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

The way he wanted us to appear to everyone out there in the cliquey world of the internet’s hottest gay couples, no matter how we actually were in reality.

“Oh, I did it again,” moans Chase, seeing my face sink. “Sorry. Shit, I need to just stop talking. Oh, hey, you had a rebound yet? Best way to get over a guy. Fuck him straight outta your system, dude. You need a rebound, a hot one.”

I snap out of it. “Flyers. One per customer. Thanks.”

“Have sex with a hottie, Finn! It’ll cure all your weird feelings, I promise!”

I’m already walking away. “Tell Coop I stopped by!”

“There are so many of them in this batch!” he calls at me as I leave the bar. By “batch”, he means this weekend’s horde of horny men, just here for a good time, then gone by Sunday and never to be seen again.

I’m not sure that’s what I need—another guy flying out of my life, no matter how hotly he flies into it.

Even if such a hot time is just a volleyball game away.

Or a haircut with Francisco.

Or a married man at the funnel cake stand, apparently.

I’m on the bottom step of the Easy Breezy, about to put the beach behind me, when I spot two guys sprawled out on a big blanket.

Totally average dudes in swimsuits, one reading a book, the other on his phone, obviously a couple.

The one on the phone shows his boyfriend something, the two bring their heads together to look at the screen, and then there’s sweet laughter.

He sets down his book, more invested now, both of them close to each other, watching whatever it is that’s captured them.

And I watch them, captured in my own way.

Is my boyfriend something else I took for granted?

Sorry. Ex -boyfriend. Really need to break that habit.

Theo left town the second I officially ended things, like he couldn’t wait. Allegedly it was some business thing my (insufferably kindhearted) dad hooked him up with, maybe to facilitate the inevitable breakup we all saw coming, but I can’t help feeling like Theo was trapped here.

Did I break up with him more for his benefit or mine?

“What do you mean Dad needs to see me urgently?”

I’m back at the Hopewell Fair on the north side of the island, standing over my sister’s desk in the cramped office by the Ferris Wheel where she works.

Heather is one of my two older sisters. Her long hair is wrapped up in a tight bun with numerous stress-strands pulled out and running down the sides of her neck.

She pauses her aggressive typing to adjust the glasses resting at the tip of her nose before she responds, “He’s at the house. ”

She’s been in a mood with me for a while. I’m not sure why. “What’s he need so urgently that you or Brooke can’t do it? I’ve been running flyers all over the island.”

“Don’t know. Talk to him, not me.”

I sit on the edge of the desk. “What’s going on, sis?”

“You’re on top of my calendar.”

“You’re not yourself.”

“And I’m not your secretary.” She yanks the calendar out from under my ass so quickly, I nearly fall off the desk. “Dad’s waiting. Wouldn’t keep him waiting longer. You’re wasting time here squishing my papers with your big butt.”

I’m about to come back at her when the door swings open and my other older sister—a thousand times sweeter, her neck-length hair streaked pink and blue today, her eyes bright—pops her face in right then and appears pleasantly surprised to see me.

“Finn! You butthead, when’d you get back and why didn’t you tell me you’d be out all day long? I thought we were doing lunch!”

Genuinely forgot. “Fuck. Sorry, Brooke. I didn’t even eat any myself, I was out and about all afternoon.” Heather lets out a huff as she types away. I give her a look. “Really, what’s your deal with me?”

“Don’t mind her,” says Brooke as she slips inside and shuts the door quickly behind her. “Have you talked to Dad yet? I’m on the edge of my seat here.”

“Heather,” I press, not giving up.

“She’s just—”

Before Brooke can finish her sentence, Heather’s voice comes down like a hammer. “He was a good man, Finn. He did not deserve to have his heart broken like that.”

Brooke sucks her lips in and looks away.

It takes me a second to realize what she just said. I’m not sure whether to ask if she’s joking, or if I’m completely misunderstanding what she meant.

“If you didn’t love Theo,” she goes on, eliminating any chance of my having misunderstood her, “you should have let him go more gently—and years ago instead of stringing him along all this time. He was destroyed , Finn. You let a good one go.” She shuts her laptop, tucks it under an arm, and rises.

“I’m off to the house. Brooke, there’s a birthday party at the Parrot.

Can you make sure everything’s ready for it?

Might be a mess. Aaron called in sick. Again. ”

“On top of it,” insists Brooke, but Heather barely waits for the answer before heading straight out the door, leaving me staring after her still sputtering for a response. Brooke offers a sweet smile. “Just ignore her. She was so attached to Theo, you’d think she was in the relationship.”

“When did I turn into the bad guy?” I ask with a spread of my hands.

“You did nothing wrong. Theo was a tool. Heather is unhealthily attracted to tools. I might get her a tool belt for her birthday.” Clearly eager to change topics, she comes right up to my side and hops onto the desk next to me, not caring what she just sat on.

“I wanna know what Dad tells you. Everything.”

“What’s the big deal with Dad? Do you know what he needs me for?” Brooke looks like she’s literally about to explode into confetti from some exciting tea she’s dying to spill. I apparently can’t unscrunch my face, staring at her in confusion. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Okay, okay, okay,” she blurts out, “I can’t hold it in. I think it’s DiCaprio.”

“DiCaprio?”

“ Someone is staying at the Breezy Bungalow, someone big , but Dad doesn’t know who. Absolute discretion, that’s what he requested. I think it’s DiCaprio. I did my welcome basket thing. No one’s called the office yet. I’m dying to know who it is.”

I sigh. Just what we need. Some celebrity staying in a rental property down the street.

“So what’s Dad gonna tell me? To keep an eye on our maybe-high-profile and likely high-maintenance guest?

