“The machine and I have achieved mutual understanding,” she announces. “I provide proper maintenance and respectful operation, and it produces beverages that won’t require emergency room visits. It’s a delicate treaty built on fear and caffeine dependency.”
“Your negotiation skills are getting better,” Lani says approvingly before looking my way. “Now explain this celebrity judge situation. We’ve got professional bartenders, food bloggers with inflated egos, and some television personality coming to critique our humble island paradise?”
“That’s right. The TV personality would be Coraline Starling,” I say, consulting the clipboard that’s become a permanent appendage since accepting the manager position. “She’s the host of ‘Sip, Swirl, Repeat’ and self-appointed Mai Tai Royalty. According to her demands—sorry,requirements—she needs premium everything, a bunch of organic nonsense, and accommodations that don’t include rustic charm or anything suggesting we’re actually located on a Hawaiian island in the Pacific.”
“Delightful,” Ruby says. “Nothing says authentic tropical experience like demanding we hide every trace of authentic tropical atmosphere.”
We watch as the bartenders arrange their stations like artists preparing masterpieces. Makeshift bamboo bars show off themes ranging from elegant tropical sophistication to pirate shipwreck chic, complete with fake treasure chests full of rum bottles that probably cost a fortune.
Lucky for them, the cats or the chickens can’t take off with one of those bottles. Although if I’ve learned anything during my short time here, it’s never underestimate the wildlife—or an island that serves mai tais with a side of murder.
CHAPTER 2
The sound of tires crunching on gravel mixed with bass-heavy music pulls our attention toward the front of the resort, and as soon as we hear it, Ruby, Lani, and I take off in that direction, curious about which VIP arrival is making all the racket.
A dark van with heavily tinted windows rumbles to a stop in our driveway with its music thumping loud enough to wake ancient Hawaiian spirits and probably violate several noise ordinances specifically designed to protect marine life.
Three crew members emerge carrying enough camera equipment to film their own documentary series, followed by a woman who looks like she’s making her grand entrance at an awards ceremony where she’s already won everything.
I recognize the woman at first glance.
Coraline Starling steps out as if she’s walking a red carpet—platinum blonde, diamond-studded resort wear that probably required its own security detail, baubles catching the tiki torch light as if she’s smuggling the crown jewels.
She surveys our slice of paradise with marked disdain, like she’s just discovered her luxury suite is actually a roadside motel with delusions of grandeur and a serious pest control problem.And she might be right if her definition of pests includes geckos, chickens, or cats.
“Sweet mother of pearl,” Ruby murmurs. “She looks like she wandered off a yacht and hasn’t forgiven the universe for making her slum with the rest of us.”
“She looks like hotness collided with a hurricane,” I say.
Lani shakes her head. “She looks like she’s never met a mirror she didn’t want to marry.”
I shrug at the thought. “Perhaps all three.”
“I’m betting it’s less than thirty minutes before she demands we relocate the ocean to somewhere less inconvenient,” Lani predicts.
Spam, demonstrating his usual impeccable timing for chaos, chooses this moment to leap from the sky directly onto the front of Coraline’s van. He sits there like a furry hood ornament, his tail swishing like a windshield wiper, watching the crew unload equipment with the critical eye of a film director who’s already identified seventeen problems with the production.
And to my horror, it looks as if his weight just made a visible dent in the vehicle. For a cat, he’s got surprising mass. It’s probably all that sashimi he’s been embezzling. Okay, fine, the cinnamon rolls I’ve been feeding him haven’t helped either.
“That cat is not supposed to be there,” Coraline is quick to reprimand us.
“Spam goes where Spam wants,” I say, which is both completely true and utterly unhelpful. “He’s part of our authentic island experience.”
I’m not rushing to rescue Coraline’s van because, honestly, watching Spam establish dominance over expensive production equipment is exactly the type of territorial power play this situation needs. He’s claiming the high ground. Asserting authority. Making it clear who actually runs this resort.
Spoiler: it’s not me.
Coraline glides toward us with the confident stride of a diva accustomed to having reality rearrange itself for her convenience. Her camera crew follows like well-trained servants with their equipment ready to document her every profound observation about our inadequate attempt at tropical hospitality.
She glances down at my name tag. “Ms. Julep.” Her voice carries the faux warmth of a woman who’s built an empire on being charming for exactly as long as the cameras are recording. “I’m Coraline Starling. I trust you’ve received my specifications for tonight’s event?”
“Every single unreasonable demand,” I confirm, about to shake hands with someone who probably expects ceremonial protocols involving flower leis and maybe a virgin sacrifice. Did I say “unreasonable” out loud? I clear my throat. “Welcome to Coconut Cove Paradise Resort. You can call me Jinx, and this is Ruby and Lani, the people who actually keep this place from collapsing into the ocean.”
“Charming,” Coraline says, though her smile says she finds us about as charming as stepping in gum. Her gaze sweeps across our setup—the handmade banners, the rattan furniture we’ve rescued from various stages of decay, the cats currently conducting what appears to be a strategic plotting session near the bar area. “Well, this is all very... authentic,” she adds, making “authentic” sound like a communicable disease she’s worried about catching.
“We preferparadise with personality,” Ruby says sweetly. “Not everyone can tell the difference between genuine character and manufactured perfection, but we cater to discerning guests who appreciate the distinction.”
I nod. “And I’m sure after a few mai tais you won’t even be able to tell which island you’re on.” True as gospel.
