Coconut Confessions (The Coconut Confessions, Hawaii Cozy Mysteries #1)

Chapter 1

No sooner do I arrive in Kauai than I immediately assault a stranger with my luggage.

To be fair, the luggage starts it. The vinyl monstrosity shoots past me on the carousel like it’s trying to escape our relationship, and I lunge.

So does someone else. My hand closes on the handle at the exact same second a larger, warmer hand does, and now I’m pressed against six feet of solid muscle and a scent that can only be described as ocean plus trouble.

“Excuse me,” the mountain says, his voice low enough to vibrate the carousel.

“Excused,” I squeak, not moving an inch.

We tug in opposite directions. The suitcase jerks free, momentum yanks me backward and him forward, and suddenly I’m plastered against a chest that feels suspiciously like a steel door. My thigh catches his hip. His forearm braces the carousel and, incidentally, me.

“Whoa,” I gasp. “Buy me a drink first?”

I pull back a notch to get a better look at him and gasp without meaning to. Heck, it was practically mandatory.

Oh my goodness! This man is hotter than a kitchen fire.

Gold-flecked brown eyes meet mine, and just like that, I immediately regret having lungs, because they stop cooperating.

His gaze latches onto mine a moment too long.

His jaw ticks. His lips almost curve into a smile, then he thinks better of it, which somehow makes it worse.

My insides cinch at the sight of him.

He checks off all the tall, dark, and handsome boxes and is built like someone who regularly stands between people and danger.

Judging by the way his shirt strains in all the right places, he has a body built to withstand bullets, and I keep my eyes north out of self-preservation.

And to top it off, about a dozen women in the vicinity are all fanning themselves in his presence.

“This is my bag,” he growls, and I melt into a puddle.

I point at the neon pink flamingo luggage tag dangling from the handle. “I’m pretty sure it’s mine. Unless you also accessorize with plastic birds. Which—no judgment, but if so, soulmate.”

He releases the handle. The suitcase thunk-thunks onto the tile and nearly takes me with it. He steps back, gives me one long, assessing look—the kind people give you right before deciding whether you’re a hurricane or just an annoying light wind—and says, “Figures.”

“Figures what?” I hook my arm through the handle, as if that will keep the suitcase from abandoning me again.

“Figures the first person I run into today would be trouble.”

“I’m not trouble,” I say. “I’m… aggressively accident-prone in a limited range of scenarios.” I stick out my hand before I remember strangers and airports and pandemics, and also personal dignity. “Jinx Julep.”

He eyes my hand, then my face, like he’s cataloging evidence. After a beat, he gives me the most efficient handshake in the history of handshakes. “Koa Hale.”

No title. No small talk. No mercy. He grabs another suitcase that looks suspiciously like mine and peels away toward an employees only door. Of course, there’s a door like that. Of course, he disappears behind it. Of course, my suitcase chooses that moment to lose a wheel.

Welcome to Kauai, Jinx. Please enjoy your stay.

My name is Jinx Julep. I’m thirty-three with auburn hair that laughs at humidity and green eyes that have seen some things.

I’m of average height, average shoe size, and yet I’m distinctly above average when it comes to attracting disaster.

It’s been my signature move since birth, right alongside a talent for making excellent espresso and spectacularly poor romantic choices.

Case in point, I just spent seven years married to a man who thought “monogamy” was a type of wood furniture, and after catching him with his twenty-three-year-old “executive assistant” in a position that was definitely not in her job description, I decided it was time for a career change.

Not in my actual career—I’m a barista, have been since college, and I will probably die with a portafilter in my hand—but a career change in the geographic sense.

Turns out, when your husband downgrades to a newer model, the best revenge isn’t living well.

It’s living over three thousand miles away in a place where even his text messages can’t reach you, and his explanations certainly can’t find you.

Also, where Ohio’s endless gray skies can’t remind you that you wasted your entire twenties on a man who peaked in college.

Hence, Hawaii. Or what I thought was Maine. The jury is still out on which universe I’m actually in.

The air outside the Līhu?e Airport feels like a deep, warm, humid hug wrapped in jet fuel and the scent of plumeria flowers. I step into it, and just like that, there’s no turning back. An overwhelming feeling hits me immediately—my life just took a hard left and didn’t use the blinker.

Forty-eight hours ago, I was on a Zoom call, wearing a blazer over pajama shorts, applying for what I thought was a barista position at a quaint seaside resort in Maine.

Lobsters. Lighthouses. Leaf peeping. You know, the cozy trifecta.

Lodging included. My ex-husband’s new fiancée had just posted their engagement photos—bare feet, beach, monogrammed towels—and I was impulsive enough to think, sure, let’s go pour coffee for tourists and pretend maple syrup cures betrayal.

“Welcome, Justine,” said a voice as the Zoom call began its reign of futuristic terror, no face, just a screen saver of some picture-perfect tropical locale that looked like it had been ripped straight from a resort brochure.

Palm trees, turquoise water, the works. Very mysterious.

Very “I definitely have something to hide.” Most certainly not Maine.

