Chapter 21
The next afternoon finds us marinating in heat that’s all humidity and zero mercy. The trade winds have clearly taken the day off, and running a business in paradise turns out to be a full-contact sport—especially when every piece of clothing I own has declared mutiny.
The lobby ceiling fans spin with the grim determination of machinery pushed to its limits, while Ruby and Lani distribute chi-chis to incoming guests like it’s a hydration protocol.
The drinks disappear instantly, and I’m starting to suspect bartending is less a luxury and more a public safety measure at this point.
A small parade of chickens wanders through the lobby, led by a rooster who pauses as if taking inventory. Nearby, a few cats lounge around the seating area, quietly supervising the scene and scowling at everyone’s footwear.
“Jinx!” Shaka calls out, approaching with Loco. They look like they’ve been working in the tropical heat all morning and still managed to make it unfairly attractive.
“The new spa is up and running in the old conference room,” Loco announces with clear satisfaction. We all know they just performed a minor miracle with power tools and possibly divine intervention. “Everything is installed, tested, and ready for business.”
Melanie nods as she steps up. “Hot stone massage stations, seaweed wrap facilities, traditional Hawaiian healing treatment areas, coconut oil body treatment rooms, salt scrub stations with authentic Hawaiian sea salt, and aromatherapy sessions that’ll make people forget they ever had stress,” she rattles off with efficiency after memorizing the entire service menu.
“And I’ve been doing all the work coordinating this!
Don’t you think you should hire a few more people around here? ”
I clap my hands, thrilled to see my business expansion dreams finally taking shape.
“I’ve already hired three people for the spa operations, and they start tomorrow morning.
I’m still on the hunt for someone to help out at the front desk, though.
Apparently, people would rather slather oil on strangers than deal with tourist complaints about the air conditioning and questions about whether the roosters come with wake-up call services. ”
“Can’t imagine why,” Koa says with a wink.
Our resident gray tabby appears from under the reception desk and begins conducting his own inspection of our conversation, deciding that business meetings require feline oversight to ensure proper protocols are followed. Face it—they probably do.
“Speaking of business expansions,” Lani announces, emerging from the kitchen carrying a tray that makes everyone in the immediate vicinity stop talking and start salivating, “I’ve added another dessert option to the café menu.
Two of them, actually. Brownies and blondies made with local chocolate and enough butter to require cardiovascular supervision! ”
Everyone cheers at the thought of ingesting butter and sugar in large quantities. Lani sets the tray on the nearest table, and suddenly we’re all gathered around like pilgrims approaching a shrine to sugar and cocoa.
“These look incredible,” I say, reaching for what appears to be a brownie that could double as a small chocolate brick if necessary.
“The blondie is amazing,” Koa says, moaning through a bite.
“You need to try this,” he says, offering me his own.
He moves in close moving close enough that I can smell his cologne mixed with tropical heat, and enough masculine confidence that makes smart women make questionable decisions.
And how I want to make questionable decisions with him.
He nudges it closer to my mouth. “I think you’ll find the combination satisfying. ”
There’s something in the way he says “satisfying” that makes my internal temperature rise about ten degrees above the already oppressive afternoon heat.
We intertwine arms like we’re conducting some kind of dessert ritual, feeding each other brownies and blondies while maintaining eye contact that probably signifies a matrimonial ceremony in some cultures.
The brownie is decadently rich, the blondie is pure warm butterscotch with a tropical twist, and together they produce a sugar high that makes dessert poetry—and impulsive proposals—feel entirely reasonable.
I’m sensing a matrimonial theme here. I wonder where the universe is headed with this? I’m hoping rings are involved. And a wedding night. A honeymoon would be a nice bonus, too. Heck, a honeymoon would be a fantastic bonus.
“Oh!” Melanie says, spiking a red polished fingernail into the air. “I almost forgot to mention—while I wasn’t busy working the spa coordination, the coffee shop supervision, and the front desk coverage, I did manage to answer the phone.”
“Revolutionary,” I mutter around a bite of blondie.
“It turns out,” she continues, “that Coconut Cove Paradise Resort will be hosting a destination wedding in a week. The lucky couple is coming all the way from Ohio to experience an authentic tropical romance.”
“A destination wedding,” I say, bouncing on my toes. I knew the universe was headed in that matrimonial direction. “Hey, I’m from Ohio!” I gasp, looking at Koa as if he might know something I don’t.
Ruby gasps, too, and elbows me with enough force to test the integrity of my ribs. “Ooh, maybe you know them! What are the odds?”
“Considering the population of Ohio and my limited social circle? The odds are pretty much astronomical,” I say, although something about that sneer on Melanie’s face suggests this isn’t going to be the casual coincidence Ruby is imagining.
“So, who’s the lucky couple?” I ask, despite the fact that I’m already getting that sinking feeling which accompanies major life complications and unexpected encounters with people you’d prefer to avoid permanently.
Melanie checks her registration book, and according to that maniacal grin blooming on her lips, she’s about to deliver news that’s guaranteed to ruin someone’s afternoon. “A Mr. Erwin Tuggle Julep and Ms. Candy Tassels.”
I straighten so fast I nearly choke on my brownie. “My ex-husband is coming here to get married?”
“To someone named Candy Tassels?” Ruby adds, because the universe’s sense of humor extends to giving people monikers that sound like stripper stage names or exotic dancer aliases.
That wasn’t his last fiancée’s name. It seems he got a new one. Vacation romances might move fast, but my wily ex moves faster.
Koa’s jaw ticks with a controlled tension like he’s calculating whether it’s legal to arrest people for having terrible timing and questionable taste in romantic partners.
“Well,” he says, his voice carrying the dry edge of a man who’s just been presented with an interesting challenge, “this should be entertaining.”
“Entertaining indeed,” I say, looking around at our little tropical paradise that’s hosted two murder investigations and is about to welcome my ex-husband and his new bride for what I’m sure will be a completely drama-free wedding celebration.
A rooster chooses this moment to crow from somewhere behind the kitchen, announcing his opinion on the upcoming nuptials, while Spam emerges from the seating area to conduct his own assessment of this new development. At least I know he has my back.
Apparently, solving another murder was just the warm-up act for whatever chaos my ex-husband’s arrival is going to bring to paradise—and suddenly homicide investigations are looking like the relaxing part of my job description.
Here’s hoping I’m not the one to commit a homicide next.
But something tells me, I might be.
Thank you for reading!