Chapter 2 #2
“Now that,” Ruby says, pressing a hand to her heart, “is what I call a welcome party.”
“That,” Lani says, nodding at the crowd of men Ruby can’t stop leering at, “is what I call a cautionary tale.”
“You say that every time,” Ruby scoffs.
Lani nods. “And I’m right every time.”
“Husband number eight would disagree.”
“Husband number eight cannot disagree with anything anymore, Ruby.”
“That is an excellent point, and I choose not to dwell on it. May he rest in pieces.”
“Pieces?” I gasp.
A warm hand settles at the small of my back, and I don’t need to turn around. I already know exactly who that hand and that heady cologne belong to.
“Hey, gorgeous.” His voice is low and warm and unmistakably just for me, which means I briefly forget my own name. Embarrassing, yes, but at this point not entirely surprising. “Hello, ladies,” he says to Ruby and Lani as well.
I certainly haven’t forgotten his name, though.
I turn, and there he is. Detective Koa Hale is off-duty tonight, which means he’s shown up in a dark button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. No badge, no crime scene, just the man himself, and those whiskey eyes are catching the light from the tiki torches in a way that renders everything else in my line of vision temporarily irrelevant.
He smells like the ocean, clean cotton, and something warm underneath that I’ve decided is simply Koa.
Possibly trademarked. Probably illegal in several states.
In my immediate vicinity, approximately eleven contestants have already spotted him and adjusted their posture accordingly.
We’re talking shoulders back, mangoes out.
“You made it.” I inch away just enough to appreciate his lethally handsome features.
“I said I would.”
He takes me by the hips and kisses me, slow and steady, like we have all the time in the world and also like he’s extremely aware of his audience, which he absolutely is.
I’m almost certain he’s doing it on purpose.
His hand stays at the small of my back for a beat longer than necessary, which is also on purpose. And boy, do I ever approve.
“Detective.”
“Resort manager.”
“You’re smoldering at me.”
“I’m just standing here.”
“You’re smoldering while standing there. Big difference.”
One corner of his mouth twitches, which is basically a standing ovation from Koa. “Take it up with the police.”
“You are the police.”
His lips curve just a notch. “Then I deny everything.”
He plants another one on me, short and sweet, and oh so very yummy, and dangerously close to making me forget we have an audience of roughly two hundred.
“Would you look at that.” Ruby fans herself with the flat of her hand and sends her gold hoops swinging. “Some of us are going to need a moment, and some of us are not getting kissed like that in this particular lifetime.”
“Ruby,” I say, biting back a laugh.
“What? I’m a witness, Jinx. And what I’ve witnessed is talent. Face it, the man knows his way around the female anatomy, starting at the lips.”
Before I can agree, a large orange furball plows into my shins, and I scoop Spam up before he can use my left leg as a launchpad to the welcome buffet, which is absolutely what he was attempting, and not for the first time this week.
Spam is a one-eared ginger tomcat, and he considers himself the true authority around here. Given his track record, I’m not entirely sure he’s wrong.
He purrs the instant he’s airborne, head-butts my chin per our established greeting protocol, and immediately begins scanning the crowd for food-heist opportunities, of which there are approximately four hundred this evening.
I press a kiss to his forehead because that is how we do things, and he tolerates it because he is a professional snuggler and a professional smuggler.
“You weigh more than you did yesterday,” I’m quick to inform him.
He stares at me, utterly unbothered, which is his default setting and also his most effective communication tool. We’ve agreed to disagree about the buffet.
Lani is still listing mango derivatives under her breath when Melanie sweeps past with a tray of mocktails.
Her expression makes it clear she’s being paid nowhere near enough for any of this, which is her expression every single day, so at least she’s consistent.
Her chestnut hair is pulled back tight, her lipstick is a shade I can only describe as Hostile Cherry—her signature shade—and her little black dress is doing exactly what it was selected to do, which is draw attention she will absolutely refuse to acknowledge.
Melanie used to be the resort manager until she wasn’t.
Have I mentioned she also goes by the Wicked Witch of the West?
Okay, so it’s more of an honorary nickname than anything official. And believe me, there are very good reasons for it.
“These women don’t eat food.” Melanie spits out the words with ire.
Come to think of it, she spits out every word she’s ever spoken to me with ire.
She used to run this place before the owner demoted her, promoted me, and inspired one heck of a battle of wills after that.
“They run on cucumber water and pure spite.”
“I serve food,” Lani says. “That is the entire job. I’m not scrapping anything off the menu.”
Melanie narrows her eyes on the one who dared to speak up to her. “I’m not telling you what to serve, Lani. I’m telling you who you’re serving. You need to know the clientele. And I’m pretty sure the clientele exists solely on air.”
“She’s right.” Halea nods like mad. “In fact, that’s exactly why I ordered extra skinny syrups for the coffee bar. I got a case of sugar-free vanilla, sugar-free coconut, and sugar-free guilt.”
Lani’s wooden spoon comes out of her apron with speed and conviction, as if she’s been waiting for this exact moment all evening. Knowing Lani, she has. “What’s with all the sugar-free nonsense?” She wields the spoon like the threat it is. “I do not serve chemicals at this resort.”
Halea practically gags. “They aren’t chemicals, Lani. They’re alternatives.”
“That is exactly what a chemical would say,” Lani fires back.
She has a point.
Ruby leans in. “My third husband lived on cigarettes and gin. And he happened to have died extremely happy. I’m just putting that out there.”
“Ruby.” I shake my head her way for daring to drag death into the conversation. I prefer the Grim Reaper not be summoned this evening in any capacity. But let’s face it. My presence alone seems enough to do that.
“What?” Ruby manufactures an innocent blink. “I’m contributing to the nutritional conversation.”
I lift a finger to counter her point when a sound cuts me off. It’s a bark. One single, sharp, slightly indignant dog bark from somewhere in the general vicinity of the crowd.
I should note, for context, that Coconut Cove Paradise Resort does not own a dog.
We are a cat establishment. A deeply, contractually committed feral feline establishment.
We’ve never needed a dog policy because we’ve never had a dog, and I’d like to think the cats would have unionized at the mere suggestion.
The bark isn’t alarming, exactly, but it is what I would call structurally inconsistent with the property.
Spam goes rigid in my arms. His good ear shoots straight up.
The purring cuts out mid-rumble, and he sits up against my chest like a small furry soldier reporting for duty.
His eyes lock on something in the crowd that I cannot, for the life of me, identify.
He doesn’t blink or move. He’s officially entered what I like to call Spam Lockdown, the full-alert position he assumes approximately eleven seconds before something interesting happens at this resort, and I’ve learned over the last several months to read his signals the way people read weather patterns, which is to say imperfectly but with genuine respect for the data.
Right on cue, a conch shell booms across the resort lawn so hard the chickens scatter in four different directions.
“I will end the first one of you to step out of line this week,” a gravel-coated, three-packs-a-day, entirely mainland-flavored voice rips across the property like a foghorn with a personal grudge. “And I am talking murder!”
Spam’s good ear gives one slow, deliberate twitch.
We are absolutely getting a body this week.
He blinks once, and Koa nods my way.
For once, the three of us are in complete agreement.