Coraline’s smile curves into something so sharp, it could perform emergency surgery. “Of course. I’m certain our viewers will find it educational.”
I can’t help but frown. Calling something educational is akin to calling a disaster “a learning opportunity.” And well, that might as well be the slogan for our fledgling resort.
A rooster chooses this moment to deliver his evening editorial to the entire North Shore, his crow echoes off the mountains with the enthusiasm of a feathered fiend who’s been waiting all day for exactly this audience. And the beach crowd applauds, finding that avian commentary adds to their authentic island experience.
Spam has relocated from the van to Coraline’s designer luggage, currently sprawled across her largest suitcase as if he’s claiming territory for future napping purposes. His ginger fur contrasts beautifully with what I’m guessing is very expensive leather. He’s shedding with purpose, making his presence known, establishing that this is his resort and she’s just visiting. Sort of the way he sheds in my bed at night. Definitely the same principle.
Another rooster crows and blows out unsuspecting eardrums.
“Will that be a recurring interruption during filming?” Coraline asks, her tone suggesting roosters rank somewhere below jury duty and airport security pat-downs on her list of acceptable environmental features.
“Only if you’re expecting Kauai instead of a sanitized theme park version,” Lani says mildly. “The roosters come standard with the tropical experience. Along with trade winds, crashing ocean waves, and the occasional gecko running through your sheets.”
Coraline gasps at the thought of geckos running amok in her pillow case, then spots the lazy orange blob becoming one with her suitcase and belts out a short-lived scream.
I scoop up Spam before he can do permanent damage to Coraline’s luggage—or she could do permanent damage to him. And he immediately goes into his limp-noodle routine again, purring like he’s never caused a single problem in his entire life. His amber eyes watch Coraline, assessing. Calculating. Already planning his next act of terror.
“Sorry about that,” I say, though I’m not particularly sorry. “Spam is sort of the resort’s official welcoming committee.”
“How quaint,” Coraline says, eyeing Spam like he might be carrying exotic diseases or revolutionary ideology. He might, but that’s beside the point.
Spam meows. The sound pitches perfectly between a friendly greeting and a subtle threat. It’s impressive, really, the vocal range this cat can achieve when making a point.
His purr vibrates through my chest, warm and rumbling. His weight settles into my arms like he’s decided this is where he belongs now. Which means he’s either genuinely affectionate or setting up his next con. With Spam, it’s always fifty-fifty.
Headlights sweep across our resort entrance, illuminating palm fronds and the small army of cats that have positioned themselves like furry security guards along the entry to the resort.
Spam’s tail goes rigid.
The tortoiseshell’s ears flatten.
The black and white tuxedo cat stopped mid-step as if he’d seen a ghost.
When the entire kitty collective agrees something is amiss, you pay attention. They’re not sensing social anxiety or romantic complications. They’re warning me that something nefarious isabout to crash my mai tai party, and knowing my luck, it will show up with a film crew and complaints about the roosters.
I looked up at Coraline Starling and gasp. Here’s hoping I didn’t just jinx the night.
Although Jinx is my name, and well, it’s sort of my game, too.
CHAPTER 3
Paradise has a way of making everyone look innocent—right up until they open their mouths.
The beach in front of the resort transforms into tropical chaos central as night settles over Coconut Cove like a velvet curtain, someone bedazzled with stars.
Thatched bar huts line the sand in perfect formation, their bamboo frames wrapped in enough twinkle lights to signal extraterrestrial life forms that we’re open for business. A balmy breeze carries the intoxicating blend of grilled pineapple, coconut oil, and the particular brand of mayhem that comes with giving tourists access to premium rum and competition-grade blenders.
A Hawaiian band on the makeshift stage croons a mix of traditional island music and cover songs that sound like they’ve been fed through a tropical translation machine—apparently, “Sweet Caroline” becomes infinitely more soothing when sung in pidgin with a ukulele accompaniment.
Lani, Ruby and I migrated back to the Mai Tai Madness Mix-Off with Coraline in tow. The crowd is thick, the liquor is strong, and this slide of Hanalei Bay is rowdier than a frat house at midnight.
“Well, if it isn’t Hawaii’s answer to craft distilling.” Coraline’s voice cuts through the musical chaos with the precision of a knife sharpened on disappointment. She’s zeroed in on a man who just emerged from behind one of the thatched huts, and her smile could flash-freeze the Pacific.
The target of her venom is built like a Hawaiian god who spends his days wrestling with waves and winning. He has sun-weathered bronze skin, shaggy blonde hair that looks as if it’s been styled by ocean wind and salt spray, and a confidence that comes from never having to explain why you don’t own shoes.
He’s wearing board shorts featuring enough tropical fish to stock an aquarium, a vintage Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned to showcase a chest made of flint, and a puka shell necklace that lets me know he takes his island lifestyle very seriously or has excellent taste in tropical accessories.
“Nothing like some true-blue aloha to make a guy feel welcome,” he says, his voice warm enough to suggest he’s perfected the art of deflecting insults with charm. He’s a looker, I’ll give him that, and he also looks to be somewhere in his fifties. His grin could probably melt permafrost and definitely explains why the female tourists are lining up to order drinks from whatever bar he’s working.
