Ruby runs, and yet the chickens pursue with the determination of debt collectors.
The security team chases the chickens chasing Ruby.
It’s bedlam. Sort of a beautiful, feathered bedlam.
Vendors abandon their posts. Every tourist has their phone out. Somewhere behind us, steel drums play the soundtrack to Ruby’s downfall.
Halea intercepts a security guard with strategic cleavage deployment and a breathless question about vendor permits while Lani and I execute astumblethat sends two hundred shell necklaces cascading across the walkway like the world’s most useless spike strip.
The chickens slip. Security slips. Ruby escapes.
Finally, we collapse in the parking lot, panting and decorated in feathers—it’s like being tarred and feathered but with less tar and more sweat.
“No more chicken charity,” I wheeze.
“Those chickens have better tactical coordination than most military units,” Ruby gasps with grudging respect.
Halea looks like she just stepped off a yacht instead of fleeing poultry-based anarchy. “Ladies, I haven’t had this much fun since my second divorce.” She produces a business card that not only looks but even smells pricey. “Call me anytime for character destruction or emergency distractions. And ask Candy about her motives—just not while she’s armed with that ring light or you might end up on the working end of her social media feed.”
We drive away from what will forever be known as The Great Chicken Incident, leaving festival organizers cursing up a storm.
Today, we didn’t just gather intel.
We’ve gained a partner in crime with excellent taste in men, devastating accuracy in character assessment, and a natural talent for coordinating escapes from poultry-related emergencies.
What more could a girl ask for in a brand-new bestie?
CHAPTER 8
If construction noise at three in the afternoon in eighty-seven-degree humidity counts as paradise, then I’m living the dream and sweating through my second sundress of the day.
The vast back patio of the Coconut Cove Paradise Resort has been transformed into what appears to be a tropical construction zone crossed with a wildlife preserve crossed with a daycare center for adults in various states of sunburn.
Hammering echoes across five acres of beachfront property while the scent of coconut sunscreen mingles with salt air, plumeria blossoms, and what I’m pretty sure is the aroma of dreams coming true in bamboo and electrical wire form.
Koa’s brothers—Loco and Shaka—are installing an outdoor tiki bar that’s going to make every other resort’s beverage station look like a sad folding table at a churchpotluck. And sweet mother of pearl, watching the Hale brothers work should come with a warning label about elevated heart rates and a sudden onset of dehydration.
A few weeks back, they helped me drag the resort back from the brink after I discovered it was held together by optimism and rotting wood—a crumbling infrastructure, no budget, and a reputation circling the drain. The Hale brothers’ construction business had taken an unfair PR hit and needed a high-visibility comeback. So, we cut a deal. I gave them a showcase renovation and rave reviews, and they worked for cinnamon rolls while we rebuilt our reputations side by side. Desperation makes great business partners—especially when they’re absurdly attractive and competent.
Shaka—with his man-bun defying both gravity and the trade winds, his traditional Polynesian tattoos glistening with honest construction sweat, muscles that move under golden skin in ways that make me question my commitment to staying hydrated—hefts a bamboo support beam with the ease of a man hefting a pool noodle. His dark hair is pulled back in that infuriating style that should look ridiculous but instead makes him look like a Hawaiian warrior taking a break from conquering islands to build me the perfect mai tai dispensary.
Loco works the electrical connections with a precision that suggests he’s made peace with both circuit breakers and the mysteries of tropical humidity. He’s leaner than Shaka but no less devastating to the female nervous system, sun-streaked hair catching the afternoon light, that wicked grinthat could power our backup generator if we hooked it up to the electrical grid properly. He moves with an efficiency that assures you he could bench press a small car.
“Looking good, boys,” I announce, approaching with iced coffee that’s more coconut syrup than actual caffeine at this point. “I guess it could be multi-functional, a coffee bar, a liquor bar, and a French fry bar.”
“How about a shave ice station, too?” Loco suggests. “We figured you could use something that doesn’t end in lawsuits or police investigations.”
“Shave ice? Really?” My mouth begins to water at the thought of the frosty treat.
Shaka nods. “Family-friendly, high profit margin, and nobody has ever been strangled over a snow cone. It seems like a safe bet for this place.”
A mother strides by, herding six toddlers on leashes—six—and have I mentioned leashes? Each one of them is wearing matching pineapple swimsuits and shrieking with the enthusiasm of tiny humans discovering that sand tastes terrible but is still somehow irresistible. The woman looks as if she’s training sled dogs in bikinis, managing her herd of sugar-fueled chaos with the calm of a professional wrangler. And frankly, I respect the commitment to both safety and tropical fashion coordination.
One kid darts toward the koi pond, another screams for shave ice, a third appears to be eating a flower, and the woman doesn’t even flinch.
I want to hand her a trophy or a frozen cocktail—or both.
“Speaking of handling things, I’ve got a question about a certain detective,” Shaka says, deciding this is the perfect moment for a little sibling reconnaissance. “What’s the deal with my kid brother suddenly going monk on us?”
