“Then what?”
“Her ex-boyfriend was a fitness influencer who went viral for a particularly intense burpee challenge. When she broke up with him, he started a social media campaign claiming she was spiritually toxic and blocking his gains. He had two million followers. They started showing up at her yoga studio, her apartment, her grocery store—all filming her for content, asking if she’d ‘healed her toxic energy’ yet.”
I stare at him. “You’re joking.”
“I wish I were. She moved to Kauai and started over. Completely legal, completely understandable, and honestly? I don’t blame her. That guy’s still posting videos about the one who got away from his optimal lifestyle.”
“So, she’s not a criminal, she’s just a woman who escaped an influencer ex-boyfriend?”
“With two million witnesses to her breakup. Modern romance at its finest.”
“I would have done the same. In fact, I sort of did, but with a lot fewer witnesses.”
“We live in interesting times.” He steps closer again, and that heat is back in his eyes. “I’ll be back. I need to get down to the station.”
He turns toward his truck, but not before I catch the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
Ruby and Lani cackle and whoop as they dance their way over to me, stepping carefully around scattered pastries and offended poultry.
“Well,” Ruby says, grinning like someone who’s just witnessed the best entertainment of her life, “I’d say this luau was a complete success.”
I look around at our destroyed dessert table, the sand-covered guests, the chickens pecking at fallen cinnamon rolls, and Spam, who’s sitting on a cooler washing his paws with the dignity of a cat who’s just saved the day.
“Next time,” I say, “we’re hiring professional hula girls—and maybe a couple of ninjas.”
CHAPTER 24
The next week passes in a blur of hammering, sawing, and the kind of transformation that makes you believe in magic—or at least in the power of competent construction workers fueled by unlimited cinnamon rolls and the promise of reputational redemption.
The coffee bar now operates with the efficiency of a Swiss timepiece instead of a mechanical device having an asthma attack. The espresso machine purrs instead of protests, the grinder actually grinds instead of making tragic noises that suggest imminent mechanical death, and I can now produce a latte that doesn’t require a hazmat team for cleanup or an apology to the customer.
The cinnamon rolls are flying off the shelves faster than we can bake them, which is saying something considering Lani and I now start baking at four in the morning just to keep up with demand and also because it seems we hate sleep.
The ice cream machine—miracle of miracles—actuallymakes ice cream instead of expensive frozen disappointment, and we’re selling out by three o’clock every day. We’re so close to having enough money for a second machine, I can almost taste the increased profit margins, and they taste like victory and possibly pineapple upside-down ice cream.
The Hale brothers have worked miracles that would make ancient Hawaiian gods envious of their ability to resurrect the dead. Loco fixed the electrical system so thoroughly that we now have lights that actually light instead of flickering Morse code messages of distress. Shaka tackled the plumbing with the enthusiasm of a man who genuinely enjoys wrestling with pipes, and we now have water pressure that doesn’t require prayer or sacrifice to achieve.
Even the pools look less like science experiments and more like actual bodies of water where humans might voluntarily place their own bodies.
The morning air carries the scent of fresh paint and possibility as I survey our transformed paradise from the lobby. Balmy winds rustle through palms that now look like they belong in a tourism ad instead of a disaster documentary, and the sound of actual guest satisfaction floats through the eternally half-open doors.
I’m about to indulge in a cinnamon roll to celebrate when a shrill whistle comes from the left and all eyes fall on Melanie.
“Emergency staff meeting! All employees to the lobby,” she announces over the resort’s newly functional PA system, her voice carrying the enthusiasm usually reserved for announcing terminal illnesses. “Emergency meeting. Now. Everyone gather. Pronto!”
The staff that assembles in the lobby is a sad, scraggly groupof about ten people who look like they’ve been through several natural disasters and possibly a small war.
Ruby appears wearing a muumuu dotted with neon pink hibiscus, Lani emerges from the kitchen with flour in her hair and her wooden spoon tucked into her apron like a sidearm, and various housekeeping and maintenance staff shuffle in with the resigned expressions of people who’ve learned to expect bad news as a regular job requirement, me included.
Melanie stands behind the front desk wearing her favorite expression—the one that lets us know she’s about to deliver news that will ruin everyone’s day and possibly their lives. Her hair is pulled back into its usual aggressive bun, and her lipstick is that shade of red that warns of an incoming catastrophe.
She takes a moment to scowl in my direction before shedding a wicked smile. “Despite all of Jinx’s silly efforts,” she begins, her voice dripping with a sweetness that comes with a side of arsenic, “the resort is still operating at a significant loss. Therefore, Coconut Cove Paradise Resort will be closing in one week’s time.”
Ruby gasps like she’s been personally wounded. Lani drops her wooden spoon, which hits the tile floor with a clang that echoes through the lobby like a death knell announcing the end of everything we’ve worked for.
“And I,” Melanie continues with barely concealed glee, “will be enjoying my golden parachute.”
“Hope it doesn’t break midway down,” I’m quick to tell her. “It could be fun to watch.”
