Page 26 of Hearts Adrift (A Texas Beach Town Romance #4)

Halfway through my workout, my phone dies.

Of course it would. On a day when I needed my music the most to motivate my cranky ass.

I drop a weight on my foot. It was a light dumbbell but still causes me to shout out.

I let go of the lat pull too soon, sending it crashing on down with the most obnoxious clang that earns me a few annoyed (and deserved) glances from all directions.

One of my sneakers comes untied and I trip myself on the way to the locker room—and crash face-first into some dude’s crotch who’s on his way out. I mumble, “Sorry,” as I clamber back to my feet. He smirks and says, “I’m not.”

Then when I’m heading out of the gym, the guy at the front counter says, “Not sleeping well lately? It shows.”

I don’t ask for clarification. I don’t need it.

Forget waking up on the wrong side of the bed. I woke up on the damned floor.

My sister might as well have climbed a mountain, the way she’s been praising herself all week for how well her efforts have gone.

And she deserves it. For all intents and purposes, her work has made a huge difference.

It’s kind of scary, to discover firsthand how much influence my sister has. I honestly had no idea.

“It’s part luck but mostly just good timing,” she said to me this morning, “fueled by a hunt for the truth. Everyone wants to feel like there’s a real story no one’s telling, and isn’t that true anyway? There is a real story. They don’t even need to know what it is, only that it’s out there.”

“The fact that you pulled this off,” I told her, amazed, “is astounding.”

“I told you I’m good at this!” She snorted at me. “I swear, none of you give me enough credit.”

I gave some careful thought to my next words. “So … why don’t you use that marketing wizardry of yours to get the Fair some more high-spending customers?”

“If only Dad or Heather would trust me more. They’re always the ones making the decisions.” She eyed me with sudden suspicion. “Did Heather say there’s a problem?”

I swear if she had mentioned Dad instead of Heather, I might’ve slipped. “No, no,” I laughed it off. “Just curious. The more income we get, the better for us all. Vendors are so fickle lately, know what I mean?”

She eyed me a few seconds more, then gave in.

“Yeah, I know. I’m also aware of the cutbacks we’ve made, letting off staff at the Parrot, tightening our open hours …

Oh, and this sweet old man complained to me the other day after noticing our hotdog meat changed to something cheaper.

” She gave me a smirk. “I bet Dad’s saving for another new attraction, maybe next summer, something more thrilling than Booty Bridge.

A rollercoaster with a loop . Or maybe he gave serious thought to my idea of a rainbow charter yacht catering to gay men.

It would slay! I’ve already got a marketing strategy prepared, just in case.

But … you know how Dad is: Mr. Secrets . ”

Mr. Secrets—like father like son, I guess.

Then she asked: “Are you really not going to respond to River’s texts?”

We happened to be in the game room. And the window was right there. And perhaps I happened to be looking in the direction of the window when she asked. It might even be the reason she threw the question at me at all, like bait in the water, waiting for me to nip at the line.

And I nipped. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Brooke …”

“Are you finding it difficult to believe that a guy you just saw on our big family TV could possibly be into you? I hope you realize you’re not just a catch. You’re the catch.”

“Just stop.”

“He would be lucky to land a guy like you. He already is. I mean, look at the super-cool sister he’d adopt if y’all get married someday. I’d be, like, the best sister-in-law.”

I threw her a tired look. “Seriously, Brooke?”

“You should go check on him. If anything just to get actual closure, if you’re so desperate for it to not work out between you two. You already had a trial run of you guys living together this past week. Wasn’t it awesome?”

Yes , I could’ve said, were I not so defensive. “Brooke.”

“Just admit you’ve fallen for him!”

Then I’d had it. “I can not risk falling in love again! What don’t you understand about that?” She grew silent. I softened my voice at once. “Especially not for a guy who’s already planning his big, amazing future without me after you’ve finished fixing it. I can’t … risk being hurt again.”

“So this is about Theo.”

“No,” I barked, snapping back into angry mode. “He’s gone from my life.”

“But is he really?” she countered, then crossed the room and took my hands.

Despite being annoyed, I let her, though I threw my gaze to the wall.

“I think that cute, sexy, manipulative bastard is living rent-free in a bungalow in your brain. And if you let him stay there, he’ll dictate who gets to move in for the rest of your life. ”

“I hate your metaphors.”

