She’s as to-the-point and honest as they come.

“It’s classic River,” she goes on. “Escaping. You run away from your problems. You know who else did that?”

“Don’t you dare bring up my mother.”

“Then I won’t.” She crosses her arms on the table and leans forward.

“Riv … I know I’m coming off harsh, but I think right now’s a time for harsh.

Get your mind out of the clouds and look around down here on earth.

You’ve got a phone full of people trying to get your life back on track—whose own careers also depend on you, might I add.

Sure, your boy toy’s sister gave you a head start, but that’s all that boy will be to you in another few weeks: just a toy, a souvenir of your latest life challenge, a—”

“He’s not,” I tell her firmly. “He’s not a toy. He’s kind. And real . He has a genuine heart of gold.”

“Fine. A boy toy with a heart of gold. Not unheard of. Still not a reason to throw it all in the trash.”

“I know what it looks like,” I stammer, rising to my feet.

Anya, unaffected, listens to me like a weary litigator waiting for the defense to tire out.

“I know I’ve been very irresponsible. I know I’m hiding.

I know I did a lot of … of really stupid shit that brought me to this point, even long before I socked Trent Embers in his smug fucking face.

” I run a finger over my knuckles. It’s likely my imagination that they still feel sensitive to the touch.

“I know you’re right about that. I need to stop running.

” I meet her eyes. “But Finn … Finn, his name … Finn isn’t just a souvenir. ”

Anya studies my face for a while, like she’s somehow fact-checking the emotions twisting over my furled lips and twitching eyes. “Okay,” she says quietly.

“Okay?” I blurt back, still in defense mode. “What’s that mean? ‘Okay’?”

“It means I was too harsh. It means I hear you. And I’ll take your word for it. You’re really into Finn. Okay.”

I grip the back of the chair. “Okay. Good.” I take a big breath and let it out, calming myself. “That’s … good.”

“But,” she gently adds, “you still need to choose.”