Chapter 8
If construction noise at three in the afternoon in eighty-seven-degree humidity counts as paradise, then I’m living the dream and sweating through my second sundress of the day.
The vast back patio of the Coconut Cove Paradise Resort has been transformed into what appears to be a tropical construction zone crossed with a wildlife preserve crossed with a daycare center for adults in various states of sunburn.
Hammering echoes across five acres of beachfront property while the scent of coconut sunscreen mingles with salt air, plumeria blossoms, and what I’m pretty sure is the aroma of dreams coming true in bamboo and electrical wire form.
Koa’s brothers—Loco and Shaka—are installing an outdoor tiki bar that’s going to make every other resort’s beverage station look like a sad folding table at a church potluck.
And sweet mother of pearl, watching the Hale brothers work should come with a warning label about elevated heart rates and a sudden onset of dehydration.
A few weeks back, they helped me drag the resort back from the brink after I discovered it was held together by optimism and rotting wood—a crumbling infrastructure, no budget, and a reputation circling the drain.
The Hale brothers’ construction business had taken an unfair PR hit and needed a high-visibility comeback.
So, we cut a deal. I gave them a showcase renovation and rave reviews, and they worked for cinnamon rolls while we rebuilt our reputations side by side.
Desperation makes great business partners—especially when they’re absurdly attractive and competent.
Shaka—with his man-bun defying both gravity and the trade winds, his traditional Polynesian tattoos glistening with honest construction sweat, muscles that move under golden skin in ways that make me question my commitment to staying hydrated—hefts a bamboo support beam with the ease of a man hefting a pool noodle.
His dark hair is pulled back in that infuriating style that should look ridiculous but instead makes him look like a Hawaiian warrior taking a break from conquering islands to build me the perfect mai tai dispensary.
Loco works the electrical connections with a precision that suggests he’s made peace with both circuit breakers and the mysteries of tropical humidity.
He’s leaner than Shaka but no less devastating to the female nervous system, sun-streaked hair catching the afternoon light, that wicked grin that could power our backup generator if we hooked it up to the electrical grid properly.
He moves with an efficiency that assures you he could bench press a small car.
“Looking good, boys,” I announce, approaching with iced coffee that’s more coconut syrup than actual caffeine at this point. “I guess it could be multi-functional, a coffee bar, a liquor bar, and a French fry bar.”
“How about a shave ice station, too?” Loco suggests. “We figured you could use something that doesn’t end in lawsuits or police investigations.”
“Shave ice? Really?” My mouth begins to water at the thought of the frosty treat.
Shaka nods. “Family-friendly, high profit margin, and nobody has ever been strangled over a snow cone. It seems like a safe bet for this place.”
A mother strides by, herding six toddlers on leashes—six—and have I mentioned leashes?
Each one of them is wearing matching pineapple swimsuits and shrieking with the enthusiasm of tiny humans discovering that sand tastes terrible but is still somehow irresistible.
The woman looks as if she’s training sled dogs in bikinis, managing her herd of sugar-fueled chaos with the calm of a professional wrangler.
And frankly, I respect the commitment to both safety and tropical fashion coordination.
One kid darts toward the koi pond, another screams for shave ice, a third appears to be eating a flower, and the woman doesn’t even flinch.
I want to hand her a trophy or a frozen cocktail—or both.
“Speaking of handling things, I’ve got a question about a certain detective,” Shaka says, deciding this is the perfect moment for a little sibling reconnaissance. “What’s the deal with my kid brother suddenly going monk on us?”
“Monk?” I ask, innocently enough, although the mere mention of the hot detective does something to my heart that might land me in the morgue if I’m not careful.
The resort chickens choose this moment to conduct their afternoon examination of the grounds, led by a rooster inspecting the construction progress like checking for code violations.
Three hens trail behind him like feathered consultants offering their opinion on proper tiki bar placement relative to optimal bug-catching territory.
“That’s right,” Loco says, setting down bamboo trim with the respect usually reserved for fine art or explosive materials.
