Chapter 18
The morning heat already has the resort sweating like a guilty suspect under interrogation lights, and evidently, every piece of equipment has decided this is the perfect day to stage a mechanical rebellion against the concept of functioning properly.
I’m standing in the lobby watching water cascade through a ceiling tile that’s given up all pretense of structural integrity, the drips creating a sad little puddle that’s spreading across the floor like my hopes and dreams. Somewhere behind me, an electrical outlet sparks with the enthusiasm of a small fireworks display celebrating its own demise, and I’m starting to think the universe has a personal vendetta against this place.
The breeze gives the scent of plumeria and desperation through the perpetually half-open doors, mixing with the aroma of whatever’s currently burning in the kitchen and the distinctly tropical fragrance of things falling apart in paradise.
“Is this place cursed?” I ask the universe at large, dodging another drip from the ceiling that seems to be aiming for me specifically.
“Only since you arrived,” Melanie snaps from behind the front desk, where she’s trying to fix a computer that’s apparently decided to communicate only in beeps and electronic death rattles that sound vaguely accusatory.
“It’s almost as if someone is sabotaging this place!” Lani calls from the kitchen doorway, where she’s wrestling with what appears to be a rebellious blender that’s shooting sparks instead of making smoothies, which feels like a metaphor for my entire life right now.
Ruby emerges from the pool area looking like she’s been personally defeated by the laws of physics and maybe life itself.
“The pool filter just exploded,” she announces, her voice flat with resignation.
“Actually exploded. There are pieces of machinery in the hibiscus bushes and possibly in the next county.”
Before I can ask how exactly a pool filter achieves explosive status without help from explosives or divine intervention, the sound of purposeful footsteps on the gravel outside announces the arrival of a person who doesn’t seem to be falling apart at the seams.
Detective Koa Hale appears in the doorway, and I swear the temperature in the lobby rises another ten degrees, which shouldn’t be physically possible given that we’re already approaching surface-of-the-sun levels.
The man is built like someone took the concept of a walking advertisement for physical fitness and decided to make it anatomically impossible to ignore without developing some kind of vision problem.
His uniform shirt stretches across a chest that could deflect small meteorites, and when he moves, you can see the suggestion of abs that have clearly never met a donut they couldn’t resist—or more accurately, have resisted every donut ever offered to them through what must be inhuman willpower.
In fact, I’m not sure I should trust a man who could resist fried confections.
His dark hair catches the morning light filtering through the palm fronds, somehow managing to look perfectly tousled despite the humidity that’s turning mine into wet noodles.
High cheekbones and a jawline that could slice hard cheese complete the picture of a man who probably has to beat tourists off with a stick just to get to work in the morning.
Every woman in the immediate vicinity—including a hen that’s wandered in from the kitchen and two female cats that have materialized from whatever interdimensional space cats inhabit—stops what she’s doing and stares. Ruby actually grabs the front desk for support, her knuckles going white.
“Ladies,” he says, and his voice carries across the lobby with an authority that makes guilty people confess and innocent people wonder what they might have done wrong.
Even the electronics seem to behave better in his presence. The sparking outlet goes quiet, and Melanie’s computer stops making dying robot noises out of either respect or fear. Maybe both.
“Detective,” I say, trying for casual and probably achieving something closer to a woman who’s forgotten how vocal cords work and also how breathing happens.
His dark brown eyes sweep the lobby, taking in the water damage, the electrical mayhem, and what appears to be a small gecko that’s fallen from the ceiling and landed on the reception desk.
“What’s that smell?” he asks suddenly, his expression shifting from professional assessment to something approaching dangerous interest. “It’s making me crazy.”
Ruby and Lani exchange glances that contain entire conversations. “Cinnamon rolls,” Lani says proudly, straightening her spine. “It’s a fresh batch. They actually worked this time without setting anything on fire or triggering the sprinkler system.”
“They smell like heaven,” Ruby adds helpfully. “Want to try one? They’re still warm.”
For just a second, Detective Hale’s carefully maintained professional composure cracks like ice in the spring, and I catch a glimpse of a man who seemingly has a serious weakness for baked goods.
“Focus,” he tells himself, shaking his head as if he’s clearing it of cinnamon-induced fantasies. “I need to talk to you, Ms. Julep.”
