Page 27 of Hearts Adrift (A Texas Beach Town Romance #4)

“Is it?” he asks, a touch more desperate for the answer. “You and River Wolfe? You can tell me, man. It’s okay.”

The woman behind me with the phone is catching up.

I take off running the other way.

“Wait!” the guy calls after me.

I sure as fuck don’t wait.

I cut between the outdoor bathrooms and showers and make my way to the street. I hurry down the long sidewalk, still barefoot, concrete burning the soles of my feet, pulse pounding in my ears.

Just as I assume I’ve gotten away from the weirdness on the beach, a car slows down near me. Its driver stares.

What the hell is happening?

How does any one know about me and River Wolfe, let alone every one?

I pull out my phone to check—only to remember that it is dead as fuck—but I put it to my ear anyway and pretend to take a call, as well as to partly shield my face.

What the hell use is shielding my face, I realize, when I’m wearing the world’s loudest fucking hoodie-tank?

Neon green with bright rainbow piping. Thanks, Brooke .

You could spot me from the goddamned International Space Station.

I keep on with my path, ignoring the car, ignoring the people at the beach who may or may not have followed me to the street, ignoring whatever the hell is going on.

Then I turn the corner.

News van. Female reporter. Camera. A tired-eyed man applying makeup onto the reporter’s face while she speaks irritably into a Bluetooth device sticking out of her ear.

What’s a news station doing here in Dreamwood Isle??

The reporter catches me out of the corner of her eye, ignores me by turning away, then does a double-take. She bats the makeup guy away from her face. “Excuse me?” she calls out. “Sir? … Are you Finn Hopewell?”

I don’t know if it’s being recognized.

Or the cold and pointed icicle that is her voice.

But I turn on my heel and flee across the street without even looking.

A car horn blares—of course there would be one coming at this exact time—and I narrowly avoid being flattened by it as I dart around its nose and take off.

“Sir!” calls the reporter, her voice like the crack of a whip, but I make good distance and am already turning another corner.

I can’t go home and let these people follow me. I can’t go to the bungalow and lead them straight to River, either.

Where the hell else can I run?

I reach for my gym bag to grab my shoes and socks—only to discover it’s gone. Did I drop it when the car nearly hit me? “ Fuck me ,” I hiss to myself, outraged, panicked, as I hurry along, the harsh pavement cutting into my feet.

I know one thing: I should’ve driven my car, and I am never fucking walking to the gym again.

Also: fuck quickly-draining phone batteries. Why can’t I even squeeze a single percent of power out of it just to make one damned call to Brooke?

While running past the parking lot of the El Amado nightclub, which holds a scattering of cars even during the day, I spot a familiar clique of skaters around a yellow-and-white Mustang.

Skipper is among them—the younger brother of my friends Kent and Adrian, standing there in a backwards hat with his skateboard tucked under an arm.

I rush up to him and crouch by the car, out of sight of the street. “Skip, hey, sorry,” I quickly greet him. “Is there any chance either of your brothers are home?”

Skipper—and his four friends—all stare me down like they have no idea who I am. They do, by the way. “Is this a new kind of … uh … parkour cardio thing?” he asks.

I don’t even have time to break that down. “No, Skip. I’m literally being chased by—well, I don’t know. People. A news reporter. I need somewhere to hide that isn’t my house. Just for a few minutes. I’m on the run.”

“Sick,” says one of Skip’s pals, finding that awesome.

Skip adjusts his cap, turning it forward. “I think Kent went away with Jonah to Houston for the weekend for a concert or musical or something.”

“And Adrian?”

“Heard something about a party at Teegan’s … or was that last night? My mom might be home, if you wanna—”

The news van slowly rounds the corner just as I poke my head above the Mustang to see if the coast is clear.

It is definitely not . Even if I ran now, I’d be followed.

And if there’s anyone on this isle I don’t want to piss off, it’s the cranky, sailor-mouthed firecracker that is Skipper, Kent, and Adrian’s mom: Eden.

Something tells me she wouldn’t appreciate me leading a mob of crazies to her front door.

“Need us to lead them away?” asks Skip.

I look at him. “Really?”

“Yeah. We can throw them off the scent. Then you can head to my mom’s. Should be safe. Is this about the whole island lover thing, by the way?”

“What the fuck is that?” I blurt out, now having heard it twice. “Island lover??”

“Something about a celebrity who’s hiding out here in Dreamwood, found himself an island lover, I dunno, didn’t really read the whole thing.”

I knew it. The worst happened.

I’m on the internet. Pasted across the pages.

My name has to be out there, too. Face as well, since random people at the beach recognized me.

Everyone knows now …

“Why’re you breathing funny?” asks Skipper. “You’re acting like it’s you or something.”

“Dude!” cries out one of his friends, poking a finger at his phone, then turning his wide eyes to me. “Dude!”

Skipper gives his friend’s phone half a second of his attention before steeling himself, asking nothing further, and nudging his friends—who appear to understand him perfectly through dude-telepathy, I guess.

The group of skaters head out toward the street. “Hey, miss!” one of his pals shouts.

“I saw him!” shouts another of his friends.

“Yeah!” chimes in the next from the curb. “He went that way, the dude you’re looking for in the—” He checks. “—the bright-ass gay hoodie! Down that street, toward the causeway!”

“Took off running barefoot!”

“Yeah, lady! Can’t miss him!”

“Probably running off the island as fast as he can!” agrees his other friend. “Fuckin’ crazy guy!”

A moment passes. The rumble of the van fading down the street.

Then Skip nods at me. “Now’s your shot, man.”

“I owe you,” I tell him before taking off on my poor, screaming feet, rounding the corner and making my way.

I only make it a block when a hand darts out of the shadows, hooks my elbow, and—before I can even shout a word of protest—yanks me off the sidewalk and in through the side door of El Amado.