13. Aria
I quickly settled into a routine.
Mornings belonged to the beach. I'd wake before dawn, slip into a sundress and sandals, and make my way down to the shore while the sky was still bruised purple and the sand still held the coolness of night.
I'd find a spot near the water's edge and sit with my knees pulled to my chest, watching the sun climb out of the ocean inch by inch, the water shifting from black to navy to that impossible Hawaiian blue.
Those quiet hours were the only time my mind went still. The only time I wasn't thinking about him.
Afternoons were for work. Meetings with department heads, learning the hotel's operations from the inside out. I sat with the head of housekeeping and learned that they still used the same lavender-scented linen spray Mr. Kahale's mother had made by hand fifty years ago.
I walked the kitchens with Chef Kimo and tasted the poi his grandmother's recipe produced, smooth and slightly sweet, nothing like the store-bought version.
I studied the reservation system, the staffing rotations, and the delicate dance of making two hundred guests feel like they were the only ones who mattered.
After that, I'd explore. No agenda, no destination.
Just my feet on familiar paths, carrying me to corners I'd forgotten existed.
A stone bench hidden behind a wall of hibiscus, the same one where my mother used to sit and read while I played in the garden.
A dry fountain with a carved fish at its center: I remembered throwing coins into the water and making wishes, though I couldn't recall now what I'd wished for.
A narrow path through the trees that ended at a cliff, the ocean crashing against rocks far below, spray rising like smoke.
Memories surfaced constantly, triggered by the smallest things. The smell of plumeria. The particular shade of pink the sky turned at sunset. The sound of the staff greeting each other in Hawaiian, the same musical cadence I remembered from childhood.
My father lifted me onto his shoulders at a luau so I could see the dancers.
My mother taught me to make flower crowns, her fingers quick and sure.
The two of them were dancing on the beach at sunset while I watched from the restaurant terrace, too young to understand what I was seeing, old enough to know it was something precious.
This place held my whole history. Every path I walked, I walked with ghosts.
Evenings were the hardest.
Dinner with Sebastian and Mr. Kahale. The same table every night, the same careful choreography of politeness. I'd pass the bread basket and comment on the fish and ask Mr. Kahale about the hotel's history, and the whole time I'd be aware of Sebastian beside me.
The way he held his fork. The way his jaw moved when he chewed. The way his cologne mixed with the salt air created something I couldn't stop breathing in.
If I'd been honest with myself, I would have admitted the tension between us hadn't faded.
It had grown teeth. Every accidental brush of fingers when we reached for the same dish.
Every glance that lasted a beat too long.
Every night lying awake in my room, staring at the ceiling fan, remembering the weight of his body against mine and the taste of his mouth. I hated myself for wanting it again.
But I did. God help me, I did.
Today, I'd decided to explore the older parts of the hotel.
Mr. Kahale had mentioned a wing that had been closed for renovations, untouched for years.
I wanted to see it. And if I was being honest, I knew Sebastian would never venture into dusty hallways full of forgotten history.
This wasn't his territory. Numbers and contracts and boardrooms, those were his territory. Not this.
Maybe if I spent enough time in places he'd never go, I could finally get him out of my head.
The hallway was dim, lit only by whatever light managed to filter through grimy windows. Dust motes floated in the pale shafts like tiny planets orbiting nothing. The air smelled like old paper and mildew and something faintly sweet—dried flowers, maybe, or the ghost of perfume.
I picked my way through carefully. Boxes stacked against walls, labeled in handwriting so faded I could barely read it. Sheets draped over furniture, gray with dust. Stacks of wood leaning in corners, abandoned mid-project, materials for the renovation that had never happened.
My phone buzzed.
I pulled it out and saw Priya's name, answered while I was still walking.
"How's paradise treating you?"
"It's beautiful." I stepped over a pile of what looked like old curtain rods. "And complicated."
"Complicated how? Is the old man giving you trouble?"
I filled her in. Mr. Kahale's unconventional approach. The two weeks of evaluation. Character over contracts. She made approving sounds, asked smart questions, and told me it sounded like exactly the kind of playing field I was built for.
"So what's the complication?" she pressed.
Before I could answer, another voice came through.
"Miss Kealoha? Is that you?"
Evie. Priya must have had me on speaker at the foundation. Well, thank God I hadn’t said anything about the complications yet.