I’d worn my best pajama bottoms for this—the ones without holes—and had ironed an actual blouse. All wasted on a stock photo of paradise.

“It’s Jinx,” I said. “I only pull out Justine for the DMV and tax season.”

“Jinx,” the disembodied voice repeated, and I swear I could hear him smile. He had a soothing radio voice, the kind that could sell a sedan or a cult membership with equal success. “Interesting name. Well, Jinx, I’m Mr. X—yes, that’s what I go by. For privacy reasons, you understand.”

I didn’t understand, but I needed a job, so, “Of course.”

“We’re a family place. Quiet. We prefer employees who can keep things… peaceful.”

“Peaceful is my middle name,” I lied. “Okay, it’s actually Louisa, but—”

“Wonderful,” he said. “When can you be in Kauai? Coconut Cove Paradise Resort can offer lodging. You’d start as a barista, complete with an espresso bar plus breakfast service, but there’s room to grow. We’re understaffed. We’re…”

There was a pause, and I could swear I heard something in the background. A rooster? A cat? Both locked in mortal combat? Hard to tell through the dicey audio quality.

“We’re hopeful,” he finished.

The tropical screensaver never wavered. The voice remained disembodied. And somehow, in the space between lobsters and lei making, I became the woman who says yes to mysterious strangers offering jobs in paradise.

What could possibly go wrong?

Now here I am, wrestling a suitcase with three wheels, chasing a taxi like I’m in a romantic comedy with less romance and far more perspiration.

“Resort shuttle?” a man in a floral shirt calls out, holding a sign that reads COCONUT COVE—something. Half the letters have sunstroke; the rest are hanging on by tape.

“That’s me,” I say, tipping the driver with a smile and a mental IOU. My savings account is currently a conceptual concept—fragile, theoretical, and mostly imaginary.

The shuttle is one of those vans that has seen things and refuses to talk about them.

The air is thick enough to chew, the seats are cracked, and someone has stuck a tiny hula dancer to the dashboard, grinning as if she’s seen every bad decision before this one.

She shimmies optimistically as we bounce over potholes and curve along the coastline.

On my right, the ocean is a sheet of hammered blue in a hue I never knew existed.

On my left, mountains rise like the spine of a sleeping dragon, their slopes streaked with red dirt so vivid it looks like the earth is bleeding rubies.

A rooster stands on a fence post, looking like he owns the whole island while crowing at the sky.

A scraggly cat slinks across the road and pauses to give us a look of supreme indifference before disappearing into the red hibiscus bushes.

I have two voicemail messages from my mother, “Are you sure about this, honey?” And five from my ex.

“We can be adults about this.” “I think we should talk before you make any rash decisions.” “Jinx, come on. This is childish.” “You’re really going to throw away everything we built? ” “Call me back.”

It seems he’s conveniently forgotten about his new fiancée and the fact that he’s the one who got caught with his hand in someone else’s cookie jar—literally, if you count the Instagram photos from that “business trip” to Santa Barbara with the two of them stuffing their faces with artisanal cookies.

I turn the volume down on my thoughts and let the island swallow the noise.

We peel off onto a narrower road scented with wet leaves and sunbaked asphalt. The driver points with his chin. “Coconut Cove Paradise Resort in Hanalei Bay,” he says, proud, as if he built it with his bare hands. “It’s just down the road.”

“Just down the road” turns out to be a driveway framed by palm trees that would look majestic if they weren’t leaning like they’d given up.

A battered wooden arch proclaims WELCOME TO COCONUT COVE PARADISE RESORT in peeling paint.

The second C in COCONUT hangs by a nail.

The S in PARADISE is more of a rumor than a fact.

A tiki statue guards the entrance, his paint flaking, and his smile is a little too enthusiastic for someone in that condition.

Six chickens run in front of the shuttle, and about a dozen cats scatter on top of that.

I like animals. This should be fun. I hope.

I spent the entire plane ride reading up on Kauai—the Garden Isle, oldest of Hawaii’s eight main islands, famous for being impossibly green, aggressively rainy, and home to more feral chickens than traffic lights.

Also, the dirt is red. Like, shockingly red.

It’s as if Cheetos and paprika powder had a delicious lovechild.

The guidebook promised it was charming. The island might be charming, but this resort looks like a haunted house on tropical steroids.

We rumble to a stop in the circular driveway in front of the lobby, and I stumble out into the thick heat and fragrant day as the sun blasts me with all its tropical glory.

The main building sprawls before me like a faded postcard—two stories of pale coral stucco with a terracotta tile roof that’s missing a few teeth.

Plumeria trees frame the entrance, their white and yellow blooms dropping onto cracked pavement.

The automatic doors don’t bother welcoming me.

One panel is stuck half-open like a weary usher holding a grudge.

Inside, the ceiling fans wobble and churn as if they can’t handle the heat.

The floor is a checkered tile pattern in a shade I can only describe as vintage nicotine.

The front desk looks like it was once a bar in a pirate movie.

And just like that, I’m immediately in love, because falling for lost causes is my thing, as evidenced by my aforementioned ex.

That should have been my first warning.