“Usually by now, he’s got some tourist trailing after him like a lovesick golden retriever, or some local girl trying to reform his bachelor ways with homemade banana bread and strategic bikini displays. ”
Pineapple and Spam show up, summoned by the prospect of construction-site drama.
They settle into a prime supervisory position on a stack of lumber, their tails swishing with the authority of middle management overseeing a project they have no intention of helping with but every intention of critiquing.
“But lately?” Shaka continues, leaning against the frame of the outdoor bar like he were settling in for some serious investigative work.
“Nothing. Radio silence on the romance front. Zero parade of women. It’s like he’s taken a vow of celibacy or joined some kind of tropical monastery we don’t know about. ”
I’ll admit, I’m getting all warm and fuzzy inside just thinking about the fact that Koa is not dating an entire island’s worth of women, which says disturbing things about my self-esteem.
“Maybe he’s just focusing on his career,” I offer with an innocence so pathetically transparent that Shaka laughs out loud. “What? Police work can be very demanding.”
Loco ticks his head to the side. “That’s because you’re giving him a lot to do—by way of dead bodies.”
“He’s not wrong,” Ruby is quick to point out the obvious, and I frown her way because of it.
“Demanding?” Shaka repeats with the skeptical tone usually reserved for tourists claiming that they definitely remembered to put on sunscreen before spending six hours snorkeling.
“Very demanding,” Loco agrees, immune to my masterful performance.
“So, demanding that he’s been spending an unusual amount of time checking on resort security.
And asking very specific questions about your well-being.
And showing up here during off-duty hours to discuss completely unnecessary safety protocols. ”
A group of sunbathers sprawled across lounge chairs like human pancakes slowly crisping in paradise turn their heads toward us with the synchronized precision of tourists detecting gossip.
They’re arranged in various stages of sunburn that range from attractive golden glow to lobster impersonation that will definitely require medical intervention.
The surf roars beyond the palm trees while snorkelers bob in the distance like colorful exclamation points against turquoise water, blissfully unaware that my love life is currently being dissected by construction workers with advanced degrees in sibling interference.
“Actually,” Loco says, remembering crucial intelligence, “speaking of family obligations—you know our mom’s birthday is tomorrow night, right?”
I gasp at the thought. “I did not know that,” I admit, wondering if this conversation is heading toward an invitation or an interrogation.
“Should I send a card? Flowers? A fruit basket with a note apologizing for corrupting her son’s previously efficient dating schedule?
” I bite down on my lip because I did not mean to say that last bit out loud.
Oh heck, we all know it’s true.
“We’ll be having a big family party,” Shaka explains, grinning with the enthusiasm of a man who’s just discovered the perfect ammunition for psychological warfare.
“The kind where she expects all her sons to show up with proper dates, proper appetizers, and proper explanations for why they’re still single in their advanced years. ”
“Define advanced,” I say, because I enjoy living dangerously while being observed by livestock and supervised by judgmental cats.
“Koa is thirty-eight,” Loco is quick to fill me in on the birthday digits.
“Ancient by Hale family standards. Mom has been making not-so-subtle hints about grandchildren and carrying on the family name. During the last family dinner, she showed up with baby photos and a PowerPoint presentation about the biological clock.”
I’m pretty sure those annoying time markers belong to women, but I keep my poi hole shut.
A rooster crows from somewhere near the tennis court, providing his thoughts on our discussion of advanced maternal expectations and reproductive timelines.
“So naturally,” Shaka continues with interrogation-level logic, “we’re wondering if there’s a particular reason for his sudden hermit behavior. A specific someone affecting his previously reliable bachelor lifestyle.”
“A specific someone who runs a certain resort,” Loco adds, deciding subtlety is overrated in tropical climates.
“And has a certain knack for finding trouble,” Shaka contributes, clearly committed to this tag-team approach to relationship investigation.
“And makes our baby brother smile in ways that suggest his brain has been replaced with haupia pudding,” Loco finishes with the satisfaction of a devastating closing argument.
Both Ruby and Lani cackle like a couple of witches, and I don’t say a word.
The breeze kicks up, sending napkins flying past us as if the universe is throwing a ticker-tape parade for my questionable love life. Even the palm trees seem to be leaning in to eavesdrop.