10. Sebastian #2
What the hell. I didn't have to put out every fire. Maybe this was exactly what they both needed—a chance to actually connect, without me or anyone else mediating. Evie was stronger than I gave her credit for. And my grandmother, for all her sharpness, genuinely loved her great-granddaughter.
"Fine," I said. "But don't push her. Let her set the pace."
My grandmother's expression softened. Just slightly. "I raised three children and helped raise you, Sebastian. I think I can manage one afternoon with a twelve-year-old."
I wasn't entirely convinced, but I'd learned long ago that arguing with Eloise Dubois was an exercise in futility.
When I finally left, the evening had turned soft and golden, with that particular quality of light that made even Manhattan look gentle.
I had calls to make, documents to review, a suitcase that needed packing.
But for a moment, I just stood on the sidewalk outside my grandmother's brownstone and breathed.
Tomorrow, I was going to be four thousand miles away from everything complicated in my life.
I planned to enjoy every second of it.
I’d asked Isabelle to come stay while I was gone. She arrived the morning of my flight, overnight bag in hand, looking like she'd stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine despite it being four in the morning.
"Thank you for doing this," I said as she dropped her bag in the guest room.
"You don't have to thank me. I love spending time with her." She paused, giving me that perceptive look she'd inherited from our grandmother. "Safe travels, Sebastian."
Evie was waiting in the foyer when I came downstairs with my briefcase. She was still in her pajamas, looking terribly sleepy.
"Bye, Dad." She stepped forward and hugged me, arms wrapping around my waist without hesitation. I pulled her close, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
"I'll call tonight," I said. "After my meetings."
"Okay." She pulled back, smiling up at me. "Good luck with the hotel thing."
"I'll be back before you know it."
The flight was long. Twelve hours of ocean below and documents on my laptop screen. Margaret called somewhere over the Pacific with final updates: dinner with Mr. Kahale confirmed for tonight, contract revisions completed, and the heritage preservation clause finalized per his requirements.
"He's already turned down seven acquisition offers," she reminded me. "The approach should focus on continuity. He needs to believe you'll protect what he's built."
"Send me the talking points again. I'll review them before we land."
"Already in your inbox, sir."
The jet began its descent just after two in the afternoon local time. I watched through the window as the island materialized below—green mountains rising from blue water, white lines of waves breaking against reefs, the sprawl of civilization hugging the coastline.
A driver was waiting on the tarmac when we touched down, an older Hawaiian man, silver at his temples, dressed in a crisp white shirt and pressed dark slacks. He carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who'd been doing this work for decades.
"Mr. Dubois." He extended his hand, his grip firm and professional. "Welcome to Maui. I'm Keoni. Mr. Kahale asked me to bring you to the hotel personally."
"Thank you, Keoni."
"How was the flight?"
"Long."
He smiled, opening the back door of the black SUV. "They usually are. But worth it, I think. The islands have a way of making you forget about the rest of the world."
We drove in comfortable silence through a landscape that shifted from industrial tarmac to rolling green hills to glimpses of ocean between the trees.
Keoni pointed out landmarks occasionally—a historic church, a famous surf break, the mountain where locals went to watch the sunrise.
I nodded along, my mind already turning to the meeting ahead.
Lono Kahale. Eighty-three years old, no children, no heir.
He'd built the Kahale Grande into something legendary, the kind of boutique property that travel magazines wrote about in reverent tones.
He'd turned down every offer that had come his way, holding out for a buyer who would understand what the place meant.
I needed to be that buyer. The property was perfect for what I had in mind—a resort that honored the cultural heritage of the island while drawing the kind of high-end tourism that would benefit the local economy.
The history, the authenticity, the sense of place—those were assets you couldn't manufacture. You could only preserve them.
The key was convincing him that I understood that.
The road curved along the coastline, and Keoni slowed as we approached.
The hotel rose from the landscape like it had grown there, white walls gleaming against the tropical green, dark wooden accents framing windows and doorways.
Lush gardens surrounded it, hibiscus and plumeria and birds of paradise spilling over stone walls in riots of color.
The main building stretched along the oceanfront, two stories of colonial elegance softened by palm trees and flowering vines.
It was beautiful. More than beautiful. It had soul.
I could see why Lono had spent his life protecting it.
Keoni pulled up to the entrance, where a porter was already waiting to collect my bags.
The lobby opened before me as I stepped out of the car—open-air, cooled by ocean breezes, with high ceilings supported by carved wooden beams. Art covered the walls: woven tapestries, vintage photographs in koa wood frames, carved figures that looked like they'd been collecting stories for generations.
A young woman at the front desk smiled as I approached. "Mr. Dubois. Welcome to the Kahale Grande. Mr. Kahale is looking forward to meeting you this evening."
"Thank you." I nodded, reaching for my wallet to present identification.
Movement in my peripheral vision. Someone walked through the lobby, just off to my right. A woman in a flowing sundress, dark curly hair loose around her shoulders, a leather bag slung over one arm. She was talking to one of the staff members, laughing at something they'd said.
My hand froze halfway to my wallet.
I knew that laugh.
I turned.
Aria Kealoha stood fifteen feet away, frozen mid-step, staring at me with an expression of absolute shock.
Her lips parted. Her eyes went wide. The staff member beside her was still talking, oblivious, but Aria wasn't listening anymore. She was looking at me like I was a ghost. Aria's hand drifted up to touch her lips.
I wondered if she could still taste me, too.