Chapter 3
3
ALEXA
This shit is harder than I thought.
The Hale Olu’olu Resort & Spa offers countless opportunities for family bonding...
Delete.
Parents seeking quality time with their precious little ones will find...
Delete harder.
For the discerning family seeking an authentic Hawaiian experience...
Whaaaat? There's nothing authentic about a pool shaped like a volcano that erupts on schedule with cheesy light show. The only thing potentially Hawaiian about it is the plastic lei they drape around your neck at check-in—which was probably made in China.
To further my suffering, seven different children have splashed me in the past hour. I'm keeping count because apparently, that's what my life has become—a statistical analysis of tiny terrorists in swim gear.
The resort's main pool area provides endless entertainment for young guests, while their parents...
While their parents what? Perfect their thousand-yard stare? Master the art of pretending not to hear "Marco Polo" for the eight hundredth time? Contemplate how many Blue Hawaiis they can drink before judgment kicks in?
Speaking of Blue Hawaiis, I'm seriously considering moving my "workspace" to the pool bar. At least there I could claim the water damage to my laptop came from something more dignified than splash attacks from sitting on a lounge chair only feet from the pool.
No one can say I don’t take risks.
"MARCO."
"POLO."
"MOM. He's not playing right. He's looking."
"AM NOT."
"ARE TOO."
I add another tally mark to my "Pool Screams" count. We're at thirty-seven, and that's not including the ten-minute-warning volcano eruption announcement that somehow requires every child at the resort to shriek in unison. Pretty sure they're timing it to my typing rhythm, just to ensure maximum disruption.
My phone buzzes. Ryan:
How's the family-friendly content coming?
Currently workshopping ways to make "Lord of the Flies with swimwings" sound appealing to parents
Try harder
Have you MET me?
A small child rockets past my lounger, leaving a trail of water and what I pray is melted ice cream. His mother follows, armed with wet wipes and that particular expression of defeat I'm starting to recognize as standard resort parent uniform. It's a cross between "I've given up" and "I know exactly how many hours until bedtime."
The Hale Olu’olu excels at creating memorable family moments...
Well, that's not technically a lie. I'll definitely remember the toddler who tried to drink pool water while his mom was on her phone. And the kid who announced—very publicly—that he needed to poop. And let's not forget the ongoing drama at the splash pad, where a preschool turf war has been raging over who gets to control the water cannon.
"Watch this, Dad."
"No, watch ME."
"No, watch ME FIRST."
"Daddy's watching ME."
"NO, ME."
The competitive splash war happening only feet from my workspace reaches new heights. I pull my laptop closer, wondering if I can expense a waterproof case. Or better yet, a private cabana. Or best yet, a one-way ticket back to Bali.
A group of moms nearby are discussing the resort's kids' club schedule like they're planning a military operation. "If we time it right, we can get them in the volcano activity at two, which means we might actually get to try that yoga class..."
The resort's extensive children's program allows parents to enjoy...
Delete. I refuse to encourage this level of strategic planning for finger painting.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's my mom:
How's paradise?
I send her a photo of the kids' pool, complete with primary-colored water slides and an overwhelming number of floating dinosaur toys.
Looks peaceful
I've counted 42 screams in the past hour
Only 42? Must be naptime
There's a designated "quiet pool" for adults. Pretty sure it's a myth, like Bigfoot or work-life balance
A teenager cannonballs into the pool, despite the prominently displayed "NO CANNONBALLS" sign. The resulting wave threatens my laptop setup once again. I'm actually taking notes about pool safety rules. Me. The woman who once wrote a three-page spread about cliff diving in Croatia.
The poolside bar makes decent drinks, though they refuse to serve them in sippy cups (I asked, purely for research purposes). The staff maintains their cheerfulness with a determination that's either admirable or concerning—they either truly love kids or are well-drugged.
A toddler waddles past me, wearing nothing but a swim diaper and what appears to be half a peanut butter sandwich. His mom trails behind, apologizing to everyone in his path while simultaneously trying to capture his "precious Hawaii moments" on her phone.
For families seeking the perfect blend of relaxation and recreation, the Hale Olu’olu Resort offers...
Offers what? A master class in chaos theory? A live demonstration of why some species eat their young?
