Chapter 1 #2
Two weeks ago, Melanie Luana was my boss, busy sabotaging our improvements to the resort to secure her golden parachute severance package. Now she makes lattes under my supervision, which is either cosmic justice or proof that the universe has a twisted sense of humor.
Melanie isn’t just our resident mean girl—she just so happens to be our resident stunner with dark chestnut locks, perfectly bronzed skin, and eyes that glow as if they were backlit by demons. And well, the jury is still out on that last bit.
Spam launches himself onto a nearby table, and his paws hit the wood with surprising force because this cat has some serious mass.
He immediately starts investigating a cup of ice cream someone left unattended.
His whiskers twitch with interest as he assesses angles, calculating risk, determining the optimal approach for maximum cream acquisition with minimum consequences.
“Get down from there,” Melanie says, but there’s no conviction behind it. She knows as well as I do that Spam doesn’t recognize authority figures who aren’t actively holding food.
Spam ignores her completely. He dips one paw into the whipped cream, slow and measured, before examining it thoughtfully as cream drips from his toes. Then he proceeds to lick it clean with the satisfaction of a cat committing a crime they’ll absolutely repeat.
“He’s helping with quality control,” Ruby says, watching the operation with approval. “Every good business needs someone willing to taste-test the product.”
“He’s committing dairy theft,” Melanie corrects, but she’s already pulling out a small bowl from the outdoor coffee cart, adding a dollop of whipped cream to it and giving in to feline extortion like the rest of us eventually do.
Spam purrs his approval, settling in as if he’s won this round of negotiations. Which he has. He always does.
The tortoiseshell kitten appears on the opposite side of the bar. She and Spam exchange a look—brief, loaded with meaning, and definitely conspiratorial. Coordinated operations are imminent.
Speaking of crimes…Detective Koa Hale is supposed to arrive tonight.
The same man who kissed me two weeks ago—a full-on, pull-you-close, forget-your-own-name situation that rewired my central nervous system.
And then I invited him to a party. Like a normal person who doesn’t vibrate with anxiety at the mere thought of his presence.
“You’re twitching,” Lani points out, handing me a blue cocktail with ice—ice that comes from a machine that actually produces frozen water instead of our previous lukewarm disappointment dispenser.
“I’m not twitching. I’m exhibiting purposeful micro-movements.”
“Honey, you’re vibrating at frequencies that could disrupt air traffic control,” Ruby insists. “What’s got you wound tighter than my fourth husband’s grip on his wallet?”
My face heats. “Detective Hale is coming to the competition.”
“Ah.” Ruby nods, radiating the wisdom that comes from navigating multiple romantic disasters and living to collect alimony. “The dangerous combination of a steamy make-out session and social invitations. Here’s hoping for a part two of the Big Smooch-a-rama.”
“It wasn’t a make-out session,” I protest, though the lie tastes about as convincing as non-alcoholic beer. “And I invited him for professional reasons. Crowd control, public safety, and making sure nobody gets alcohol poisoning from amateur bartending.”
“Or maybe you want him to sample your smooching technique again for quality assurance purposes,” Ruby says with a grin that could launch a thousand bad decisions. Or a thousand good ones.
If Koa wanted to smooch again, I wouldn’t resist the effort.
The resort sound system crackles to life as someone tests the microphone, producing feedback that makes every bird within a five-mile radius take off for Oahu. The crowd cheers anyway, raising their drinks in premature celebration of competitions that haven’t officially started yet.
Melanie reappears carrying a chai latte garnished with a cinnamon stick, which is fancy considering our previous version came with a side of broken dreams. She sets it down with the satisfaction of a barista who’s finally negotiated a ceasefire with hostile equipment.
“The machine and I have achieved mutual understanding,” she announces. “I provide proper maintenance and respectful operation, and it produces beverages that won’t require emergency room visits. It’s a delicate treaty built on fear and caffeine dependency.”
“Your negotiation skills are getting better,” Lani says approvingly before looking my way. “Now explain this celebrity judge situation. We’ve got professional bartenders, food bloggers with inflated egos, and some television personality coming to critique our humble island paradise?”
“That’s right. The TV personality would be Coraline Starling,” I say, consulting the clipboard that’s become a permanent appendage since accepting the manager position.
“She’s the host of ‘Sip, Swirl, Repeat’ and self-appointed Mai Tai Royalty.
According to her demands—sorry, requirements—she needs premium everything, a bunch of organic nonsense, and accommodations that don’t include rustic charm or anything suggesting we’re actually located on a Hawaiian island in the Pacific. ”
“Delightful,” Ruby says. “Nothing says authentic tropical experience like demanding we hide every trace of authentic tropical atmosphere.”
We watch as the bartenders arrange their stations like artists preparing masterpieces. Makeshift bamboo bars show off themes ranging from elegant tropical sophistication to pirate shipwreck chic, complete with fake treasure chests full of rum bottles that probably cost a fortune.
Lucky for them, the cats or the chickens can’t take off with one of those bottles. Although if I’ve learned anything during my short time here, it’s never underestimate the wildlife—or an island that serves mai tais with a side of murder.