Page 35 of Hearts Adrift (A Texas Beach Town Romance #4)

“That’s a wrap!”

Music to my ears.

The energy on set contrasts considerably with how it was months ago with our last director.

The replacement—Lauralin May, a fierce and talented director who is known for always inspiring and urging the best out of her cast and crew—gives the room a warm round of applause, thanking and congratulating everyone on a job well-done.

I’m filled with confidence that under her leadership, this film will be more than just some cash-grab sequel; it’ll be a noteworthy work of cinema capable of standing on its own legs.

I believe that’s the wording I hear probably ten times at the wrap after party, taking place in the large penthouse of a hotel near our new set in California.

Every cast and crew member there, it’s such a lively celebration of the trials and tribulations we had to overcome—even beyond the nightmare of Trent Embers—to complete this project to everyone’s satisfaction.

I make my rounds with a tasty cup of rum punch (minus the rum) basking in the warmth of the room.

I make sure to stop by Lauralin and praise her on an insightful and inspiring directorial job.

I learned a lot from her, so much that I’ve even considered someday in the future stepping behind the camera instead of in front of it.

I find Lexi by a window looking thoughtful and happy, just having finished chatting with a pair of ladies from the costume crew.

She brightens up when I approach, and I get the biggest hug from her.

There’s something so free about her over these past few months, like it’s just me and her against the world again, back in the days when we made a running gag out of attending ridiculous auditions together and grabbing a bite afterwards without the faintest notion that either of us would actually hit it someday.

“Lauralin wants me to join her on her next project,” Lexi tells me, her eyes giddy.

“We’ve been talking every day between takes, I feel like we’re becoming actual friends.

Me ,” she says, a hand to her chest. “ Friends with the Lauralin May . I don’t know what I’ll be doing, exactly …

Consulting? Assisting? Maybe there’s a tiny role for me?

I don’t know, but I don’t care. I am so there. ”

“Look at us,” I tease her, “all grown up, out here in the big wide world.” I nudge her. “Don’t be a stranger. Better keep me at the top of your growing call list when the big things happen.”

“Big things are going to happen,” she says, taking my hand suddenly and squeezing it. I’d nearly forgotten that was our thing, and I return her squeeze and echo the words, “Big things are going to happen.”

It’s been the motto of our professional lives.

Maybe, before another scandal happens, we should be more specific about what “big things” we’d like to happen.

“I forgot to ask,” says Lexi suddenly, her eyes turning to me. “Is it true? Did you … sell your house in LA?”

Instead of an answer, I just hug her. We’ve always had that kind of friendship that doesn’t need words.

She hugs me back tighter, and there we stand for a good length of time, our island of peace by the window overlooking some downtown street while the after party roars and laughs and chatters around us.

My goodbye is cordial, but inside, I’m feeling a deeper pull to leave rather than linger.

My urgency is less about what I’m leaving.

More about where I’m headed.

And to whom .

It’s like déjà vu when I’m behind the wheel again and blazing down the highway from the airport to the Gulf of Mexico in a rental with no sweltering jacket or hood—just my shades with my hair out and flapping in the wind.

And Anya on speaker: “Last I heard, the pimple on all our asses Trent Embers gave up seeking representation for his pitiful defamation suits. Lawyers aren’t idiots. No one wants to touch that radioactive mothball.”

And she goes on: “Oh, did you hear about all the other women who came forward after Lexi? This Trent guy, he’s a cockroach , Riv, a fucking cockroach crawling up the legs of so many women. That fuck-nut is gonna get buried .”

And on: “Apparently he was the guest speaker on some lame hole-in-the-wall ‘cancel culture’ podcast. Even all the cancel culture critics were shouting to cancel him.”

And: “A close source says he’s burning through all his money. I might feel bad if he wasn’t a fucking shit stain.”

Anya believes not all villains deserve redemption arcs.

In the case of Trent Embers, I’m inclined to agree.

“So you’re really trading the Holly for Dream , huh?”

