Page 6 of Hearts Adrift (A Texas Beach Town Romance #4)

I can see the Breezy Bungalow from our house.

Through the kitchen window that faces off to the west, to be precise.

A perfect view of the whole north shore in its rocky glory, including that lonesome-looking bungalow at the end of the street.

It’s far away, sure, but I can see it clearly nonetheless.

Our house is like a bloated piece of art on stilts, elevated such that the first story feels like the third, so I’m easily able to watch the distant bungalow as I stand at the kitchen window mixing myself up a peanut butter and chocolate protein shake after my workout.

I can’t stop staring through the window, wondering if I might see him pop out through the back door after the sun has set and it gets especially scenic. Again, not that I would see much from this far away, and especially when it’s dark, but for whatever borderline-weirdo reason, I’m watching.

Maybe it was that last thing he said about my eyes. He didn’t remark about my body. Or wanting to fuck me.

Despite my sensing immediately that he played for my team, and my humiliating shirt-falling-off-my-body fiasco clearly turned him on more than it freaked him out.

But instead of coming on to me, he just called my eyes beautiful and made me feel for the first time since Theo like someone bothered to value me for more than just the meat on my bones.

And maybe that was too much. Why I ran. Guess I just can’t trust compliments like that anymore.

But why should I trust his compliments? Especially coming from some hotshot celeb who thinks he can throw money at me to make up for how he treated my bungalow.

Besides that, he’s an actor. He pretends for a living. He lies for a living. I could’ve just been an acting exercise of his. Seducing me. Leading me on. Seeing how much he can get out of the clueless island guy paid to check on him.

Then at the end of his stay, flinging money at me and calling it a tip, making me feel like cheap room service.

Yeah. It’s official. I’m done with that guy.

“How’d it go?”

I turn to find Brooke coming into the kitchen, yanking open the pantry for a snack. “Good evening,” I greet her as I screw the lid back on my protein tub.

“That’s not an answer,” she sings before settling on a granola bar, then bumping the pantry door shut with her butt before coming up to the counter. “So who is it? Our mystery renter? Was I right?”

“Nope,” I mumble between sips of my shake.

“‘Nope’? Just ‘nope’?”

“It ain’t DiCaprio.”

“But who is it? You saw him, didn’t you? Don’t tell me you chickened out.”

“I never chicken out of anything.” I lean back against the counter, catching sight of the old bungalow through the window again. “I met him.”

“So who was he?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care.”

“What? What do you mean you—” She lets out a groan and squirms all over the place, the plastic wrapper of her granola bar crinkling loudly.

Her exasperation is always so over-the-top.

“I’ve waited all afternoon, Finn! Even waited for you to return from your workout, which you insisted on doing before talking to me, and I let you go because I’m so nice .

Then you didn’t text me when you left. I have been dying here.

” She comes right up to my side. “He was an actor, though, right? A big-name actor?”

“I don’t do Hollywood stuff. Couldn’t even name two Brad Pitt movies if you put a gun to my head. Except that casino one.”

She presses the end of her granola bar to my head. “No one survives Tyler Durden’s madness to be remembered for only Ocean’s Eleven—and Pitt was in three Oceans.” She lowers the bar. “Was he hot? Tell me that at least. On a scale of garden gnome to Hemsworth …”

“Hemsworth,” I answer bitterly, eyes on the bungalow.

“Chris, Liam, or Luke? Ugh, never mind, you wouldn’t know the difference anyway. What was your impression of him? Was he down-to-earth Hollywood, high-maintenance Hollywood, tree-hugging Hollywood …?”

“All of them, probably,” I mutter.

The way he bore down upon me. His so-called “actor’s intensity”. Saying he had no real friends. Expressing being lonely. How he took command without a trace of authority in his voice.

And how I went from some psycho stalker fan to his greatest gift in half a second. Gazing deeply into my eyes like he just found some fabled pirate’s treasure.

Maybe that’s just part of his game, and I shouldn’t be so quick to assume he plays for my team.

He could be one of those actors with the unsettling talent of diving into anyone’s head.

Straight actors play gay roles. Just because he fell into my eyes like Alice into Wonderland doesn’t mean he’s ready to invite me to his tea party.

In a place like Dreamwood Isle, you can’t be sure of anything.

The amount of straight married men who escape here for a secret weekend away is staggering.

Just another unexpected business trip where they take off more than their suit and tie—they take off their hetero identity, their wife and kids, their ring, and be who they truly are. I see it every weekend.