"Ten minutes until volcano time," announces a staff member way too enthusiastically, and the pool area erupts into another pre-eruption roar.
That's when I hear it. The battle cry of my impending doom…
"CANNONBALL."
I look up just in time to see two tiny humans launching themselves through the air, followed by what appears to be six-feet-plus of pure muscle in board shorts and a cap, trying to prevent what I already know is inevitable.
Time slows and I watch as the splash trajectory arcs perfectly, beautifully, catastrophically toward my lounger.
Onto my laptop.
And all over my career.
"No, no, no?—"
And just like that, my attempt at family-friendly content drowns along with my MacBook.
Water cascades off my laptop screen, which is now making a concerning clicking sound that probably isn't covered by AppleCare. Pretty sure "death by tiny tsunami" isn't in the warranty fine print. I start hitting keys, like that’s going to do anything. Pretty sure computer CPR is not a thing.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry." A deep voice penetrates my devastation "Kids, what did we say about cannonballs?"
"But Dad, you said we could practice our 'splosions for the volcano show," a beautiful little boy says.
"Yeah, Daddy," his equally beautiful smaller sister says.
I look up from my drowned technology to find the perpetrators—two tiny humans in matching swimsuits, each wearing expressions of pure joy that suggest they have zero remorse for their aquatic crime. Behind them stands their father, who's currently doing that panicked parent dance of trying to discipline and apologize simultaneously.
"We do splashes in the MIDDLE of the pool," he's saying, taking his cap off and running a hand through wet hair that really has no business looking that good. "Not near people's..." He glances at my laptop. "Expensive computers."
“Dad, you said people shouldn’t bring laptops to the pool,” the boy says, tugging his father’s arm.
His mouth drops open and he realizes he’s busted.
I narrow my eyes at him.
The kids take off for the pool slide, leaving dad to deal with the aftermath. Which is when I really look at him, and oh...
Oh no.
"Daddy" is approximately six-foot-forever of pure muscle, wearing board shorts that suggest he spends a significant amount of time working out. Water drips down abs that look Photoshopped, which are clearly not—I'm close enough to verify. His cap, which says San Francisco Aftershocks, is pulled low once he puts it back on, but not low enough to hide the kind of blue eyes that should come with a warning label.
"I'm Jonas," he says, as if I don't know who he is. As if I haven't seen Jonas Knight’s face plastered all over ESPN's "Most Eligible Athletes" list. As if my now-waterlogged laptop doesn't contain a half-written article about family-friendly activities that may have mentioned the "hot single dad hockey star" rumored to be vacationing here this month. "And I think I owe you a new laptop."
"You think?" My voice hits a pitch usually reserved for dog whistles. Around us, a small crowd has gathered to watch what I'm sure they hope will be an epic meltdown. The mom squad from earlier has stopped their kids' club strategizing to stare openly at the sad, hard-working single lady.
Fuck them all.
"I'm really sorry," he says again, and the worst part is he sounds genuinely apologetic.
Oh why can’t he be a jerk?
He points at my laptop. "I can replace it. And maybe buy you dinner to make up for?—"
"Dad." One of his little offspring returns, tugging his hand. "The volcano's gonna 'splode soon. You promised we could watch.”
"In a minute, buddy. Daddy's trying to?—"
"Daddy,” the smaller one screams.
A woman nearby sighs. Actually. Sighs. Like this is some kind of Hallmark movie moment and not the death scene of my primary work tool. Like I really am some sort of sad, hard-working single lady looking to meet my Prince Charming.
When in reality I’m pissed as hell and jonesing to commit murder.
"I should..." Jonas gestures helplessly at his kids, who are now climbing him like an attractive jungle gym. "Can we maybe..."
"ONE MINUTE UNTIL VOLCANO TIME." A resort staff member announces, sending every child into a frenzy.
"Please," Jonas tries again, somehow maintaining his balance while his daughter uses his shoulders as chair. "Let me make this right. Dinner? Or coffee? Or..." He looks at my laptop, which flickers one last time, mocking me and everything I stand for. "Best Buy? I’m sure they have one here on the island. Or, I could order you one and have it overnighted."
I should say no. Should maintain professional distance. Should remember every reason why even talking to hot dad is absolutely not on my vacation agenda.
