Page 5 of Hearts Adrift (A Texas Beach Town Romance #4)

Well, that’s one way to do it.

Honestly, my very first guess upon seeing this college-gymnast-built cutie whose shirt is already half-ripped off is that apparently my only pal on this island, Welcome Basket Brooke as I call her, just sent over a gigolo to entertain me.

Talk about five-star service.

Definitely not mentioned in the comments section.

Then I remember I expressly stated I wanted minimal contact. None, in fact. Total and complete solitude.

So who the hot fuck is this guy?

Upon seeing me, he abruptly stands up straight like a bee just stung his ass. His shirt tears more. “Uh, hello.” He lifts a hand to wave, then puts it right back down. “Sorry for the—”

His foot slips.

As he falls to the floor, the rest of the shirt tears clean off of his body, leaving him exposed as he lands hard with a comical squeak from his throat.

This isn’t a gigolo.

Gigolos don’t apologize.

And aren’t this fucking clumsy.

He’s a psycho fan, reporter, or streamer who followed me here. He’s shooting a viral video. Spinning an article. Wanting to be the one who caught the runaway actor. And he had the gall to let himself in like he owns the place.

Or wait. Did I forget to lock the back door?

He looks up from the floor, face flushed. “Sorry again. I …” He slowly rises to a kneeling position, then inspects his hands. “Well, this is embarrassing …”

I should’ve known better. My agent always insists I go nowhere without a bodyguard. Or at the very least a dutiful assistant to be a second pair of eyes. But I flew solo. Went rogue. Left myself vulnerable to the weirdos of the world.

And what do I do now? Embrace it? Fight it? Laugh until tears are pouring down my face? I can do that, by the way. On cue. I had to back when I used to actually audition for things. Landed me countless roles.

But tears will land me nothing in this moment.

So I decide to play the role of a man you don’t fuck with. “Who the hell are you?”

He meets my eyes, startled by my tone. “Finn. I’m—”

“With what news outlet?” I press on, taking a step into the kitchen. “Which publication? What site? You realize I could have the cops here in twenty seconds.”

His eyebrows twist up. “Huh?”

Lying my ass off. I would never call the cops.

Then the whole world will know where I am, and what was the point of all of this?

“My bodyguard is armed,” I go on. “He’s just outside the door, you must’ve barely missed him.

I pay him very well, too, well enough to shoot you in the …

the butt.” I’d never do that either. This is my worst performance.

I’m such a hack . “And what were you hoping to accomplish, breaking in like this? Snap a shot of me fresh out of the shower? Are you some kinda sicko perv?”

So many different, contrasting emotions flutter over his clueless face—this Finn guy’s face. “No! I’m not—”

“Well, I hope you got your story. Here I am. Found the hole-in-the-wall I’m hiding in.”

Now his face twists. “ Hole in the wall?”

“Wanna snap a shot? Entice your followers? Get your fifteen minutes?” I come up to the door and yank it open all the way, then gesture out of it. “Get out of here before I sic my bodyguard on you. Famous people are still real people, y’know. Actual human beings who deserve privacy.”

“I wasn’t—” This Finn guy suddenly cops an attitude, still on his knees. “I’m not some reporter or sicko perv , Mr. Mason, I’m—”

“Just get out and save yourself some dignity .”

Then my towel drops to the floor, taking all of mine.

I even hit the last word for punctuation.

Not exactly the punctuation I intended .

Finn’s eyes snap to my dick, now hanging in his face. Then he quickly turns away, grabs my towel blindly off the floor, and pushes it at me without looking.

I belatedly realize the name he just said a second ago. I take the towel. “Wait … what’d you just call me?”

He rises to his feet. “Mr. Mason.” He makes one last attempt to free the remainder of his shirt from whatever it’s stuck on, then gives up and crosses his arms over his bare chest. His eyes flicker with a sudden thought as he looks my way. “You … are Mr. Mason, right?”

I only just now remember. The name I made up. Right. Except now I can’t tell whether he really doesn’t recognize who I am or I’m being played with. “Yeah … Mr. Mason. Last name Mason. First name Cal. Cal Mason … Me.”

“I know it’s not your real name,” he goes on, still with a bite of attitude, “and it’s not my business what it is. You requested discretion from us. I have no interest in who or what you are.”

Well, that’s a first. “So you’re …?”

“I’m with Hopewell Rentals. I think that’s what we’re called now,” he mutters to himself, then sighs. “My sister usually handles this. She does the paperwork. Manages the site. Makes the welcome basket, all of that.”

Welcome basket.

So this is Welcome Basket Brooke’s brother.

But the difference between Brooke and this cutie is that she hasn’t seen me. Does this guy seriously not recognize who I am? “So if you know Cal Mason isn’t my real name, then I assume … you do know what it is?”

He’s gone back to prying the remains of his shirt from whatever it’s caught on. It only tears worse. Tension builds in his face. “No,” he says after barely a glance.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“You don’t know who I am?”

“How many more times do I—” He grunts, pulling at his shirt harder. “—have to say it?”

“Don’t you watch any movies?”

“Who has time for— urgh! —that?”

All his muscles, it’s a wonder he’s still battling with fabric that just a second ago tore like tissue paper. Isn’t that how everything in life is? Falling apart so fast until you get to that one last thread stubbornly refusing to break …

But I still don’t believe this guy. “You know who I am. You’re just pretending.”

His eyes snap to mine. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“ My Wife Dies On Tuesday .”

“Huh?”

“ Mourning Light and its sequel.”

“Are these movie titles?”

