Page 8 of Hearts Adrift
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’mnotcalling 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 fromdoing 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.
Chapter 3 - River
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.
Definitelynotmentioned 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.