"Hey, Evie. How's everything going?"
"Good. We miss you, though." A pause. "Don't tell anyone I said this, but it’s kind of boring without you."
“I heard that!” Priya yelled.
I laughed. "Your secret's safe with me."
"Oh, Miss Kealoha, my dad’s in Hawaii too. Did he tell you?"
My stomach twisted at the mention of him. "Yeah, I know he's here. Listen, Evie, I should go. I'm in this old part of the hotel, and the reception's getting spotty."
"Okay. Tell my dad I said hi if you see him. But like, don't make it weird."
"I'll try my best. Bye, sweetheart."
I hung up and slid the phone back into my pocket.
The hallway stretched ahead, narrowing as it went.
Photographs lined the walls in mismatched frames, more reminders of the hotel's past. Staff in vintage uniforms, their smiles frozen in black and white.
Guests posing on the beach in old-fashioned swimsuits.
A group shot in front of the main building, the paint fresh, the gardens newly planted, everyone squinting into the sun.
At the end of the hall, a door stood slightly ajar.
I pushed it open.
The room beyond was small. A bedroom, clearly, though everything was shrouded in sheets.
The shapes of furniture beneath—a bed, a dresser, something that might have been a writing desk near the window.
Dust lay thick on every surface. The windows were so filmed with grime that they let in only a pale, watery light.
No one had been here in a very long time.
I stepped inside. The floorboards creaked beneath my feet.
Photographs hung on the walls here, too, but these were different. Personal. A young man with dark hair and bright eyes, his arm around a woman in a white dress.
They stood in front of the hotel, the ocean sparkling behind them, their smiles so wide and genuine that it almost hurt to look at.
Mr. Kahale. It had to be. Decades younger, but those eyes were unmistakable.
I moved closer, studying the woman's face. Beautiful. Happy. The way she leaned into him, the way his hand rested on her hip—this was love. The real kind. The kind that built hotels and raised families and lasted until death parted them.
Was this their room? Their private wing, sealed off when she died, preserved exactly as it was because he couldn't bear to change it?
I heard footsteps behind me.
I spun around.
Sebastian stood in the doorway, dressed in casual pants, blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a smudge of dust on his shoulder like he'd brushed against something on his way in.
He had what looked like a bit of cobweb in his hair, and my fingers itched to remove it.
His gray eyes found mine and held my gaze.
No. This was my time. We agreed to stay away from each other. He couldn’t be here. It was against the rules.
"What are you doing here?"
He shrugged. "Same thing you are."
"I'm not doing research. I'm exploring."
"Is there a difference?"
He stepped into the room and shut the door.
I was acutely aware of how tiny the room was.
He clasped his hands behind his back, and began a slow circuit of the space.
He stopped near me. Close. Too close. I could smell his cologne beneath the dust, that same woodsy scent that had started invading my dreams.
Then he moved past me, circling toward the photographs on the wall, examining them like artifacts in a museum.
Something about the way he moved set my teeth on edge. I took a step back. "You need to leave."
"I have every right to be here."
"Fine." I turned toward the door. "Then I'll leave. There are plenty of other places to explore."
I grabbed the handle and pulled.
Nothing happened.
I pulled harder. The handle turned, but the door didn't budge.
"What the hell?"
Sebastian was beside me in two strides. He shouldered me aside—not roughly, but firmly—and tried the handle himself. Twisted. Pulled. Nothing.
"It's stuck." His jaw tightened. "The wood must have swelled. This part of the hotel hasn't been maintained in years."
He stepped back and threw his shoulder against the door. The impact echoed through the small room, but the door didn't move.
He tried again. And again. Each hit harder than the last, his face growing redder with effort, the tendons in his neck standing out.
I watched him struggle. A small, petty part of me enjoyed it. Sebastian Dubois, master of the universe, defeated by a swollen door frame.
The rest of me was slowly realizing what this meant.
We were trapped.
Together.
In a tiny room with nothing but a covered bed and decades of dust and no way out. The kiss flashed through my mind. Nope. No way. I had to get out of here right this minute before I did something stupid.
I pulled out my phone. No signal. Of course. I laughed. It came out slightly hysterical. Sebastian checked his own phone. His expression confirmed what I already knew.