Chapter 2
The sound of tires crunching on gravel mixed with bass-heavy music pulls our attention toward the front of the resort, and as soon as we hear it, Ruby, Lani, and I take off in that direction, curious about which VIP arrival is making all the racket.
A dark van with heavily tinted windows rumbles to a stop in our driveway with its music thumping loud enough to wake ancient Hawaiian spirits and probably violate several noise ordinances specifically designed to protect marine life.
Three crew members emerge carrying enough camera equipment to film their own documentary series, followed by a woman who looks like she’s making her grand entrance at an awards ceremony where she’s already won everything.
I recognize the woman at first glance.
Coraline Starling steps out as if she’s walking a red carpet—platinum blonde, diamond-studded resort wear that probably required its own security detail, baubles catching the tiki torch light as if she’s smuggling the crown jewels.
She surveys our slice of paradise with marked disdain, like she’s just discovered her luxury suite is actually a roadside motel with delusions of grandeur and a serious pest control problem. And she might be right if her definition of pests includes geckos, chickens, or cats.
“Sweet mother of pearl,” Ruby murmurs. “She looks like she wandered off a yacht and hasn’t forgiven the universe for making her slum with the rest of us.”
“She looks like hotness collided with a hurricane,” I say.
Lani shakes her head. “She looks like she’s never met a mirror she didn’t want to marry.”
I shrug at the thought. “Perhaps all three.”
“I’m betting it’s less than thirty minutes before she demands we relocate the ocean to somewhere less inconvenient,” Lani predicts.
Spam, demonstrating his usual impeccable timing for chaos, chooses this moment to leap from the sky directly onto the front of Coraline’s van.
He sits there like a furry hood ornament, his tail swishing like a windshield wiper, watching the crew unload equipment with the critical eye of a film director who’s already identified seventeen problems with the production.
And to my horror, it looks as if his weight just made a visible dent in the vehicle. For a cat, he’s got surprising mass. It’s probably all that sashimi he’s been embezzling. Okay, fine, the cinnamon rolls I’ve been feeding him haven’t helped either.
“That cat is not supposed to be there,” Coraline is quick to reprimand us.
“Spam goes where Spam wants,” I say, which is both completely true and utterly unhelpful. “He’s part of our authentic island experience.”
I’m not rushing to rescue Coraline’s van because, honestly, watching Spam establish dominance over expensive production equipment is exactly the type of territorial power play this situation needs. He’s claiming the high ground. Asserting authority. Making it clear who actually runs this resort.
Spoiler: it’s not me.
Coraline glides toward us with the confident stride of a diva accustomed to having reality rearrange itself for her convenience.
Her camera crew follows like well-trained servants with their equipment ready to document her every profound observation about our inadequate attempt at tropical hospitality.
She glances down at my name tag. “Ms. Julep.” Her voice carries the faux warmth of a woman who’s built an empire on being charming for exactly as long as the cameras are recording. “I’m Coraline Starling. I trust you’ve received my specifications for tonight’s event?”
“Every single unreasonable demand,” I confirm, about to shake hands with someone who probably expects ceremonial protocols involving flower leis and maybe a virgin sacrifice.
Did I say “unreasonable” out loud? I clear my throat.
“Welcome to Coconut Cove Paradise Resort. You can call me Jinx, and this is Ruby and Lani, the people who actually keep this place from collapsing into the ocean.”
“Charming,” Coraline says, though her smile says she finds us about as charming as stepping in gum.
Her gaze sweeps across our setup—the handmade banners, the rattan furniture we’ve rescued from various stages of decay, the cats currently conducting what appears to be a strategic plotting session near the bar area.
“Well, this is all very... authentic,” she adds, making “authentic” sound like a communicable disease she’s worried about catching.
“We prefer paradise with personality,” Ruby says sweetly. “Not everyone can tell the difference between genuine character and manufactured perfection, but we cater to discerning guests who appreciate the distinction.”
I nod. “And I’m sure after a few mai tais you won’t even be able to tell which island you’re on.” True as gospel.
Coraline’s smile curves into something so sharp, it could perform emergency surgery. “Of course. I’m certain our viewers will find it educational.”
I can’t help but frown. Calling something educational is akin to calling a disaster “a learning opportunity.” And well, that might as well be the slogan for our fledgling resort.
A rooster chooses this moment to deliver his evening editorial to the entire North Shore, his crow echoes off the mountains with the enthusiasm of a feathered fiend who’s been waiting all day for exactly this audience.
And the beach crowd applauds, finding that avian commentary adds to their authentic island experience.
Spam has relocated from the van to Coraline’s designer luggage, currently sprawled across her largest suitcase as if he’s claiming territory for future napping purposes.
His ginger fur contrasts beautifully with what I’m guessing is very expensive leather.
He’s shedding with purpose, making his presence known, establishing that this is his resort and she’s just visiting.
Sort of the way he sheds in my bed at night. Definitely the same principle.
Another rooster crows and blows out unsuspecting eardrums.
“Will that be a recurring interruption during filming?” Coraline asks, her tone suggesting roosters rank somewhere below jury duty and airport security pat-downs on her list of acceptable environmental features.
“Only if you’re expecting Kauai instead of a sanitized theme park version,” Lani says mildly. “The roosters come standard with the tropical experience. Along with trade winds, crashing ocean waves, and the occasional gecko running through your sheets.”
Coraline gasps at the thought of geckos running amok in her pillow case, then spots the lazy orange blob becoming one with her suitcase and belts out a short-lived scream.
I scoop up Spam before he can do permanent damage to Coraline’s luggage—or she could do permanent damage to him.
And he immediately goes into his limp-noodle routine again, purring like he’s never caused a single problem in his entire life.
His amber eyes watch Coraline, assessing.
Calculating. Already planning his next act of terror.
“Sorry about that,” I say, though I’m not particularly sorry. “Spam is sort of the resort’s official welcoming committee.”
“How quaint,” Coraline says, eyeing Spam like he might be carrying exotic diseases or revolutionary ideology. He might, but that’s beside the point.
Spam meows. The sound pitches perfectly between a friendly greeting and a subtle threat. It’s impressive, really, the vocal range this cat can achieve when making a point.
His purr vibrates through my chest, warm and rumbling. His weight settles into my arms like he’s decided this is where he belongs now. Which means he’s either genuinely affectionate or setting up his next con. With Spam, it’s always fifty-fifty.
Headlights sweep across our resort entrance, illuminating palm fronds and the small army of cats that have positioned themselves like furry security guards along the entry to the resort.
Spam’s tail goes rigid.
The tortoiseshell’s ears flatten.
The black and white tuxedo cat stopped mid-step as if he’d seen a ghost.
When the entire kitty collective agrees something is amiss, you pay attention.
They’re not sensing social anxiety or romantic complications.
They’re warning me that something nefarious is about to crash my mai tai party, and knowing my luck, it will show up with a film crew and complaints about the roosters.
I looked up at Coraline Starling and gasp. Here’s hoping I didn’t just jinx the night.
Although Jinx is my name, and well, it’s sort of my game, too.