Before Coraline can escalate things to actual warfare, a brunette glides across the sand toward us, looking like someone who’s never met a room she couldn’t improve or a rival she couldn’t demolish.
She’s got that effortless chic thing mastered—black cocktail dress with dramatic hibiscus flowers in shocking pink stamped all over it, strappy heels that have absolutely no business on sand, and statement jewelry that clinks with every movement like expensive wind chimes having an anxiety attack.
“Still pretending to be relevant, I see,” she says to Coraline, and the insult sounds almost sophisticated with her Frenchaccent. She’s petite with an angular bob cut, flawless makeup, and a crimson pout that looks rather permanent. Everything about her screams, “I’d rather be in France.”
Coraline’s smile could violate several island safety regulations. “Ladies, allow me to make introductions.” She gestures to the handsome man first. “This is Brock Canton—though everyone calls him Breezy because grown men need nicknames that sound like weather patterns. He distills rum and thinks that qualifies him as a craftsman.”
“And this,” she continues, gesturing toward the Parisian vision, “is Giselle Fontaine. She makes dessert cocktails for people who can’t decide between diabetes and liver damage.”
Ruby appears at my elbow, now wearing what can only be described as a sequined explosion accessorized with a lei made entirely of bottle caps. I bet the fact that Coraline is dripping with diamonds played into this quick change. Ruby isn’t one to be outdone in the fashion disaster department.
“Oh, this is going to be good,” she whispers. “Someone should be filming this.”
“I am,” Coraline nods to the production team she has stationed around the resort.
“Charming introductions all around,” Giselle says, extending a perfectly manicured hand my way. “You must be the resort manager I heard about. The one who survived the recent murder drama and management apocalypse.”
“That would be me,” I confirm, shaking hands with someone whose grip could crush walnuts or reputations with equal ease. Wow. For a pretty little petite thing, she sure has the grip of a gorilla. A French gorilla. “Jinx Julep,” I say, “professional disaster coordinator and part-time miracle worker.”
“The improvements since she arrived are honestly incredible,” Lani chimes in, deciding to showcase our recent victories before anyone can dwell too heavily on our corpse-related history. “There’s the new kitchen equipment that doesn’t require an exorcism, the functional plumbing, and coffee that won’t send you to the emergency room—anymore.”
I shoot her a look. That was one time.
“Don’t forget about our famous cinnamon rolls,” Ruby adds with a touch of pride. “We can’t bake them fast enough. And the ice cream line has become a full-contact sport, with guests bribing strangers to let them cut ahead before supplies run out.”
I nod. “The best part is you don’t have to be a resort guest to empty your bank account here,” I add with a touch of cheer. “We’re equal opportunity financial vampires with a commitment to extracting maximum currency from anyone brave enough to visit our slice of paradise.”
Giselle’s heavily drawn-in eyebrows hike a notch. “How refreshingly honest about the exploitation.”
Breezy laughs. “Better than being dishonest and pretending your dessert cocktails constitute actual nutritional value,” he grins as he says it, taking any real bite out of his words.
“You would know.” Giselle takes a moment to glare at him before looking over at Coraline. “Though I suppose when one’s entire career is built on Instagram filters and sponsored content, authenticity becomes negotiable.”
Coraline’s eyes flash with something that looks suspiciously like premeditated homicide. “I’m not here to play verbal patty-cake with amateur distillers and pastry chefs having delusions of culinary grandeur.” She pivots on designer sandals that feature enough glitter and glitz to make the stars jealous and stalks toward the competition area where her camera crew materializes around her with the efficiency of well-trained sharks.
The filming begins immediately with lights illuminating her platinum blonde hair and gold sequined top until she resembles an extremely irritated disco ball.
Breezy sighs, watching her dramatic exit with zero surprise. Clearly, he’s dealt with difficult personalities before. “Well, that went better than I expected.”
“How is that even remotely possible?” I ask.
He bobs his blond shaggy hair my way. “Usually, she threatens lawsuits and has called her lawyers by now.”
The competition kicks into high gear around us with bartenders manning their stations and judges circulating with clipboards, their expressions suggesting the fate of western civilization hangs in the balance of proper rum-to-juice ratios and garnish presentation. And honestly, in Hawaii, it sort of does.
Melanie appears beside us and surveys the lay of the soon-to-be-drunken land. “I should sample the merchandise,” she announces, with a determined expression that suggests she’s decided tonight calls for extensive research into local alcohol quality standards. “For professional evaluation purposes, naturally.”
“Naturally,” I agree. “It’s a very thorough management technique. And since the actual manager should remain sober for the evening, I hereby deputize you as my official taste-tester. Go forth and sample responsibly. Or irresponsibly. I’m not your mother.”
She disappears into the crowd with practiced stealth, perfected from years of avoiding actual work while appearing professionally engaged. That was sort of her specialty.
“We should investigate the competition,” Lani says, eyeing the various stations like each one posed a threat to her kitchen. “We need to see what we’re up against.”
“Excellent reconnaissance mission,” Ruby agrees. “I’ll conduct a comprehensive analysis of presentation techniques, flavor profiles, and whether any of these bartenders might be single and financially stable.” She pulls her shoulders back as ifto show off two of her best glittering assets, even if they are just south of her belly button.
They wander off toward the nearest thatched bar, leaving me alone in the middle of what can only be described as controlled tropical chaos.
The beach pulses with energy—tourists in resort wear ranging from tastefully tropical to aggressively themed, locals in casual island attire that actually makes sense for sand and salt air, bartenders dressed in everything from traditional aloha shirts to full pirate regalia because some people take theme nights very seriously indeed.