You know how much I hate high-maintenance guests.

It’s why I don’t work at the resorts. Just one day of shadowing Beckett at the Elysian and I was ready to—Wait.

” Her words just now hit me. “Did you say the Breezy Bungalow?”

“The one and only.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “By himself? Or—”

“Yep. Just one occupant, from what I understand. One, lone, solo, by-himself, no-one-else occupant.”

I can’t help but wonder what kind of crazy fool has to be so desperate to disappear that he’d pick such a rundown place twisted with superstition and bearing a dark history.

I somehow cannot picture any Hollywood actor sitting inside it for longer than an hour before it starts to creep them out.

Celebrities can afford reclusive getaways in the mountains.

In other countries. Exotic places. Beautiful resorts.

So why here, in little Dreamwood Isle?

And in that particular bungalow?

“Y’know what? Maybe just skip meeting with Dad.”

I look at her. “Huh?”

“Just go there directly,” she suggests, her voice going low and dripping with scandal.

I’m reminded of countless times she’d tug me aside in the halls back in high school with that same voice, wanting to vent about her annoying cheerleader friends and speculate about which boys on the wrestling team were gay.

All of them, I had hoped. I had so many crushes and a heart that was wide open to the first compliment thrown my way.

A heart that was anyone’s to take, if they just showed me a smile and a speck of kindness.

That’s all I thought my heart was worth.

Theo was the first one.

And yes, he was on the wrestling team.

“Pretty sure that’s why he wanted to talk to you,” she goes on with a shrug. “So why not just take the initiative, go there directly, and put us out of our misery? Text me the second you find out who it is. Like, the second .”

I shake my head. “Nah, sorry, Brooke. No matter who it is, rich, entitled celebrities are not my thing. I’m the last person you want to send over there.”

“Finn, come on!”

“Why don’t you go check on him?”

“We’re not supposed to.”

My nose twists up as I shoot her a look. “Then why’re you telling me to go and—?”

“Because you’re not me. I did the welcome basket and letter.

Our guest is expecting absolute discretion, minimal contact, the whole works, and I was his correspondent.

But you …” She pokes my arm like I’m a plushie toy.

“ You can play dumb. Pop in to ensure he’s got all he needs.

Be your cute helpful self. I’m, like, a thousand percent sure that’s what Dad wants you to do anyway. ”

Brooke and her schemes. I cannot believe I’m actually letting her twist my arm. “I’m not even showered.”

“You look fine. You look more than fine. Totally hot.”

“I might as well drop by the house to see Dad first, clean up, and—”

“Rock, paper, scissors, and you go there right now.”

“Brooke …”

She puts forth a fist, ready. And I fling out my fist, too, turning twelve years old again in an instant. “Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!” we shout at the same time.

And that’s how eight minutes later, I end up in front of the Breezy Bungalow, unshowered, sweating right through my polo, about to knock on the door to meet some mystery dude who might not even be a celebrity, and who explicitly stated he did not want to be disturbed.

But when I reach the door, it’s me who’s disturbed.

The lock has a broken key sticking out of it.

Was that his doing? Or did someone try to break in and no one noticed?

I give the door a knock. No answer. With a glance into the front window, I don’t see any evidence that someone’s inside.

Is Brooke even sure the guest is here yet?

There’s an old car by the curb I’m fairly sure wouldn’t belong to a celebrity, so I’m guessing it’s just overflow from the beach parking or Fair down the road. Something must be up.

Maybe I should have gone to Dad first.

Then I hear a squeaking noise inside. I come around to the side of the house to check through another window. No movement, nothing. I continue around to the back door.

My shoes crunch over glass.

I step back, alarmed. Then I notice one of the panes on the back door window is shattered.

Shit, someone really did break in .

I pull my phone out at once, a tap away from calling the police—but something stops me.

What if the key broke in the lock, and this mystery man came and broke into the house himself?

No. Why would he do that? That would be totally insane and honestly kind of audacious to break into a house that technically doesn’t belong to you.

Then my hand is on the doorknob.

Wait. So I’m not calling the cops?

I barely crack open the door and let myself in—but not completely.

Halfway in, halfway out, sandwiched between the door and the wall.

I swallow hard, feeling anxious as hell.

I really hate to be a horror movie cliché and call out “Hello?” for the deadly murderer to come get me, but I’m a second away from doing just that as I stand here and listen for any noise.

After a minute of silence, I take another step inside, squeezing through the cracked-open door.

My shirt catches on something sharp.

I’m stopped, unable to move. I try to twist around, then am devastated to hear my shirt rip.

Fuck, this is my favorite polo! Though I’m on the verge of outgrowing it—a total gym-gains-showoff situation whenever I wear it—I wasn’t willing to give it up.

Guess I have a theme in my life of not letting things go when I ought to.

When I try to twist the other way, it rips even worse. I push open the door to try and get free, but the back of my shirt is still caught somehow. Is there a huge splinter in the doorframe? A loose nail? Shard of glass I can’t see?

I pull away with more force, growing desperate.

The shirt rips in half and peels straight off my left arm.

“You kidding me??” I blurt out.

Even half-torn off, the shirt keeps me attached to the wall with no chance of breaking free.

Trapped as I am in the remaining half of this tight shirt, I still can’t identify what’s got a hold of it, unable to turn around fully.

I try to turn one way, the fabric grows even tighter.

Turn the other, I hear threads snapping and popping despite themselves.

Heavy footsteps shake the floorboards.

I look, alarmed.

Standing in the archway, a handsome naked man with a sea-green towel around his waist, water dripping down his chest, eyebrows lifted as he stares at me in surprise.

Definitely not DiCaprio.