11. Aria #2
He was wearing khaki linen pants and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his dark hair slightly damp from a shower.
He looked unfairly put-together for someone who'd probably slept as poorly as I had.
His eyes scanned the room and landed on me immediately, like he'd known exactly where I'd be.
He walked toward my table.
I set down my coffee cup with a deliberate click.
"This seat taken?" He gestured to the chair across from me.
"There are fifteen empty tables in this restaurant."
"I'm aware."
He pulled out the chair and sat without waiting for permission. I considered throwing my coffee in his face, but that seemed like a waste of excellent Kona.
"We need to talk," he said.
"I disagree."
"Aria." His voice was low, controlled, but I could hear the tension underneath. The same tension that was coiled in my own chest. "We're going to be here for two weeks. We can either spend that time at each other's throats, or we can establish some ground rules and behave like adults."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him exactly where he could shove his ground rules, his cooperation, his reasonable suggestions.
But he wasn't wrong.
Two weeks of open warfare would exhaust us both. And worse, it would probably tank both our chances with Mr. Kahale. The old man hadn't built a legacy like this by surrounding himself with people who couldn't control their emotions.
"Fine." I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms. "What did you have in mind?"
Sebastian signaled the server, ordered coffee, and turned back to me. The morning light caught his features, softening the sharp edges, and I had to look away before I started cataloging things I had no business noticing.
"Rule one," he said. "What happened in New York stays in New York. We don't discuss it, we don't reference it, we don't let it affect our professional conduct here."
The kiss flashed behind my eyes. His hands that slid up my thigh. The sound he'd made when I'd pulled him closer. Heat crept up my neck, and I prayed he couldn't see it.
"Agreed."
"Rule two. We compete fairly. No sabotage, no underhanded tactics, no trying to make the other look bad in front of Mr. Kahale. We each make our case on our own merits."
"Fine."
"Rule three." He paused. His eyes met mine, and something passed between us—an acknowledgment of the thing we were both pretending didn't exist. "We keep our distance. Outside of necessary interactions, we stay out of each other's way."
I knew what he was really saying. Stay away from me because I don't trust myself around you.
I should have been relieved. This was exactly what I wanted. Space, boundaries, a clear line between us that neither of us would cross.
Instead, I felt a traitorous curl of heat in my stomach.
"Agreed," I said. My voice came out steadier than I felt. "Anything else?"
"That covers it."
"Good." I stood, leaving my half-finished breakfast on the table. "Then I'll see you at the evaluation meeting this afternoon. Try not to embarrass yourself."
I walked away without looking back.
I could feel his eyes on me the entire way.
The rest of the morning, I explored.
I started in the gardens, following the winding stone paths that my grandmother used to describe in her stories.
"The plumeria grove," she'd say, her voice soft with memory, "had the sweetest smell in the world.
Your grandfather proposed to me there, under the biggest tree, with the sun setting behind him. "
I found that tree. It was ancient now, its trunk gnarled and thick, its branches heavy with white and yellow blossoms. I stood beneath it and breathed in the sweetness, imagining my grandmother as a young woman, my grandfather on one knee, both of them with their whole lives ahead of them.
The hotel wasn't just a building. It was a living record of love stories.
I walked the grounds for hours, taking my time, letting the place speak to me.
The koi pond near the spa, where orange and white fish drifted lazily beneath lily pads.
The herb garden behind the kitchen, fragrant with basil and lemongrass and something citrusy I couldn't identify.
The old banyan tree at the edge of the property, its aerial roots forming a curtain that children probably loved to hide behind.
I talked to the staff.
Keoni, the driver, had worked here for thirty-two years. He'd started as a groundskeeper at sixteen, worked his way up, and married a woman he'd met at the hotel bar. Their daughter was in college on the mainland now, studying marine biology.
Malia, the head housekeeper, had been here even longer, forty years this August. She remembered my grandmother, she told me, eyes going soft. "Beautiful woman. Kind. She always remembered my name, always asked about my children." She pressed my hand between both of hers. "You look just like her."
The chef, Kimo, had trained in Honolulu but came home to cook the recipes his grandmother had taught him. He let me into the kitchen, showed me the traditional imu pit where they roasted kalua pig, explained the importance of using local ingredients, and of honoring the land that provided for them.
These weren't employees. They were family. Generations of families, intertwined with this place, their stories woven into the very foundation.
By midday, I found myself on the beach.
I kicked off my sandals and walked to the water's edge, letting the waves lap at my feet. The sand was warm beneath my toes, the sun hot on my shoulders. I stood there for a long time, watching the horizon, thinking about my parents.
They'd gotten married here. Not in the hotel itself, but on this beach, at sunset, with just a handful of family and friends gathered on the sand.
My mother had worn a simple white dress and a crown of flowers in her hair.
My father had cried when he saw her—the only time I'd ever heard of him crying.
Their reception had been in the hotel restaurant, the same space where I'd eaten breakfast this morning. They'd danced under the stars while the waves provided music, and my grandmother had told me it was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.
This was where my family had begun. Where every generation had come to remember who they were, where they came from, and what they were fighting for.
If Sebastian got this hotel, he would gut it.
Strip away the history, the soul, the decades of love and labor that made it what it was.
He'd turn it into another sleek, soulless luxury resort, all modern architecture and profit margins, indistinguishable from a thousand other properties around the world.
I couldn't let that happen.
I wouldn't.
The evaluation meeting was held in Mr. Kahale's private study at exactly three o'clock.
The room was smaller than I'd expected, tucked away in a quiet corner of the hotel's main building.
Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling: old volumes with cracked spines, newer ones with glossy covers, everything from Hawaiian history to maritime law to what looked like decades of hotel management journals.
Artifacts crowded every available surface: carved wooden figures, woven baskets, more of the vintage photographs in koa wood frames showing the hotel through the years.
Lono Kahale sat behind a desk that looked like it had been in his family for generations. Dark wood, heavily carved, polished to a deep shine by decades of hands. The old man himself was smaller than I'd imagined, his frame bent with age, but his eyes—dark and sharp—missed nothing.
I arrived first. I chose the chair on the left side of the desk and sat with my hands folded in my lap, trying to project a calm I didn't feel.
Sebastian arrived exactly on time. Not a minute early, not a minute late. He took the chair on the right, as far from me as the small room allowed, and we sat in silence while Mr. Kahale studied us both.
The old man's gaze moved from Sebastian to me and back again, unhurried, assessing. I felt like he was peering into my soul, reading every thought I'd ever had, every secret I'd ever kept.
Finally, he coughed, a dry, papery sound, and spoke.
"I hear you two are acquainted."
I nodded, keeping my voice neutral. "We know each other from New York. I run a nonprofit where his daughter volunteers."
Sebastian cleared his throat. "I'd say we know each other a little better than that."