And where’s his wife, by the way? The mother of his gorgeous children?
Instead, I hear myself say, "Coffee might be a start. Considering I won't be sleeping anyway, now that I have to rewrite this entire article."
He grins, and oh, that's not fair at all. Damn him.
"Tomorrow morning? After I drop the kids at?—"
"DADDY. It's starting."
The volcano rumbles ominously.
"Sorry, I have to..." He starts backing away, tiny sharks still attached to his arms.
"Go. Before they spontaneously combust."
He grins again. "Tomorrow? Eight a.m. at the coffee shop?"
"Will Mrs. Jonas be joining us?” I ask.
Can’t blame a girl for asking
His face darkens, but only for a moment. “There is no Mrs. Jonas,” he says with a resolute grimace.
Oh. Well, then.
“If you're buying, then yes. And we're talking top-of-the-line replacement technology. This ain’t gonna be cheap, Jonas."
"Deal." He turns to go, then looks back. "I really am sorry. And what is your name?"
"Alexa. Alexa Minty."
“Alexa Minty,” he nods, touching his hat. I watch him walk away, his kids now perched on his shoulders for optimal volcano viewing, their matching suits making them look like the world's most adorable aquatic attack team.
My phone buzzes. Three messages in quick succession:
Ryan, who’s all over my ass:
Please tell me you're getting good material
Oh, I'm getting material alright. Currently starring in my own rom-com disaster
I like it
Mom:
How's the kids paradise going?
Remember when you said never to settle?
That bad?
That good. And that's terrifying
Best friend, Lucy:
Daily disaster report?
Laptop's dead and I have a coffee date with the guy who killed it
More deets, please
6'2"+ of pure muscle and comes with two tiny mini-me’s
Only you would find a hot dad by having him destroy your property
I look at my laptop, finally, tragically deceased. Then at the volcano, where Jonas is pointing out special effects to his kids with the kind of enthusiasm normally reserved for actual natural wonders.
"You're not falling for this," I tell myself firmly. "Not the cute dad act, not the perfect smile, not..."
He catches my eye across the pool and waves, kids still balanced on his shoulders, looking like every "Hot Dad of the Year" calendar cover ever created.
"...not any of it," I finish weakly.
My phone buzzes again.
Mom:
Sometimes the best adventures aren't the ones we plan.
Yeah, well, sometimes they end in homicide-by-laptop, too.
I glance at the drowned remains of my laptop, then at the hot dad who killed it, and finally at my pounding libido, which clearly needs a leash. Finding this man attractive is like spotting a shark and deciding it’s just a misunderstood dolphin.
Danger in paradise.
I type this thought into my notes app for later. Might as well get something out of this trainwreck.
They say you can tell a lot about a person by how they handle turmoil. And if that's true, Jonas Knight is either a saint or clinically insane, because he's managing two post-volcano-show meltdowns with the calm of a meditation master.
"But I want to see it AGAIN," the girl—who has her father's blue eyes and apparently his determination too—wails.
"The volcano erupts every hour, Jace. We can watch it again after lunch."
"No, Dad." The boy stomps his foot like a pro.
“Lukas, you heard me,” he scolds.
I should escape now. Grab my dead laptop and make a run for it. Instead, I'm frozen in place, watching the NHL's Most Eligible Dad handle his kids with the same grace he handles body checks on ice.
It’s fucking hot. And I have ovaries of stone, that’s how much I like kids.
"Hey," he says, having returned to my end of the pool. "Sorry about the interruption. The volcano show kind of requires full audience participation."
"I noticed. Very enthusiastic crowd." I gesture to my laptop. "Though slightly hazardous to electronics."
He winces. "About that... God, I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up to you."
"Pretty sure we covered that with tomorrow's coffee plan." Which I'm definitely going to cancel. Any minute now.
Really. I am.
"No, I mean..." He glances in the direction of the ocean and damn if his profile isn’t unfairly attractive. "Are you Alexa Minty, the travel writer?"
Great. Just great. Hockey Dad reads travel blogs? He’s so not my demographic.
"Um, well, I’m the one whose agent is going to kill her when he finds out she lost all her notes," I say with a frown.
"The one whose articles helping get me through my first year of solo parenting." He says it casually, like he hasn't just dropped an emotional bomb in the middle of my professional crisis. "Your piece about finding yourself in foreign places... it helped. After their mom..."
