“Monk?” I ask, innocently enough, although the mere mention of the hot detective does something to my heart that might land me in the morgue if I’m not careful.
The resort chickens choose this moment to conduct their afternoon examination of the grounds, led by a rooster inspecting the construction progress like checking for code violations. Three hens trail behind him like feathered consultants offering their opinion on proper tiki bar placement relative to optimal bug-catching territory.
“That’s right,” Loco says, setting down bamboo trim with the respect usually reserved for fine art or explosive materials. “Usually by now, he’s got some tourist trailing after him like a lovesick golden retriever, or some local girl trying to reform his bachelor ways with homemade banana bread and strategic bikini displays.”
Pineapple and Spam show up, summoned by the prospect of construction-site drama. They settle into a prime supervisory position on a stack of lumber, their tails swishing with the authority of middle management overseeing a project they have no intention of helping with but every intention of critiquing.
“But lately?” Shaka continues, leaning against the frame of the outdoor bar like he were settling in for some serious investigative work. “Nothing. Radio silence on the romancefront. Zero parade of women. It’s like he’s taken a vow of celibacy or joined some kind of tropical monastery we don’t know about.”
I’ll admit, I’m getting all warm and fuzzy inside just thinking about the fact that Koa is not dating an entire island’s worth of women, which says disturbing things about my self-esteem.
“Maybe he’s just focusing on his career,” I offer with an innocence so pathetically transparent that Shaka laughs out loud. “What? Police work can be very demanding.”
Loco ticks his head to the side. “That’s because you’re giving him a lot to do—by way of dead bodies.”
“He’s not wrong,” Ruby is quick to point out the obvious, and I frown her way because of it.
“Demanding?” Shaka repeats with the skeptical tone usually reserved for tourists claiming that they definitely remembered to put on sunscreen before spending six hours snorkeling.
“Very demanding,” Loco agrees, immune to my masterful performance. “So, demanding that he’s been spending an unusual amount of time checking on resort security. And asking very specific questions about your well-being. And showing up here during off-duty hours to discuss completely unnecessary safety protocols.”
A group of sunbathers sprawled across lounge chairs like human pancakes slowly crisping in paradise turn their heads toward us with the synchronized precision of tourists detecting gossip. They’re arranged in various stages of sunburnthat range from attractive golden glow to lobster impersonation that will definitely require medical intervention.
The surf roars beyond the palm trees while snorkelers bob in the distance like colorful exclamation points against turquoise water, blissfully unaware that my love life is currently being dissected by construction workers with advanced degrees in sibling interference.
“Actually,” Loco says, remembering crucial intelligence, “speaking of family obligations—you know our mom’s birthday is tomorrow night, right?”
I gasp at the thought. “I did not know that,” I admit, wondering if this conversation is heading toward an invitation or an interrogation. “Should I send a card? Flowers? A fruit basket with a note apologizing for corrupting her son’s previously efficient dating schedule?” I bite down on my lip because I did not mean to say that last bit out loud.
Oh heck, we all know it’s true.
“We’ll be having a big family party,” Shaka explains, grinning with the enthusiasm of a man who’s just discovered the perfect ammunition for psychological warfare. “The kind where she expects all her sons to show up with proper dates, proper appetizers, and proper explanations for why they’re still single in their advanced years.”
“Define advanced,” I say, because I enjoy living dangerously while being observed by livestock and supervised by judgmental cats.
“Koa is thirty-eight,” Loco is quick to fill me in on thebirthday digits. “Ancient by Hale family standards. Mom has been making not-so-subtle hints about grandchildren and carrying on the family name. During the last family dinner, she showed up with baby photos and a PowerPoint presentation about the biological clock.”
I’m pretty sure those annoying time markers belong to women, but I keep my poi hole shut.
A rooster crows from somewhere near the tennis court, providing his thoughts on our discussion of advanced maternal expectations and reproductive timelines.
“So naturally,” Shaka continues with interrogation-level logic, “we’re wondering if there’s a particular reason for his sudden hermit behavior. A specific someone affecting his previously reliable bachelor lifestyle.”
“A specific someone who runs a certain resort,” Loco adds, deciding subtlety is overrated in tropical climates.
“And has a certain knack for finding trouble,” Shaka contributes, clearly committed to this tag-team approach to relationship investigation.
“And makes our baby brother smile in ways that suggest his brain has been replaced with haupia pudding,” Loco finishes with the satisfaction of a devastating closing argument.
Both Ruby and Lani cackle like a couple of witches, and I don’t say a word.
The breeze kicks up, sending napkins flying past us as if the universe is throwing a ticker-tape parade for myquestionable love life. Even the palm trees seem to be leaning in to eavesdrop.
But I’m saved from responding thanks to the sound of footsteps on patio stones that have been heated to approximately the temperature of fresh lava. We all turn to see Koa himself approaching, and judging by the look on his face, he’s not all that happy to see us huddled together like this.
He’s got that disheveled look that comes from working in tropical heat—button-down shirt with rolled sleeves, dark wavy hair that’s one ocean breeze away from falling into his eyes, and that holster that somehow makes everything he wears look lethally sexy.
“Having a productive afternoon?” he asks, though his tone suggests he already knows the answer and is contemplating the legal ramifications of sibling homicide in paradise.