“Oh? What’s this about?” I say, batting my lashes with the subtlety of a tropical storm.
He grunts, and it’s not an encouraging sound.
“I heard you’ve been speaking to my suspects.”
I float his way—actually float, like I’m being pulled by some gravitational force I can’t control—adding what I hope is an alluring shoulder shimmy to my repertoire of seduction techniques that have never worked before but might work now if the universe has any mercy.
And I have a feeling I’m going to be needing a lot of that. And maybe bail money.
“Maybe I have. Maybe I haven’t,” I tease. “Maybe I’ve just been making new friends in paradise and learning about gardening techniques that sound inappropriate.”
He frowns once again, completely unmoved by my feminine wiles, which is both disappointing and slightly impressive. “I want information.”
“I’m willing to barter,” I say, giving my shoulders another shimmy for good measure, because I’ve committed to this strategy despite all evidence that it’s failing spectacularly.
But he’s not taking the bait. In fact, he looks like someone who’s built up an immunity to feminine charm through repeated exposure, possibly through years of training or maybe just by existing in that body and having to deal with people throwing themselves at him constantly.
A loud crash from somewhere behind the kitchen punctuates the moment, followed by what sounds like Lani cursing in three languages.
Detective Hale sighs, running a hand through that perfect hair in a gesture that makes my knees forget their primary function. “Funny you should say that. I’m up for bartering as well.”
“Really?” I’m stunned and far too excited, which is sort of the opposite of never let them see you sweat and more like let them see you completely lose your composure over the concept of bartering.
“My brothers run a construction company.”
I gasp, then let out a moan that probably carries more emotional weight than intended and definitely attracts Ruby’s attention in a way that makes her eyebrows shoot up.
“I doubt we can pay them,” I say with a sigh. “We can barely pay ourselves, and even that’s questionable.”
He tips his head to the side, studying me with those warm eyes. “They might be okay with working for cinnamon rolls.”
My mouth falls open, and I’m pretty sure I’m catching flies at this point. “Are they any good? The brothers, not the cinnamon rolls—we know those are good.”
“It’s debatable,” he says with a frown that suggests this is a sore subject and possibly a family drama that involves heated arguments at Thanksgiving.
“There was some trouble about a year ago, and since then no one will touch them. They need to get their reputation back in order, and maybe putting this place back together might be the way to do it.”
I jump up and down with enthusiasm because I’ve just been offered salvation in construction worker form. “Now that’s some bartering I can get behind!”
“Not so fast,” he says, and his eyes ride up and down my body in a way that makes Ruby and Lani bite their palms to keep from making inappropriate noises. “They get cinnamon rolls. I get something else.”
“I’m prepared to surrender for the greater good of the case,” I say, trying for noble sacrifice and probably achieving something closer to a woman with questionable priorities and maybe a concussion from the heat.
“Good,” he says, stepping closer—close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him, which seems unfair given the ambient temperature, “because what you’re going to surrender is everything you’ve gleaned so far about the investigation.”
My face falls. “You want intel on my investigation?”
“Correction. I want intel on my investigation.” He leans in, close enough that I can smell his cologne mixed with ocean air and something that might be dangerous competence. “So how about it? Let’s take a little drive, Ms. Julep. I’ll show you the island, you share everything you’ve learned.”
“Jinx,” I say with a shrug.
“Jinx,” he says with a nod.
Ruby makes a sound like a dying tropical bird while Lani fans herself with a takeout menu that immediately starts to wilt from the heat she’s generating.
The way he said it makes it sound like we’re negotiating something that would require a privacy policy. And I’m hoping it will.
His mouth twitches in what might be the beginning of a smile. “Deal?”
Another crash echoes from the kitchen, followed by the sound of something electrical giving up on life.
A gecko falls from the ceiling and lands on my shoulder—as overwhelmed by the morning’s events as the rest of us—its tiny claws gripping my shirt like I’m a life raft in a sea of chaos. But I don’t even flinch.
I look at Detective Hale—sex god, construction connection, and my best hope for both solving a murder and saving a resort that’s currently held together by duct tape, denial, and possibly the collective willpower of three women who don’t know when to quit.
“Deal.”