Whoa, whoa, whoa. This shit is way too personal for someone I’m doing my best to dislike. But I’m still nosy as hell.
“I take it Mrs. Jonas is no longer in the picture? Does she take the kids on their own vacation?”
He looks down, as if to make sure they’re not listening, and takes a step closer to my chair.
“She’s gone, passed away two years ago.”
Holy fuck. My God, I’ve really stepped right into it.
“I’m so sorry—” I start to say.
But the kids are focused on a passing ice cream cart, oblivious. But I notice. I notice everything—the way his smile falters slightly, the protective way he reaches for his kids, the shadow that crosses his face before he covers it with another heart-stopping grin.
"Anyway," he continues, "I'm a fan. In fact, a bunch of guys on the team are. That’s how I found out about you. Which makes drowning your laptop even worse."
They read my writing? A bunch of professional hockey players?
Wait till I share this with Ryan.
"So you read my blog?" I ask, even though I heard him loud and clear. I'm stuck on this point, possibly because it's easier than processing how his sad smile did weird things to my chest. "My very specifically child-free, anti-family-vacation blog?"
"Yeah. You’re funny as hell. It's nice to read about a life completely different from your own." He shrugs, and good lord, those shoulders. "Though I have to ask... what brings Minty Fresh Adventures to a family resort?"
"Would you believe a cruel twist of fate and an ironclad contract clause?"
"Daddy. Ice cream." The boy pulls on his father's hand with a single-minded focus.
If only my life were that simple.
"In a minute, Lukas." Jonas doesn't flinch as his son attempts to scale him like Everest. "I'm talking to Miss Minty."
Lukas peers at me with suspicious interest. "The one we splashed? The one who brought her laptop to the pool?”
A pink tinge washes over Jonas’s face, which I find damn endearing, even if he is judge-y about my commitment to my career. He’s not the first.
"The one we're apologizing to, Lukas," Jonas corrects. "Remember what we say about accidents?"
"Say sorry and make it better," both kids respond, clearly practiced.
"We're sorry about your laptop," Lukas offers, though he's still eyeing the ice cream cart. "Even though it was the biggest splash ever and Daddy said?—"
"And that's enough apologies," Jonas cuts in quickly. "Who wants ice cream?"
"ME." Both kids bounce with enough energy to power a small city.
"Miss Minty?" Jonas asks. "Ice cream? It's not a laptop, but it's a start."
I should say no. Should remember that I don't do families or relationships or anything that requires choosing between sprinkles and chocolate chips. And should not ingest the empty calories.
But I am weak. "Only if you tell me what you really said about the splash."
He laughs. "Maybe over coffee tomorrow."
"ICE CREAM NOW," the girl demands, pulling his hand with impressive strength.
"Okay, Jace,” he agrees. "Coffee tomorrow?"
"You still owe me a laptop."
"And dinner," he adds. "Don't forget dinner."
"We haven’t said anything about dinner."
" Yet ." He grins. "But I'm optimistic."
Cocky. He probably snaps his fingers everywhere he goes, and women’s panties fall right off.
"DADDY."
"You better go," I tell him, nodding toward the ice cream cart. "Before they stage a coup."
"Story of my life." He starts backing away, tiny humans still attached. "Tomorrow?"
"Yeah.”
“Okay, then.”
I watch him go, trying very hard not to notice how his shoulders look even better from behind. Or how good he is with his kids. Or how his laugh does something weird to my stomach that definitely isn't professional.
My phone buzzes.
Ryan:
Tell me you're getting something good
I look at my drowned laptop. At the hot hockey dad buying ice cream with the practiced efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times. At the threats to my carefully constructed child-free life, which is crumbling faster than a poolside cookie in tiny hands.
Define good. And why are you on my back about this? Are you obsessed with me?
I am obsessed with keeping you on track for an assignment I know you can kill. And good is anything that doesn't include the words 'child-free' or 'escape while you can'
What about 'hot single dad destroys property, offers caffeine as compensation'?
I'm listening…
From across the pool, Jonas catches my eye again, grinning as he helps Jace pick ice cream toppings.
