Page 8 of Hearts Adrift (A Texas Beach Town Romance #4)

I’m not sure what Cissy sees, but I can’t see it yet.

First episode, couldn’t finish it. Not because it’s bad.

It was actually smart and quick-moving. But the longer I sat on that couch watching a young actor crushing it with their first obvious breakout role, in a series I already know will be at every awards show, on the cusp of an awesome and exciting career, I realized my stomach couldn’t bear it, and I shut the TV right off and interrupted Cissy midsentence.

The dark screen was a hundred times more comforting.

Anya never called back. That isn’t a good sign.

But the next time I see my agent’s name pop up on my phone, I finally suck it up and answer.

He’s not happy, but he’s past being angry.

“Just lay low,” he tells me. “I don’t care where you are, who you’re with, what you’re doing, who you’re doing, just stay there, outta sight, and let our team do what you pay them to do: handle the backlash.

Stay off the internet, River, or so help me, I’ll cast you in a Hallmark Christmas movie. ”

I guess that’s the gist of our convo.

Stay put. Do nothing. Say nothing. Let us do our jobs.

An hour later, I decide to do the exact opposite of what I’m told and hop on my phone to take the temperature.

The noise hasn’t died down. In fact, it’s gotten worse.

#RiverRage.

#SetOff.

#WhenActorsAttack.

#CanSomeoneCheckOnRiver.

I don’t imagine that last one is any actual attempt to check on my wellbeing.

These internet trolls are laughing at what appears to be my public mental breakdown against a director I simply had “creative differences” with, because that’s how petty everyone has decided I am.

Disagree with the River Wolfe, and you get clocked in the face because I’m a difficult diva.

Oh, yeah, that’s yet another hashtag for you: #DivaDickEnergy, my personal favorite.

If only they knew the full story. If only anyone did .

Not to mention everyone’s so concerned about the film itself: the long-awaited sequel to Wingless Angels , which is now put on hold—and of course, I’m to blame for that, too.

All the fan boys are shedding tears of rage that I’d have the audacity to delay this cherished production.

No one cares why. No one even speculates.

It’s just my ego standing in the way of their experience buying overpriced popcorn and devouring it in the darkness of a theater.

Will they replace River? Who can possibly replace the lead in a sequel?

Can they CGI his face for the remaining scenes?

That isn’t the worst part. They’re digging up my past now, too.

Like this incident I had seven years ago when I was fired from a film, which labeled me a temperamental “difficult to work with” actor earlier in my career.

And this play I did in college where I had a breakup the night before it premiered and caused this huge ruckus backstage.

They even dug up this ridiculous audition I attended where I kind of pitched a fit when I was cut off because our pieces could only be thirty seconds. I was young and entitled.

And then there was a little thing that turned into a big thing three years ago when I went off-script one shoot and offended the writer so badly that we had to hold a meeting .

They even brought in two of the producers to discuss my crime.

Wasn’t my fault the scriptwriter didn’t know how to write gay characters.

I felt like a 2D walking cliché with all of my lines becoming obvious segues into predictable sex jokes or nauseating references to tops and bottoms. In my opinion, my improvisations only improved the script.

But no matter how high-profile you think you are, you keep learning you aren’t paid for your opinions.

Just for your face. But mostly your name.

Starring River Wolfe.

Featuring River Wolfe.

With a stunning performance by River Wolfe.

And I’ll be first to admit that I was a know-it-all when I started out. But despite the efforts I’ve given to atone for my past, you can never outrun it. It’s the bedrock upon which you’ll always be judged.

Even when you do something good.

Like punch the shit out of a power-abusing director.

In the end, not much “good” comes out of your “good” act. The whole conversation on the internet now is about how awful a person you are. No one should ever hire you again. It’s speculated how you still get work at all. I likely give killer blowjobs to land every undeserved role.

No one’s talking about the director.

Before I know it, I’m out of the house and standing on the back porch, gripping the banister, and staring off at the crashing waves, which I can only barely see in the dark. It feels easier to breathe out here where nothing can touch me at all. No hashtags. No calls. No text message vibrations.

No stunning performances by Cissy.

I don’t mean to be too dark and dramatic and prove all of those headlines right, but I wonder what it’d feel like to just walk out into those waves and disappear. I need relief from this somehow. I need peace— and a fucking vacation .