I wonder if that’s why River is here: to escape what the world has decided he is.

I’ve been tempted all afternoon to look him up.

I wonder what keeps stopping me.

Maybe the same thing that’s bothered me since leaving the bungalow—the same thing that chased me with every stride on the treadmill, with every lift and clang of weights, pulling my mind right back to him again and again.

“Wait, did something happen with him?”

I turn to find Brooke staring at me with the granola bar half hanging out of her mouth, anticipating my answer.

“I … never said that.”

“Finn!” she squeals, pressing up closer to me. Brooke has never understood personal space. “There’s something you’re not telling me! Y’know, I had a feeling he might be gay. Why else would he come to Dreamwood?”

“That doesn’t mean something happened.”

“Don’t make me tickle it out of you …”

“If you touch me, I’m pouring this protein shake over your head.”

“You’d never waste a drop of your protein, so I know that’s a lie. Tell me! Did he hit on you?”

I grip my protein shake tighter.

The truth is, I owe this guy nothing. I’m not even sure I like him.

But he gave me his name. Well, the first part of it.

Why do I feel protective of him suddenly?

“The key broke in the lock.”

Brooke’s face wrinkles up in confusion. “What? How? I just used it this morning!”

“So he broke in through the back to let himself in.”

“That’s crazy!” The thought flies through her mind like lightning. “Wait. That means you have to go back. To fix the lock and give him another key.”

“Someone else. Not me. I’ll get Marcus. Javier. One of them will be free, can do it for a buck.”

“No. It has to be you. Discretion, remember? Marcus and his big mouth.”

“The window on the back door, too. I did say he had to break his way in.”

“So dramatic,” she murmurs in awe, nearly drooling.

“Careless,” I correct her, kicking back my shake.

“You’re doing the work, no one else. And you have to do it tonight. Like, right now.”

I look at her. “Why?”

She gapes at me. “You serious? You’re gonna let bugs come in through that window? Did you even patch it up? Finn!” she cries accusatorily at the blank look on my face. “I would’ve done at least that! You just left it like it was?”

“I said I—”

“You have to go back! Now! Put down that drink and go fix his door— both of them! We have maybe-Hollywood royalty staying in that house and you’re standing here like no big deal chugging protein. Have you looked in a mirror? I think you have enough protein for a lifetime.”

“You’re insufferable,” I moan.

Another voice comes softly from the doorway. “Finn.”

We both freeze and turn.

It’s Dad: a slimmer, taller version of me, armed with a mustache, white robe, and a bucket hat.

His attire is always random, especially at the house.

He’s the island’s man of fun who upholds our family legacy of the Hopewell Fair and Harbor.

But unless we’re at the Fair and he’s giving one of his big speeches, kicking off our weekend fireworks show or being the face of Dreamwood Isle entertainment, he’s just our silly dad who wears a robe and flip-flops around the house.

But his face doesn’t reflect much of that silliness right now.

He seems uncharacteristically pensive. Maybe he just overheard everything and I’m about to get chewed out for not going the extra mile, despite the damned marathon of extra miles I’ve travelled for this family.

Or he’s in a mood because of Heather, who has a habit of bossing everyone around—including him.

Or maybe he’s just constipated.

His eyes lock on me. “Can I have a word?”

I push away from the counter. “Of course, Dad.”

The tension in his face breaks as he offers my sister a sweet smile. “Brooke, can you check on Arial and Roman? I think they haven’t been fed.”

The cats. Yes, both named after the fonts.

“Sure, Daddy,” says Brooke, then she eyes both of us. “You could’ve just told me to go. I know when I’m being sent out of the room so the boys can talk.” She pops what’s left of her granola bar into her mouth, tosses the wrapper at the trashcan, then sees herself out.

“Let’s go upstairs,” Dad decides, beckoning me with a throw of his head, hands stuffed into his robe pockets. “I’m pretty sure I left my phone charging in the game room.”

I head with him through the main foyer and up the stairs.

With my dad and Heather’s rooms being downstairs, no one ever comes up here except for me and Brooke.

The end of the hall opens to a wide, long game room with two couches, a TV, mini-pool table, and a drinking bar by the window—which, by coincidence, faces the same direction as the kitchen and therefore also has a view of the distant bungalow.

I can’t peel my eyes from it through the window as I wait for my dad to unhook his phone from the charger and thumb quickly past a few unimportant notifications.