I wander along the slips, looking for the Linda, looking for someone who looks like they might know where to find Finn Roberts, Adventure Channel star-to-be. But the pier is quiet, and only the creaking of ropes against their ties and the water lapping at the hulls of hundreds of boats surrounds me. The thought that some of these boats are sitting here because their owners can’t afford to take them out is sobering.

“You need some help?”

I turn, looking up into the sun-kissed face of Finn twenty years from now. I know his dad from the picture, but also because Finn looks exactly like his father: looming, broad-shouldered, hazel eyes steady and unblinking.

“You must be Mr. Roberts.”

He shakes my hand, brows drawn in curiosity. “I am. And you are?”

“I’m Harlow Vega.”

Stephen Roberts’s face freezes, eyes going wide before he breaks into an elated smile. “Well, look at you.” And he does. He takes my hands, holds my arms to the side, and looks me up and down. “You sure are somethin’. He know you’re here?”

Shaking my head, I say, “He has no idea.”

“Oh, you bet I’m going to enjoy this one.”

Whether anyone else will enjoy this reunion? Remains to be seen.

He takes my arm and leads me down the dock, turning left to head down a long rickety pier. We reach the end, and stop in front of a boat with Linda painted across the stern.

“Hey, Finn,” his dad calls out. “Got somethin’ to show ya.”

A blond head appears around a corner and I immediately recognize Finn’s youngest brother, Levi. He’s as tall as Finn, but not nearly as broad, and has messy blond hair and a baby face that I’m sure the television producers will lose their mind over.

Levi stares at me for a beat before busting out laughing. “Oh, shit. Finn! Come down.”

Footsteps clomp on the stairs leading down from the top house and I see his tall rubber boots over waders, and then his torso covered only by a soaking wet white T-shirt that is marked with grease stains. He’s holding some type of gear in a greasy rag and his shirt is so wet I can see every single line of his chest. I can see his nipples. I can see the trail of hair that leads from his belly button down to his... good Lord.

Universe, you’ve got to be kidding me.

His face appears then, and my chest seems to cave in on itself. He has a grease smear across his chin, too, and his tanned face glistens with sweat. He sees me immediately, his face transitioning in a millisecond from relaxed curiosity to tight confusion. “Harlow?”

“Hey.”