“Ms. Julep,” he says, and my name in his voice sounds like both a question and an accusation, possibly a warning. “I believe we need to have a conversation.”
The breeze chooses that moment to gust through the palms, sending a shower of fronds down around us. One lands directly on Detective Hale’s head, and he seethes up at the sky.
It turns out, paradise has a sense of humor, even if he doesn’t.
CHAPTER 8
The morning heat wraps around us like a clingy ex-boyfriend who doesn’t understand the concept of personal space, and I’m sitting across from Detective Koa Hale, trying to remember how to form coherent sentences, right here on the back veranda of the Coconut Cove Paradise Resort.
He’s about to interrogate me—or as I prefer to think of it, shake me down for information—and honestly, a girl can hope he might need to give me mouth-to-mouth if I faint from the combination of humidity and his proximity.
I jest. But also, hope springs eternal.
Ruby and Lani execute the world’s least subtle retreat, suddenly developing urgent business with the hibiscus hedge and the broken pool filter housing. Ruby starts aggressively deadheading flowers that were already dead, while Lani inspects pool equipment with the intensity of a NASA engineer hunting for signs of extraterrestrial life. Neither of them movesmore than twenty feet away, and both keep shooting glances in our direction with the stealth of neon signs.
Down on the sand, a handful of early beachgoers stake their claims with towels and umbrellas, while surfers paddle through the lineup like they’ve got nowhere else to be and nothing else to do. Meanwhile, Mr. Sexy is about to do what sexy detectives do best, and the breeze seems to have stalled as if it wants to listen in.
Even the chickens have gone quiet—three hens and a rooster stand motionless near the kitchen door, mesmerized by Detective Hale’s presence like he’s some kind of poultry whisperer. A calico cat that normally wouldn’t sit still for a hurricane plants herself at his feet and stares up at him with the devotion usually reserved for tuna cans and that one spot on the couch that gets the perfect afternoon sun.
I’m starting to understand the attraction, and I’m not just talking about the cat.
“Ms. Julep,” he says, low and steady, like he already knows I’m about to complicate his day. “I asked you a question.”
The morning breeze carries the scent of plumeria and sea salt, along with the faint aroma of Lani’s breakfast preparations—coffee, sweet bread, and something that might be bacon if we’re lucky and possibly SPAM if we’re being realistic about the kitchen budget.
Detective Hale has his back to the ocean, and the morning light catches the gold flecks in his brown eyes. His uniform shirt fits him the way uniforms should fit men, but rarely do—sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that probably have their own fan club and monthly newsletter.
“I’m sorry, what?” I say because my brain has decided to take a vacation to the same place my common sense went.
His scowl deepens. “I said, what are your thoughts about last night’s incident?”
“My thoughts?” I blink, trying to reboot my mental processes like a computer that’s frozen mid-update. The man is definitely a cinnamon roll—all hard edges and intimidating exterior, but I bet there’s a big old softie hiding underneath all that official attitude and perfectly pressed uniform.
“Yes, your thoughts. You found the body. Any observations? Theories? Or are you too busy...” He glances at my notebook, then back at my face with an expression that says he knows exactly where my mind wandered and is not impressed by the destination.
“Actually, I was thinking you’re probably a cinnamon roll,” I say because honesty is my new policy and my filter has officially clocked out for the day.
His eyebrows rise a fraction of an inch. “A what?”
“A cinnamon roll. You know—tough and crusty on the outside, all warm and gooey on the inside.” I gesture vaguely at his perfectly pressed uniform, which probably has military-grade creases. “I bet you’ve got a sweet center hiding behind all that intimidating law enforcement exterior.”
His scowl returns with reinforcements and possibly backup from neighboring precincts. “Ms. Julep, this is a potential murder investigation, not a bakery evaluation.”
“Right. Sorry. Murder. Very serious.” I straighten up in my rickety chair, which chooses that moment to emit a protesting squeak that sounds like a small animal in distress. “What did you want to know?”
He pulls out his own notebook, flipping to a fresh page with an efficiency that lets me know he’s done this a thousand times. “Let’s start with why you’re on Kauai. Your background. How you ended up here.”
A gecko skitters across the table between us, pauses to do a tiny push-up, and disappears into the palm fronds above. Even the wildlife has better timing than I do.
“Well,” I begin, settling back as much as the chair allows without risking total structural collapse, “it’s a classic tale of betrayal, bad decisions, and geographical confusion.”
He waits, pen poised, expression unchanged. The man could give lessons in poker faces.
“I’m originally from Ohio. My ex-husband—may he step on Legos barefoot for the rest of his natural life—decided our marriage vows were more like guidelines than actual rules. I found him in our bed with his yoga instructor, which was really the last straw because I specifically told him I didn’t want him doing yoga in the house.” I frown for a moment. “Okay, so it had nothing to do with yoga. The naughty poses were one thing, but the betrayal really sealed the deal.”
Detective Hale’s mouth twitches. It might be the beginning of a smile, or he might just be fighting indigestion from whatever he had for breakfast.
“So, I left. Filed for divorce. Started looking for jobs somewhere far away from the scene of my romantic apocalypse. I thought I was applying for a barista position at a cozy inn in Maine—lobsters, lighthouses, autumn leaves, the whole New England fantasy complete with chunky sweaters and not sweating through my clothes.”
