Page 9 of Hearts Adrift
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,thisis 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—thisFinnguy’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. “Holein 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 orsicko perv, Mr. Mason, I’m—”
“Just get out and save yourself somedignity.”
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 …areMr. 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. Makesthe 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 Masonisn’tmy real name, then I assume … youdoknow what it is?”
