The lobby is mercifully cooler than the café, with trade winds carrying the scent of plumeria through the doors. Koa stands near the front desk, and even though I’ve seen him dozens of times by now, my brain still does that annoying thing where it forgets how to function normally in his presence.
“Morning,” he says, and his voice vibrates through me in all the right places.
“Detective,” I reply, trying for professional composure, and my voice cracks when I say it.
“We need to talk,” he says, nodding toward my desk area behind the front counter. “Privately.”
We settle into chairs that have seen better decades but provide enough privacy for conversation that doesn’t involve theentire resort’s gossip network. It turns out, coconut wireless is a very real thing.
He leans forward slightly, and suddenly the space between us crackles with tension that has nothing to do with murder investigations.
“I did some digging on that event planner you told me about last night,” he says, pulling out his phone. It’s true, he had me synopsize my meet and greet with the island’s resident octopus before I took off from the bar. “Mabel Ortiz has quite an interesting background.”
“Interesting how?” I ask, though I’m distracted by the way the morning light catches in his dark hair and makes those gold flecks in his eyes look like they’re lit from within. Like chocolate sprinkled with gold. Yum.
“The rumors are true,” he says. “She’s been running event planning scams across the West Coast for the past three years. It turns out, she takes deposits for luxury events, cuts corners on everything from permits to safety regulations, then disappears when things go sideways.”
“That would definitely give Coraline ammunition for blackmail,” I observe.
“Exactly. And here’s the interesting part—she’s still on the island.”
He slides closer, ostensibly to show me something on his phone, but really creating a proximity that makes rational thought impossible. I can smell his cologne mixed with ocean air, and when he leans in to point at his screen, his shoulder brushes against mine in a way that sends electricity through the humid air.
“I’ve been tracking her credit card activity,” he continues, his voice low enough that I have to lean closer to hear him. “She’s been staying at the Grand Hyatt, running up quite abill. Expensive dinners, spa treatments, shopping as if she’s celebrating something.”
“Or spending money while she still can,” I suggest, though most of my attention is focused on how his lips move when he talks and wondering what they’d feel like pressed against mine. Heck, I know what they’d feel like, I’ve felt them before. But who’s to say I don’t need a refresher?
“My thoughts exactly.” His eyes meet mine, and suddenly we’re very close, close enough that I can see the individual gold stars in his eyes and the way his mouth curves slightly when he’s thinking. “Jinx...”
“Yeah?” I whisper, because proximity to Detective Hale reduces my vocabulary to single syllables.
He reaches up to touch my face, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone with a gentle precision that makes my heart forget its basic rhythm. The morning light streaming through the lobby windows turns everything golden, and for a moment, the murder investigation fades into background noise compared to the way he’s looking at me.
“You have no idea the things you do to me,” he says, his voice barely above a murmur.
“What’s that?” I ask, though honestly, he could tell me almost anything right now, and I’d probably agree with it.
He leans closer, and I can feel his breath warm against my lips. My eyes flutter closed, and I’m pretty sure this is finally it—the moment when Detective Hale stops being professional and starts being personal, when all this slow-burn tension finally ignites into something that might require a rating change for this investigation, from PG to triple?—
“What is this?” he says suddenly, his voice sharp with surprise.
My eyes snap open to find him staring at my computer screen, where I’d left my browser open to something that’scaught his attention. The romantic moment evaporates faster than ice cream in tropical heat.
“What?” I ask, following his gaze to the screen where my earlier research into local events is still displayed.
“Well, well,” he says, his expression shifting back into full detective mode. “I think I know exactly where we’ll find Mabel Ortiz tonight.”
Being interrupted mid-almost-kiss by a murder investigation lead is either the worst timing or the best investigative luck in my romantic disaster of a life, but judging by the way Koa’s eyes had gone from smoldering to sharp, I’m about to find out which one it was.
CHAPTER 14
The Hanapepe Art Walk happens every Friday night, bringing local artists, overpriced smoothies, and murder suspects trying to blend in with the macramé crowd.
It turns out our next suspect might just be attending tonight’s event, if we’re lucky enough to catch her before she disappears into whatever witness protection program event planners use when their schemes go sideways.
The drive from our resort near Hanalei Bay takes us about forty-five minutes south and west across the island, winding through sugar cane fields and past red dirt roads that lead to places the guidebooks forgot to mention.
Hanapepe sits in a valley along the Hanapepe River, an adorable historic town that managed to survive the sugar plantation era and transform itself into an artist’s haven where galleries and studios occupy buildings that once housed plantation workers and their dreams of something better.
