Who's the Beach Billionaire?
1. The Towel Fire
Chapter one
The Towel Fire
Piper
If paradise had a smell, it was sunscreen, sea salt, grilled pineapple, and panic.
“Why is there smoke?”
I didn’t even look up from the welcome table.
“Because the universe hates hospitality workers,” I answered automatically, tying raffia bows around the last two guest gift bags.
“Piper.”
That tone made me look.
A decorative tiki torch beside the pool had tipped sideways into an entire mountain of fresh white towels.
Flames shot upward like the island itself had finally decided hospitality wasn’t worth the effort.
“Oh sweet coconut biscuits.”
The stack WHOOSHED.
Guests screamed.
Somebody dropped a pi?a colada.
A woman near the pool gasped, clutched her chest dramatically, and said, “This is exactly why I don’t trust decorative fire.”
And because Azure Palms Resort specialized in timing disasters for maximum humiliation, the first shuttle of VIP guests had just rolled through the front gates.
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect. Exactly the sort of first impression Corporate loved.
I shoved away from the table so fast my chair flipped backward.
“Marco!” I yelled toward the pool bar. “Fire extinguisher!”
“I thought the torches were decorative!”
“FIRE DOESN’T CARE ABOUT DECORATIVE!”
The women arriving from the shuttle froze near the entrance in matching shades of expensive confusion. Sunhats. Designer luggage. Oversized sunglasses. One of them already had her phone up filming.
Naturally.
Nothing says luxury island escape like becoming somebody else’s viral content.
“Welcome to Azure Palms!” I shouted while sprinting across the deck. “Please ignore the active combustion! Your vacation package does not normally include fire.”
One towel exploded into flaming fluff.
“Oh no no no —”
A flaming corner suddenly landed on a roaming robot pool vacuum.
The little machine beeped once… then obediently continued scooting across the deck dragging fire behind it like it had finally discovered purpose.
“WHY IS IT MOVING?” I shrieked.
“Should I unplug it?” Marco yelled.
“IT DOESN’T HAVE A PLUG!”
A man lounging beside the pool stood halfway up from his chair.
“Is this part of Island Adventure Night?”
“NO!”
Then Graham appeared.
Which should not have been a relief.
Unfortunately, it absolutely was.
Honestly, I wasn’t sure the man actually walked anywhere.
He materialized wherever disasters achieved sentience.
One second the pool deck was chaos.
The next, Graham Mercer was striding through the smoke carrying a fire extinguisher in one hand and a dripping beach towel in the other like he’d been personally summoned by resort distress signals.
“Move back,” he ordered calmly.
Not loud.
Not panicked.
Just steady enough that everybody listened instantly.
A little girl near the towel station had started crying.
Without even breaking stride, Graham bent, grabbed a pink hibiscus flower from a nearby centerpiece, and handed it to her.
“See?” he said easily. “Resort’s still standing.”
The little girl sniffled.
“Mostly,” he added.
She giggled immediately.
Lord help me.
He yanked two untouched towel bins away from the flames with his foot while spraying the extinguisher in controlled bursts.
White foam exploded everywhere.
Unfortunately, one blast caught a sunbathing businessman directly in the chest.
The man let out a startled yelp and toppled backward off his chair into the pool with an enormous splash.
A child started clapping.
One of the billionaire guests yelled, “Now this is service!”
Another guest applauded enthusiastically. “Five stars for entertainment value!”
The fire died with one final pathetic hiss.
The entire deck went silent except for steel drums playing somewhere in the distance because apparently the entertainment staff had decided nothing—not even arson-adjacent towel incidents—should interrupt island ambience.
Somewhere near the beach bar, a ukulele player transitioned smoothly into “Don’t Worry Be Happy.”
I stared at the sky.
“Of course he did.”
Graham stood in the middle of the foam cloud, jaw tight, dark hair windswept, resort nametag crooked against his sun-faded blue polo.
Completely unruffled.
I pointed at the torch.
“You said those bases were stable.”
“They are.”
“They’re actively on fire, Graham.”
“That’s not usually part of stability testing.”
I pressed a hand to my forehead.
“You know what? I don’t even have time to argue with you because Shuttle Two is probably arriving with another emergency right now.”
As if summoned by my despair, a golf cart slammed into the curb near the lobby entrance.