She’s been ranting about Trent for so long, I barely notice the shift in topic. “Trading what for what?”

“ Holly -wood. Dream -wood. Seriously, you gotta pick it up when I put it down, Riv, I’m so much cleverer than you ever give me credit for.”

“It’s a cute play on words, I’ll give you that.”

“People underestimated Cissy, too, but look what she did with so little. Solved a whole murder and got the girl in the end, too—Wait. Did you watch it yet? Did you—Riv!” I guess she can sense my guilty wince. “It’s been months! Months! How have you not watched the dang show yet?!”

Finally, the long-awaited exit looms ahead. I catch my mouth twisting into a giddy smile. “Maybe I was missing the right show-bingeing companion.”

Anya’s sigh whistles through the phone. “Oh, Riv … you are so hopelessly smitten by that boy toy.”

That is a fact I will never deny.

Wholeheartedly. Unequivocally. Definitively smitten.

The first thing I do when I arrive in Dreamwood Isle is swing by this cute flower shop I noticed across the street from the Quicksilver Strand.

It smells like salt and jasmine, and the (literally green-haired) cute young guy behind the counter doesn’t blink twice when I ask for the biggest and brightest bouquet he has.

“Celebrating something special, Mr. Wolfe?” he asks with a playful smirk.

Everyone on the island knows me now. I’m so not a big deal here anymore, and I fucking love it that way.

“Yep,” I reply, whipping off my shades and tucking them into a pocket. “Homecoming.”

With the bouquet riding shotgun, I cut across the isle to the bungalow, nestled on the northernmost, coziest street.

The pics Finn sent me of the beautiful bushes and flowers now bordering the bungalow on all sides don’t compare to seeing them with my own eyes.

It looks ten times more like home than it already seemed before.

I swear, this crooked, old bungalow with the undeniable charm has grown on me in ways I couldn’t have dreamt of months ago.

What once was just an affordable, haunted hideout is now (literally) blooming into what I can call home.

I barely make it to the first step of the porch when the door flies open—and there Finn appears, as if he’s held his breath all this time and the sight of me grants him his first relief.

I swear, the expression when he sees me—and the likely over-the-top display of flowers in my arms—is worth every mile (and every word I endured from Anya’s well-intended gossiping) from the set to the front steps of this creaky porch.

“You’re early,” he says, startled into a laugh.

“Wrapped a week ahead of schedule. You’re looking at a free man.” I come up the stairs and offer him the flowers. “Can I say what a gift it is to see your face again—and not through a phone screen?”

“You’re welcome to say that while tearing my clothes off on my bed,” Finn politely suggests.

The next thing he grabs isn’t the flowers.

It’s my shirt, tugging me into the bungalow, before the door slaps shut at my back.

Damn, it feels great to be home .

I guess it was serendipity that brought me back to the isle this weekend, because that evening when we head out to the Fair, I learn that Brooke’s Kissing Booth is open for business—mercifully lacking its once-suggested star: Finn.

In his place, a friendly (and tragically ditzy) bartender pal of Finn’s I’ve gotten to know named Chase.

The lines are staggeringly long—much longer than Chase expected them to be, and it shows.

“Can you guys help me out?” he begs, taking half a minute’s break when he sees us passing by. “Like, maybe just for five or ten?”

“Not a chance,” says Finn with a smirk, shielding me.

“I guess there’s worse things to be subjected to,” Chase reasons, out of breath, before returning to his hell—which I don’t imagine is quite as hellish as he makes it out to be.

Ninety percent of the line are men, and not one of them is a set of lips I’d imagine any reasonable love-starved person turning down.

And according to Finn, Chase is plenty love-starved.

Not anymore, I suppose .

Walking around the Fair is surreal. No hiding.

No need to disguise myself. No creepy eyes poking out of shadows.

It’s just me and my boyfriend Finn enjoying our time at the Fair.

