Leilani “Lani” Mahelona is our kitchen queen, born and raised on Kauai. She’s been working at this resort longer than some of our palm trees have been alive, running the entire food operation through sheer stubborn competence and an impressive collection of wooden spoons she’s not afraid to use as weapons.
Across the span of our little beach, the competition setup resembles what happens when you give party planners a rum budget and tell them to go tropical. Bartenders from every resort and restaurant on the island arrange their makeshift stations as if their livelihoods depend on the angle of a lime wedge—and they just might.
Ice sculptors fuss over frozen masterpieces while garnish artists display their work—a glowing volcano carved into a watermelon, an entire tiki statue comprised of carved pineapple, and other tropical fruits that are equally carved to impress that I can’t quite identify.
The crowd includes hotel managers in aloha shirts that scream “mandatory fun,” locals in flip-flops who actually know what authentic island life looks like, and tourists clutching cameras like weapons of mass documentation. All united intheir appreciation for properly crafted tropical cocktails and the opportunity to judge other people’s mixing techniques.
“Speaking of torture devices,” Ruby says cheerfully, “how is our former supreme overlord adjusting to peasant labor?”
A crash echoes from the coffee bar, followed by what sounds like someone negotiating a hostile takeover with a blender. Melanie’s voice rises above the mechanical protests, suggesting she’s having a philosophical disagreement with equipment that doesn’t appreciate her management style.
“The espresso machine has trust issues,” she growls, heading our way with milk foam decorating her perfectly pressed shirt like abstract art. “I request a double shot, it delivers what I can only describe as caffeinated disappointment. I select steamed milk, it produces something with the consistency of regret.”
“Have you tried apologizing to it?” Lani asks. “Machines respond to respect and proper maintenance.” She’s spent decades training kitchen appliances through a combination of maintenance, threats, and what I suspect might be actual prayers to the machinery gods.
“I don’t apologize to appliances,” Melanie shoots back. “That’s a slippery slope that ends with me having meaningful conversations with the ice maker.”
“The ice maker has better conversational skills than most of our guests,” I point out. It’s true. He’s been known to give me the cold shoulder, but if you keep at it, you can get a decent conversational cube or two out of him.
Two weeks ago, Melanie Luana was my boss, busy sabotaging our improvements to the resort to secure her golden parachute severance package. Now she makes lattes under my supervision, which is either cosmic justice or proof that the universe has a twisted sense of humor.
Melanie isn’t just our resident mean girl—she just so happens to be our resident stunner with dark chestnut locks,perfectly bronzed skin, and eyes that glow as if they were backlit by demons. And well, the jury is still out on that last bit.
Spam launches himself onto a nearby table, and his paws hit the wood with surprising force because this cat has some serious mass. He immediately starts investigating a cup of ice cream someone left unattended. His whiskers twitch with interest as he assesses angles, calculating risk, determining the optimal approach for maximum cream acquisition with minimum consequences.
“Get down from there,” Melanie says, but there’s no conviction behind it. She knows as well as I do that Spam doesn’t recognize authority figures who aren’t actively holding food.
Spam ignores her completely. He dips one paw into the whipped cream, slow and measured, before examining it thoughtfully as cream drips from his toes. Then he proceeds to lick it clean with the satisfaction of a cat committing a crime they’ll absolutely repeat.
“He’s helping with quality control,” Ruby says, watching the operation with approval. “Every good business needs someone willing to taste-test the product.”
“He’s committing dairy theft,” Melanie corrects, but she’s already pulling out a small bowl from the outdoor coffee cart, adding a dollop of whipped cream to it and giving in to feline extortion like the rest of us eventually do.
Spam purrs his approval, settling in as if he’s won this round of negotiations. Which he has. He always does.
The tortoiseshell kitten appears on the opposite side of the bar. She and Spam exchange a look—brief, loaded with meaning, and definitely conspiratorial. Coordinated operations are imminent.
Speaking of crimes…Detective Koa Hale is supposed to arrive tonight. The same man who kissed me two weeks ago—a full-on, pull-you-close, forget-your-own-name situation that rewired mycentral nervous system. And then I invited him to a party. Like a normal person who doesn’t vibrate with anxiety at the mere thought of his presence.
“You’re twitching,” Lani points out, handing me a blue cocktail with ice—ice that comes from a machine that actually produces frozen water instead of our previous lukewarm disappointment dispenser.
“I’m not twitching. I’m exhibiting purposeful micro-movements.”
“Honey, you’re vibrating at frequencies that could disrupt air traffic control,” Ruby insists. “What’s got you wound tighter than my fourth husband’s grip on his wallet?”
My face heats. “Detective Hale is coming to the competition.”
“Ah.” Ruby nods, radiating the wisdom that comes from navigating multiple romantic disasters and living to collect alimony. “The dangerous combination of a steamy make-out session and social invitations. Here’s hoping for a part two of the Big Smooch-a-rama.”
“It wasn’t a make-out session,” I protest, though the lie tastes about as convincing as non-alcoholic beer. “And I invited him for professional reasons. Crowd control, public safety, and making sure nobody gets alcohol poisoning from amateur bartending.”
“Or maybe you want him to sample your smooching technique again for quality assurance purposes,” Ruby says with a grin that could launch a thousand bad decisions. Or a thousand good ones.
If Koa wanted to smooch again, I wouldn’t resist the effort.
The resort sound system crackles to life as someone tests the microphone, producing feedback that makes every bird within a five-mile radius take off for Oahu. The crowd cheers anyway, raising their drinks in premature celebration of competitions that haven’t officially started yet.
Melanie reappears carrying a chai latte garnished with a cinnamon stick, which is fancy considering our previous version came with a side of broken dreams. She sets it down with the satisfaction of a barista who’s finally negotiated a ceasefire with hostile equipment.