Graham sighed.
“See?” I said.
“You bring that energy on yourself.”
“I bring chaos?”
“You narrate it into existence.”
Two employees hurried over with cleanup bins while guests began murmuring excitedly amongst themselves.
Not upset.
Excited.
Which somehow felt worse than outrage. Outrage faded. Excitement ended up on social media.
The woman filming lowered her phone and grinned at me.
“This place is already more fun than the internet said.”
“Please don’t put that online,” I begged.
“Oh, I absolutely am.”
Fantastic.
Just fantastic.
I bent to grab a half-melted towel and immediately heard Graham behind me.
“Don’t.”
I straightened.
“What?”
“You’ll burn your hand.”
“I’m wearing gloves.”
“You’re wearing optimism.”
“That’s not even a real sentence.”
“It became one when you tried to touch fire fluff.”
I glared at him.
He looked unbearably calm. Like the fire had been a minor scheduling inconvenience.
Which was honestly rude considering my pulse currently sounded like a tropical drumline.
Around us, resort staff resumed movement. Guests drifted toward the lobby. Somewhere near the beach path, a ukulele started playing.
Azure Palms survived another five minutes.
Barely.
A sharply dressed older woman stepped beside me and watched Graham direct cleanup crews with smooth efficiency.
“Your husband is handsome,” she said.
I choked on air.
“He’s not my husband.”
“Boyfriend?”
“No.”
The woman adjusted her sunglasses.
“Hm.”
Then she walked away with the unmistakable expression of someone who believed absolutely none of that.
I turned toward Graham.
He was already looking at me.
That dangerous almost-smile tugged briefly at his mouth.
“Oh don’t you dare,” I warned.
“What?”
“You know exactly what.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You’re thinking things aggressively.”
“That sounds difficult.”
“It probably comes naturally to you.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice while guests passed around us.
“You have extinguisher foam in your hair.”
I froze.
“Oh no.”
“It’s impressive, actually.”
“Fix it.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly.
“Excuse me?”
“You started the stability-testing fire situation. You fix the foam.”
“I’m fairly certain combustion laws disagree.”
“Graham.”
That almost-smile deepened.
Lord help me. The man should have come with a warning label.
The man should not have been allowed to look that good while smelling faintly like smoke and ocean wind.
He reached toward my head.
Slowly.
Carefully.
His fingers brushed my hair once.
Twice.
A ridiculous amount of awareness shot straight through me as he removed foam from near my temple.
Which was annoying because we’d survived an actual fire then minutes earlier and apparently my nervous system had decided this was the emergency.
It was the lightest touch imaginable.
Still somehow devastating.
And naturally—that exact moment was when three wealthy guests walked by together.
One of them grinned.
“There’s our answer.”
Another pointed directly at Graham.
“Definitely him.”
Graham dropped his hand instantly.
I blinked.
“Him what?”
“The billionaire,” the first guest said smugly. “Come on. Look at the guy. Calm under pressure. Mysterious. Great hair. That’s billionaire behavior.”
I barked out a laugh before I could stop myself.
“Trust me,” I said. “If Graham were secretly rich, he wouldn’t still be fighting with Pool Maintenance over replacement filters.”
And he definitely wasn’t rich. I’d seen the man spend twenty minutes arguing with Accounting over a twelve-dollar replacement pool skimmer.
“That sounds exactly like something a secret billionaire would do,” the guest argued.
A second guest leaned closer.
“No, no. Too competent. Real billionaires don’t carry fire extinguishers.”
A woman beside him gasped dramatically.
“That is EXACTLY what a billionaire pretending not to be a billionaire would do.”
“Look at his watch.”
“That’s sunscreen.”
“Still suspicious.”
“Oh dear,” I muttered.
Because now the nearby women guests were looking at Graham too.
Evaluating.
Interested.
And Graham—the absolute traitor—just folded his arms and said mildly:
“Well. Guess you’ll have to vote at the end of the week.”
The women squealed.
The men immediately began protesting.
Marco popped up beside me holding a tray of smoking frozen drinks.
“Should I start a betting pool?”
“Yes,” one guest answered immediately.
“NO,” I said at the exact same time.
Marco considered us both.
“I’m hearing mixed leadership.”
And just like that, the annual Guess the Beach Billionaire competition had officially begun.
God help us all.