As far as Dreamwood Isle goes, there is a spot to sate any variety of tastes—whether beach bumming all day, lounging within cabanas by the pool, clubbing late into the night, kicking back with pals at the Easy Breezy, shopping and dining at the boardwalk, perusing the Rivington Art Gallery—but nothing quite compares to the dreamy feeling of strolling under the sun, the clouds, or the stars at night, to the whimsical music of the Hopewell Fair, surrounded by laughter and life.

And being assaulted by adoring adopted sisters. “You came back early!” cries Heather, overjoyed to see me, arms flung around my neck in a hug. “Sorry, I’ve been cramped up in an office all day and haven’t showered … I probably smell like corndogs.”

“Big bro River!” comes Brooke out of nowhere, also tackling me in a suspiciously similar ambush style.

Exactly half a second later, she’s all business: “I don’t know if you got my email, but the latest campaign is killing it.

Like, the engagement is up over two hundred percent, you amassed nearly nine thousand followers from our last post alone—it was a really good one, to be fair, great idea—which I think we should use as leverage for a—Oh, I’m doing it again,” she realizes, clamming up. “Sorry. I talk shop too much.”

Truth is, I enjoy all the shoptalk with Brooke, and I adore having Heather in my life regardless of what matter of Fair food she smells like. Two loving sisters is more than the zero loving sisters I had before meeting Finn, and I’ll count that as a win.

Also, after our whole end-of-summer scandal and the stunningly effective way Brooke handled it, I sorta worked something out with my agent, and unbeknownst to Brooke, she is about to be offered an official position on my team.

It won’t pull away from her duties here at the Hopewell Fair, but might kick open about a dozen other doors for her in terms of broadening her career even further.

She’s gonna die. I can’t wait to tell her.

Speaking of siblings, I was surprised the other night by a call from my brother Mason.

First time in over a year. I’ll admit, the conversation was a bit stiff and awkward.

We’ve been on opposite ends of the spectrum when it comes to so much in our lives: how we each handled growing up with an alcoholic mom, how we managed with a deadbeat dad, the direction our lives took when I pursued acting—a path my brother first sneered at, thinking I was irresponsible for wanting a life in the arts instead of a more “practical” job.

Even after my breakout role in the first Wingless Angels , it still didn’t seem enough to convince him that his point was wrong; he doubled down and said I was just lucky, like my talent and hard work is a fluke.

We’re not perfect yet. We may never be. But when my brother choked at the end of our chat and finally managed to get the words out: “I miss you, Riv.” I suddenly caught myself fighting off tears when I, after a fortifying breath, said, “How about we grab dinner next time I’m in town?

” I heard the smile on his lips when he said he’d like that.

So I guess I’ve got my brother back, too.

My family seems to be growing by the day lately.

Here in Dreamwood Isle, my family has multiplied to include the whole town.

There’s not a single face I come by that isn’t friendly.

I think after the way we handled the whole “fiasco that could’ve been”, the locals here see me in a new light, like I earned their respect somehow.

I’m not sure how that happened, considering all the heavy lifting was done by social media guru Brooke, Decoy Theo, and Lexi coming forward on live stream, but I’m grateful for it.

Home is where the heart is.

And my heart is with Finn, the man I cuddle up next to when the sky’s dark, standing at the very end of the pier under a wide and sweeping curtain of stars.

Others are back here too, awaiting the Saturday night fireworks show, but even with everyone else all around us, it feels like the only two people in the world are me and him.

We can’t seem to peel our eyes off of each other.

“It’s good to have you back,” murmurs Finn happily. “I have to admit, a tiny part of me … feared you’d regain a taste for the West Coast when you went to finish filming.”

I nudge his nose with my own. “Going back there only reminded me exactly why I belong here with you.”

He kisses me right then. Above our heads explode the fireworks—the real ones, as well as the other kind you only feel in your heart. I’m not sure we can tell the difference.

Who knew that the greatest role of my life wouldn’t be on the big screen, but right here, the one I’m living.