*Well Ryan, it started like this…
Back in my suite, I sit on the balcony and do what any self-respecting millennial does in a crisis—I make a list.
Reasons Why Hot Hockey Dad Is Absolutely Off Limits:
1. Has children (TWO of them)
2. Lives in San Francisco (cold, foggy, lacking in beachside Hawaiian cocktails)
3. Probably owns furniture that’s not from Ikea
4. Has a grown-up job with a schedule and everything
5. Comes with responsibilities that can't be solved with a plane ticket
6. Has blue eyes that are a trap
7. Has a smile that’s an even bigger trap
8. Handles kids like a pro
9. Reads my blog (which means he knows a lot about me, including my commitment to a child-free life)
I pause, watching a family struggle past my window with what appears to be enough pool toys to stock a water park. The mom is carrying four pair of tiny flip-flops while the dad juggles snacks and water wings.
Is this what normal people do on vacation?
I wouldn’t know.
I once decided to go to Thailand because I liked the font on a travel poster.
Add to list…
10. My longest relationship is with my passport
11. My idea of meal planning is knowing which countries have the best street food
12. The only sticky fingers in my life come from eating mangoes on beaches
13. I write articles with titles like "Why Your Kids Are Ruining My Vacation"
From my balcony, I spot Jonas and his kids heading to dinner. He's got one on his shoulders and one holding his hand, and he's listening to what appears to be a very serious story involving a lot of hand gestures from the boy. He nods at exactly the right moments, completely focused on whatever world-ending drama a kid that size considers important.
Add to list:
14. He seems to enjoy being a dad
15. His face lights up when his children laugh (most terrifying)
I sigh as he rounds a corner, out of site, and, because I am a glutton for punishment, pull up his Instagram because I'm a professional researcher and not at all stalking him. His profile is exactly what you'd expect from a social media savvy athlete, or at least one whose feed is managed by a savvy PR person—game highlights, workout videos, charity events. But mixed in are other moments—him making breakfast with his kids, teaching his son to skate, his daughter asleep on his chest while he reviews game footage. These things make me feel all funny inside.
I don’t like it.
The comments on his posts, naturally, are full of heart emojis and "Dad of the Year" nominations. The hockey blogs call him "the league's most eligible single dad." The parenting magazines feature him in their "How He Does It All" columns.
Add to list:
16. Probably expects his girlfriend to be good with kids
17. Might want more children
18. Could be looking for a replacement mom
My own mother's voice echoes in my head, "Never let a man make you small." She said that to twelve-year-old-me the day she left, her suitcase packed with dreams instead of regrets. In no time at all, she transformed from PTA mom to globe-trotting artist, from someone's wife to herself.
But Jonas doesn't seem like the type to make anyone small. He looks at his kids like they're his whole world, but not his only world. The way he mentioned my articles, how they helped him... that's not someone who dims other people's lights.
Still.
Add to list:
19. My brand is built on being child-free
20. My followers come to me for escape, not family vacation tips
21. Pretty sure "dating a source" violates some journalism rule
My phone lights up with a text from the man himself.
Kids want to know if you're coming to breakfast tomorrow. Jace says she'll share her pancakes with you
Followed by:
Full disclosure: sharing food is her love language. You should feel very special
Add to list:
22. Makes me smile without trying
23. Knows exactly what to say
24. Makes family pandemonium seem... appealing?
Delete that last one.
But maybe keep it in mind.
I fall back on my suite sofa, staring at the ceiling. Through the wall, I can hear a family getting ready for bed—quiet voices, gentle laughter, the kind of domestic peace I've always run from.
Add to list:
25. Lives in a world of bedtime stories and morning routines
26. Makes me question everything I ever thought I wanted
My phone buzzes again. Jonas:
Also, Lukas wants you to know he's sorry about the laptop. He suggested we could fix it with his dinosaur band-aids
And again.
For the record, I told him electronics don't work that way, but he's very convinced about the healing power of T-Rex
Add to list:
27. His kids are actually kind of cute
28. I might be in serious trouble
The final text of the night:
See you tomorrow. I'll bring laptop options and coffee strong enough to make up for getting up early on vacation. Unless you've changed your mind?
The last thing I need is complications. The last thing I need is roots. The last thing I need is an attraction to someone who comes with two tiny humans and a whole lot of responsibility.