“ By Any Other Name . First Baker . Wingless Angels —my first break.”

“I said I don’t watch—”

“ The Quiet Monster . Won five Academy Awards! Not one for acting, sadly, but I was clearly snubbed in favor of that obvious Oscar-bait Breakwater …”

He finally frees what remains of his shirt, stares down at the shreds hanging from his hands, then hugs them to his chest like a blanket—a blanket he’s clutching very angrily.

“I said I don’t know who you are. I think I made that clear.

All I came by to do was check on you. Not snap a pic of you in a towel.

That’s weird. Did you sweep up the glass properly?

There’s a broom in the—I’ll do it.” He sets down the scraps of his shirt on the table and heads off to the hall.

Three seconds later, he’s back. “You can really cut up your feet bad on just one stray piece of glass,” he states as he busily sweeps—or is he scolding me?

It’s crazy. Just when you think the whole world knows you, you run into the one guy who doesn’t.

I’m consumed by that fact.

And by him.

Like the existence of someone like Finn is equally the most brilliant and ridiculous notion, that someone could actually not know who I am.

Suddenly this Finn isn’t just Welcome Basket Brooke’s cute, overworked, short-tempered brother who hits a gym every time he takes a breath.

He speaks to me like I’m just another pesky customer who can’t sweep a floor on his own.

I can’t even describe how refreshing it is, for this one moment in time, to not be River Wolfe.

To be just an annoying pain in someone’s ass.

In Finn’s ass, specifically.

Finn’s … tight and shapely ass.

Then, under his breath yet just loud enough to hear, he mutters, “Really, would it have hurt to just call the contact number first? Before you went and shattered the window?”

I glance back at the door, as if just now remembering I’m the one who broke it. “No big deal. I can pay for that.”

My answer doesn’t seem to please Finn as he comes to a stop, setting aside the broom. “Fixing that takes effort, I hope you realize. An actual person has to do it.”

His tone continues to convey: I’m annoyed and I hate you . I love it. “I’m aware of that.”

“A person I have to schedule. A person who will have to take time out of their day to come and do this.” His jaw sets as he takes a long breath and glares at the window. “A person who will most likely be me .”

“The key broke in the front door …” I start.

“And I’ll have to fix that, too,” he steamrolls on top of me. “The key worked just fine this morning. My sister used it to bring your welcome basket and check everything.”

“I’ll pay for the lock. And a new key.”

“It’s not about the—Is this what you’re used to doing? Just flinging money at people? Toss a check here? A check there? Fix this and that with checks and more checks?”

Wow, he really hates me . “No one really uses checks anymore,” I inform him helpfully.

If Finn’s face wasn’t red before, it sure is now. He takes a step toward me, which is saying a lot considering how close we already are. And the glare he gives me could sauté my nipples straight off of my chest.

It’s the first time I get a real look into his eyes. They sparkle unexpectedly. I don’t know if that’s because he’s gone from zero to ragingly pissed in a second, or if it’s just evidence of his passion.

You have to understand, I’m addicted to passion.

All the dead eyes I’ve peered into through my career—the passionless directors just doing a job, executives in suits who don’t give a shit about the art until the money rolls in, the producers and investors, costars cast because of their parents or connections and know nothing of the craft, all of them soulless and dead in the eyes.

I recognize right away when there’s fire behind them.

And right now, all I see is fire.

Bright blue fire in this guy’s piercing gaze.

I feel his breath on my lips when he speaks. “And this ‘hole in the wall’, I believe you just called it, happens to be a very special place to me.” His voice is low, almost hurt. “Would’ve been nice if you’d treated it with more respect.”

“You have the most beautiful eyes.”

He freezes in place.

I think my words just put out all the fire I was admiring in his eyes a second ago.

Now all I see is confusion.

“Sorry,” I murmur quietly. “Was that too much? I get that sometimes. Comes with the whole actor thing.”

He swallows.

Throat dancing up, then settling back down.

“Actors make terrible friends,” I go on. Did we just become even closer somehow? “Always stuck in our own heads. I have none, by the way. Friends. Real ones, at least. This is my working theory as to why.”

A bead of sweat drips down the side of his head. He hasn’t blinked once since I complimented his eyes. Like he just realized he can wield them like weapons.

Or a shield.

I’ve also become acutely reminded that he’s shirtless. And that I’m shirtless—and everything else-less, too, save for this nothing towel that’s all too ready to drop again.

Just two men in a kitchen with a broken window.

And tension filling the air with every breath.

Undeniable, unbearable tension.

“Wanna stay for a bit?” I ask.

He inhales sharply, startled by the question. “What?”

“Have a snack with me.” I tighten up the towel around my waist and head to the fridge.

“It’s so lonely here all by myself. Maybe you can tell me why this is special to you, this place I promise never to call a ‘hole in the wall’ ever again.

See? I learn.” I open the fridge. It’s empty.

I shut it. “Who needs food? Let’s just hang out. ”

“I have to go.”

“Look, I’m sorry I assumed you were a crazy stalker when you first came in.

And I’m sorry I broke the lock and a pane of glass.

Is that what you wanted? An apology? I’ve learned apologies don’t mean much to anyone except the person giving them.

So let me prove I’m a decent guy by spending some time with me. ”

He takes hold of the doorknob. “Someone will be back to fix this window and bring you a new key.”

“I thought it was you coming back, not someone else.”

That stops him. He still doesn’t look at me.

I come up to him. “River. My real name. It’s River.”

For a second, I think I’ve got him.

Then he slips out the door without another word, just like that.