The floorboards creak. I turn.

There stands Finn, as surprised to see me out here as I am to see him. Tank top and shorts. Headlamp around his forehead. Thick brown gloves with a toolkit hanging from his grip. His most formidable feature is his cute doe eyes, locked right on mine.

I was buried in my solitude so deeply, I’m not sure it’s fully processing that the guy actually returned to fix what I had broken. That there’s anyone standing there at all. I very well could be imagining him right now.

I honestly didn’t think he’d come back.

Not after the way he left.

“Mr. River,” he greets me, breaking my trance.

And his whole attitude’s changed. “Uh … Mr. Finn.”

“I just dropped by for your back door.”

I blink. “For my … what?”

“To patch up the back door window.” He takes a quick breath, appearing uncomfortable. “Should’ve patched it up with something when I was here before. To keep the hot air out … and the bugs. Think I was just thrown off by the, uh, doorframe-trying-to-eat-my-shirt-off-my-body thing.”

I peer down at his toolkit. A folded-up piece of plastic and a square of cardboard hang loose out of its side.

Finn, the beach-town handyman.

“Should just take me a minute or so. I won’t be in your hair very long.” He sets down his toolkit by the door. “And if I patch it up right, no bugs will be in your hair, either.”

Was that an attempt at humor? “Thank you.”

He flicks on his headlamp, blinding me for a second, before inspecting the door. He pokes a gloved finger into the hole and runs it over the rim, then scrunches up his face to focus, gently dislodging bits of glass that still remain.

I can’t describe what a comfort it is to see some totally normal guy doing a totally mundane activity. It’s centering. Grounding. More calming than listening to the waves.

“Oh.” He notices something by the door—the bottle of sparkling wine Brooke left next to my welcome basket. He looks up at me, searing my eyes again with the bright light from his headlamp. “Was this not to your liking?”

“Eight years sober.”

“Oh.” He looks down at the bottle. “Sorry. I’ll just—”

“I’m surprised you came back.”

He hesitates, then only half-turns, sparing me another blinding. “Is it a bad time? I can come back in the—”

“Thought I scared you away.”

He gives it a thought. “Guess I’m not easy to scare.”

“Even when I called your eyes pretty?”

He smirks, sets the bottle aside—I guess to take with him when he leaves—and continues his work, pulling the cardboard out of his toolkit along with some tape. “You called them beautiful, actually.”

“Did I?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been hit on.” He uses a razorblade to trim the cardboard, fitting it to the hole. Then he pastes on a smile—a forced one. “I was rude earlier.”

“Rude?”

He begins securing the cardboard in place. “Yeah. I … should have said thank you for complimenting my eyes.”

“No.”

His smile falters. He lifts an eyebrow. “No?”

“You don’t owe me for my compliment. Certainly not a thank you. I shouldn’t have come on to you like that and made things uncomfortable, especially in that situation. I should’ve respected your bungalow and called the number instead of breaking in and creating more work for you.”

After a moment of appearing stunned, he slowly clicks off his headlamp— thank you —then drops his hand.

The wind picks up out of nowhere, the salty scent from the crashing waves hitting us at once, drawing both of our faces to the darkness of the shore.

I don’t know if a storm is coming in or if this is the usual weather, but everything about tonight seems incorrigibly restless.

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” he softly says.

I turn back to him. “I didn’t?”

“I’ve been in a weird place. Emotionally. In my life.” He runs a finger along his cardboard patch, as if detecting a wrinkle in the tape and choosing to smooth it out. “Your compliment … wasn’t unwelcome.”

The soft light spilling out from inside the house barely catches his eyes, but I think I see a flicker of something in them. Frustration. Uncertainty.

Then he smiles. “It’s not usually the first thing people compliment.” He half-turns to me, gaze still on his work. “I’ll take a compliment about my eyes any day.”

“Really?”

“Yep.” He brushes his hands, pulls off his gloves, and tucks them into his back pocket. “That should hold you for the night. At least to keep the beach biters out.”

“Beach biters …?”

“A species of bug I just made up.” He faces me fully. “I’ll send a guy tomorrow to fix the window and the front lock. In and out without even seeing you. He can leave a new key on the porch right where you found the first one.”

“Why bother fixing them at all?” I ask, throwing him a shrug. “What do windows help, anyway?”

He frowns. “Our AC bill.”