I text back:
I'll be there. But I'm not sharing my pancakes
His response is immediate:
Wouldn't dream of asking. But Jace's offer stands. She's very persistent. Gets that from her dad
Add to list:
29. Might be worth breaking a couple rules for
Delete that one too.
(But save it, just in case.)
Some predicaments require a full-scale communication plan. I start with my best friend, because Lucy has talked me through every crisis since college:
SOS. Hot dad alert. Send help
Define 'hot dad.' Like, soccer practice hot or actual hot?
Like, NHL player hot. As in, literally an NHL player
WAIT. Are you at the same resort as Jonas Knight?
How do you know who he is?
Unlike you, I actually watch sports. Also, have you seen his Instagram? Those kids are adorable
His kids just murdered my laptop
...I'm going to need more details
Cannonball incident. Total write-off. He offered to buy me coffee
Just coffee?
And a new laptop. And dinner
GIRL
Don't start
I'm sorry, are we not talking about the fact that the internet's favorite hockey DILF is buying you coffee?
Never say DILF again
Fine. How about 'professionally attractive single father who reads your work'?
How did you know he reads my work?
He's mentioned your articles in interviews. But sure, pretend you haven't googled him
I switch to Instagram, where Ryan's already messaging me:
Please tell me you're getting something good
Define 'good'
Anything that will sell to our family-friendly demographic
What about my 'Hot Single Dad Destroys Property, Offers Caffeine as Compensation' idea? I really think it has teeth. Did you like it?
You talking about Jonas Knight? The one whose last Instagram post got more engagement than our entire summer campaign?
His kids drowned my laptop
Love it. This is exactly the kind of content we need
Me getting my laptop destroyed is content?
Your meeting a hot dad through a classic meet-cute
This isn't a meet-cute. This is property damage
Same thing. Get me that story. And try to work in how family-friendly the resort is
Even when families are destroying electronics?
ESPECIALLY
My phone pings with another message from Lucy. It’s a good thing my laptop is dead because I wouldn’t be getting any work done anyway.
Update on your guy: His last three Instagram posts are all about taking his kids on their first big vacation since their mom died. I'm not crying, you're crying
Lucy, stop stalking him
You first, Alexa
Time to call in the big guns.
Mom, I need advice
About the hot dad?
How did you?—
Lucy texted me
I'm firing both of you
She sent me his Instagram. Very nice abs
MOM
What? I'm in Paris, not dead. Now tell me what's wrong
Remember when you said never to settle?
I said never to lose yourself. There's a difference
He has kids
So?
So I don't do kids. Or stability. Or anything that requires staying in one place
Honey, you're allowed to change your mind about what you want*
I don't want to change my mind*
No, you're scared to change your mind. Trust me, I know the difference*
Back to Lucy:
This is a disaster, Lu
A hot disaster, Lex
Not helping
Would it help if I told you he just posted a new Instagram story?
No
It's him with his kids
...send it
God help me.
Ryan again:
Just had a brilliant idea - what if we pivot your whole brand?
No
Picture it: 'Adventures in Step-Parenting'
Absolutely not
'How to Travel with Tiny Humans: A Reluctant Guide'
I'm blocking you
Just think about it. And get me that coffee date story.
Back to Mom:
Remember what I always say about adventures, honey?
That they're better than stability?
That the scariest ones are usually worth taking
Mom, this isn't an adventure. This is a complication
Same thing, honey
Lucy sends the Instagram story. They're all laughing like it's the best moment ever.
Still not interested, Lex?
I hate you, Lu
No you don't. You hate that I know you better than you know yourself
When did this become a therapy session?
Around the time you started making excuses instead of admitting you like him
One more message from Mom:
Just promise me something, Alexa
What, Mom?
Don't say no because you're afraid of saying yes
I look at my phone, at all these people who know me too well, then at the dead laptop that started this mess. Through the balcony, I look at the pool where my life took this unexpected turn.
My phone buzzes one last time. It's Jonas, and my heart jumps into my throat.
This is bad. So, so bad.
Kids wanted to know if you like chocolate chip or blueberry pancakes better
I stare at the message for a long moment before replying:
Guess you'll find out tomorrow
Sometimes disasters come with breakfast options.
And apparently, I now eat breakfast.