“Don’t just be Theo’s ex. Make Theo your ex. Move on from that cute, sexy bastard.”

“You’ve called him cute and sexy twice.”

“He was,” she mumbled defensively before continuing on without missing a beat. “I think you’ll regret it if you don’t pull down all your walls and just try letting River in. All the way in.” Her voice went deeper. “ All the way in .”

Yes, she was implying sex. “I’m going to the gym,” I said to her, gently pushed her hands off of mine, and made my way out.

I’m still thinking about her—and River—when I take my tired-ass self for a stroll across Breezeway Point, shoes and socks off and stuffed into my gym bag so I can enjoy the sand between my toes.

I didn’t drive to the gym today, figuring I could use the walk to contemplate the abyssal mess that is my knot of feelings for a certain River Wolfe.

Also, perhaps in some desperate effort to promote the Fair, Brooke insisted I wear the Hopewell Hoodie Tank to the gym—a neon green sleeveless hoodie with rainbow piping around the edge of the hood and our logo across the front.

I guess that also makes me a walking beachside billboard, as bright as can be, can’t miss me halfway across the sand.

And I’m no closer to understanding how I feel about everything.

My sister’s words hang over my sluggish head about how I’m allowing my “cute, sexy, and manipulative” ex to be the landlord of my brain.

I wish it was so easy to just shut it off.

To not feel like anyone’s efforts of flirting with me—even River’s—isn’t to just get something. Will I ever trust people again?

Or trust myself?

The next thing I know, a volleyball whacks me in the side of the head with such force, I literally stumble forward with stars in my eyes before tripping over my own feet and face-planting into the sand.

And when I turn, there’s the same hot beach guy again, his messy hair, dripping in sweat and tight abs, charming smile and twinkling eyes in the afternoon sunlight.

The same fucking guy. The same fucking volleyball.

“Are you kidding me??” I blurt out before he can even start his flirty charm on me. “Twice?? Do you have some fucking vendetta against my consciousness??”

He laughs and lifts his hands in innocence. “I swear, it is a total coincidence. I am so sorry, bro—”

“I ain’t your ‘ bro ’, bro!” I snap back.

He recoils, surprised at my temper.

Honestly, I’m surprised by it, too.

Just then, I spot a young woman some distance away with her phone pointed my way. Is she recording this? I’m so surprised that I freeze in place, as if some spotlight just cracked on and craned itself onto me at full brightness.

There’s someone else squinting my way, too—a guy in a pink speedo. He pulls out his phone, but not to record; apparently to check something. He looks up at me, then his phone, then me again, growing increasingly surprised.

“I said I’m sorry,” says the volleyball hottie, but I find myself too spooked to respond. I just gather my gym bag into my arms like a baby and scurry off across the sand.

Then I see someone else looking my way. A group of guys.

Phones are coming out. I peek over my shoulder.

The young woman is still recording me, following from a far distance.

I fight an instinct to shout at her to stop, but the very act of being recorded keeps me silent and scared.

In no time at all, it feels like everyone’s eyes are on me.

I’ve already passed the Easy, otherwise I would beeline straight in there and duck under the counter, begging Chase to hide me—or Cooper himself, if he’s actually at work today.

Just my luck that he would be when I can’t make my way there without walking back past the woman recording me.

Wait a sec—are there three people recording me now?

Over just a simple mishap with a volleyball?

And my angry eruption?

Did I forget to get dressed at the gym and strolled out of it stark naked somehow? Nope. Bright-ass hoodie and shorts: definitely on. What is all of this attention about?

“Is that him?” I hear someone from ahead, causing me to stop in my tracks. It’s another guy with his phone out, a curly-haired buddy standing at his side. That buddy is bold enough to actually talk to me—or yell, rather: “Hey, you! Are you Finn? The island lover?”

What the fuck did he just ask me? “Uh … what?”

“No, it isn’t him,” says the other guy.

“It is!” the curly-haired one insists, smacking his friend and pointing. “I am one thousand percent certain that that is totally him!”

I peer over the beach, bewildered. There are so many people not paying attention to me one bit—but sprinkled throughout them like a horror movie are numerous people who are, their faces zeroed on mine, watching.

Then he asks, “Is it true? About you and River Wolfe?”

The words hit me like the volleyball all over again.

More phones are coming out.

It’s that feeling like you’re twenty steps behind the rest of the world. Everyone knows something you don’t.

The entire beach versus me.