Learning to breathe underwater was harder than solving murders, but floating in paradise while holding hands with the hottest detective in the Pacific made every moment of panic worth it.
The drive back to the resort passes too quickly, filled with comfortable conversation about island life and an easy silence that suggests this afternoon was more than just snorkeling lessons. As we pull into the parking lot, Koa’s expression shifts back to work mode.
“I need to speak with Giselle Fontaine,” he says, scanning the resort grounds. “Have you seen her around?”
As if summoned by the mention of her name, Giselle appears from the direction of the lobby, wearing a flowing cover-up and carrying what appears to be a very expensive beach bag, brown leather with lots of Ls and Vs stamped all over it.
“Ms. Fontaine,” Koa calls out, stepping from the truck. “Could I ask you a few questions?”
Giselle tosses up her hands with exasperation. “Mon Dieu! I already spoke to your partner,” she says, nodding toward me with a look of frustration. “She will tell you whatever you need to know—I told her everything. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am late for a hot stone massage at the resort next door, where I probably should have stayed to begin with.”
I gasp, partly because I’ve just been outed as conducting unauthorized interrogations, but mostly because my entrepreneurial brain just latched onto something brilliant.
Hot stone massages!
Why don’t we offer spa services?
We could build an entire wellness center! The revenue possibilities are endless!
Koa’s eyes narrow on me with laser focus. “What are you smiling about?”
I try to arrange my features into something resembling innocence. “Thinking happy thoughts?”
“Stay out of my case,” he growls, his voice carrying an authority that doesn’t invite discussion.
“Or else what?” I ask, unable to resist pushing the boundary. “You’ll punish me by way of your lips?”
Okay, fine, it was more of a suggestion than a question.
His frown deepens into something that could carve granite. “Or else you might be next to face the working end of a knife. Jinx, this isn’t a game.”
The way he says my name—with genuine concern wrapped in professional frustration—makes me realize that flirting with a murder investigation might not be my smartest move, even if the detective conducting it makes me forget basic survival instincts every time he takes his shirt off.
CHAPTER 11
Suffice it to say my hot date with the hunk of homicide didn’t end with a steamy smooch like I hoped it would.
Instead, Detective Delicious shook me down for every detail I’d gleaned from Giselle at the chocolate factory, made extensive notes that suggested my interrogation techniques needed serious work, and decided he should track down Breezy himself—without any assistance from amateur detectives with questionable snorkeling skills and a talent for finding trouble in paradise.
The next morning finds me moping around the resort despite having wolfed down three cinnamon rolls the size of dinner plates, because carb therapy has its limitations when it comes to romantic disappointment mixed with professional rejection.
I’ve spent the morning engaged in what can only be described as therapeutic resort management—reorganizing the shell collection in the lobby twice, attempting to teach our resident roosters the concept of indoor voices (a complete failure), and trying to train the cat committee to actually greet guests instead of judging them from strategic hiding spots. The cats, naturally, pretended I didn’t exist.
But as it turns out, the planning for the resort’s new spa has been much more successful. I’ve drawn up floor plans on approximately seventeen cocktail napkins, researched wholesale massage table suppliers, and started mentally calculating the profit margins on hot stone treatments versus the cost of actually heating stones without burning down what’s left of our functional infrastructure.
My front desk hiring efforts, however, have been less inspiring. The first candidate, a college kid named Brad who showed up wearing board shorts and flip-flops, spent the entire interview asking about ourbooze bennies—his words, not mine. The second candidate, a girl named Crystal with more crystals hanging around her neck than a New Age gift shop, wanted to know if she could livestream the spirits she sensed on the property and whether our ghost activity was strong enough to build a social media following.
I turned them both down faster than tourist inquiries about our pool water quality. I didn’t feel like hosting nightly keggers or turning Coconut Cove Paradise into aPoltergeists in Paradisedestination, even if the marketing potential was intriguing.
By late afternoon, I’m sitting on the veranda feeling sorry for myself while a gray tabby plays hide-and-seek in the hibiscus bushes and three hens debate dinner plans near the kitchen door. The island breeze carries the scent of plumeria and my own wounded pride, while the ocean continues its eternal conversation with the shore, completely indifferent to my romantic disasters.
“That’s enough moping for one day,” Lani announces, appearing from the kitchen with her wooden spoon tucked into her apron and the determined expression of a good friend staging an intervention.
Ruby materializes beside her, wearing a bright, unapologetically tropical muumuu. “We’re taking you somewhere tonight to make you feel better.”
“Where?” I ask, though I’m not entirely sure I want to know the answer.
“That’s classified information,” Ruby says as if she’s planning either a surprise party or a kidnapping. “Just dress up a bit and be ready soon. We ride at seven tonight.”
