“Let me guess—your mother’s visit turned intosomething more permanent?” My heart flutters with relief just thinking about it. I can’t help it, I’m a die-hard romantic at heart.
He nods. “They remarried at sunset on Hanalei Beach with the whole island watching. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and also the most embarrassing because my parents were making out like teenagers while a rooster provided the wedding march.”
“That sounds like the Kauai I know,” I say, giving a spontaneous applause to the happy ending, I hoped was coming.
We turn onto a dirt road that winds upward through countryside that looks like some of Mother Nature’s best work here in paradise. Rolling green hills dotted with cattle give way to views of the cobalt ocean that stretch toward infinity, while the scent of wild ginger mingles with the earthy smell of red dirt and the sweet perfume of tropical flowers that have never heard of restraint.
“There,” Koa says, pointing toward a cluster of buildings nestled against the hillside like they grew from the landscape naturally. “That’s home.”
The Hale family compound spreads across several acres of ranchland with a casual abundance that suggests generations of people who understand how to live well without trying too hard. The main house embraces plantation architecture—wide verandas designed for trade winds, steep roofs built to handle tropical rain, windows positioned to catch every possible breeze. Three smaller cottages dot theproperty like satellite homes for adult children or tourists they might want to rent the place out to.
Pineapple fields stretch toward the mountains in geometric patterns that look like agricultural art, while mango trees heavy with fruit provide natural shade for chickens conducting their evening patrol. An entire army of yellow and pink plumeria trees perfumes the air with fragrance so intense it should be bottled, and string lights twinkle between palm trees like tropical stars that fell to earth and decided to stay for the party.
And what a party it is.
There are throngs of people here, bodies everywhere you look—living, breathing ones, thankfully. And I’d like to keep them that way. The smoky scent of barbecue begins to infiltrate our senses, and the faint sound of ukulele music and laughter can be heard in the distance.
We pull into the long driveway, and to our left, we see a whole pig rotating slowly over a barbecue pit that’s clearly been the site of countless family celebrations, sending smoke signals that announcefeast in progressto every hungry person within a five-mile radius. Picnic tables are arranged under the criss-crossing twinkle lights, and those tables are already loaded with enough food to feed a small army, or one very enthusiastic Hawaiian family gathering.
“Oh, my word,” I breathe, taking in the scene that looks like a family reunion crossed with a luau designed by people who understand that happiness is directly proportional to food quantity.
Strangely, I feel like I’m home, like these are my people.
“Welcome to chaos,” Koa says, but he’s smiling when he says it.
“I love it already.”
We park in a sea of cars, and Koa walks us through the crowd, and I can’t help but note how many heads seem to be turning our way. The sky is full of stars, and the balmy breeze picks up just enough to wrap us in a warm island hug.
A woman emerging from the main house, carrying a tray that appears to require engineering support spots us and does a doubletake. Her silver hair is cut in a practical bob, and her sun-weathered hands move with efficiency as she serves the crowd like she’s done this a thousand times. She looks warm and friendly and not at all like someone who might banish me from Koa’s life forever on a whim.
“That’s my mother,” Koa says, though he didn’t need to—the woman approaching radiates maternal authority that makes every other person in the yard straighten unconsciously. I mean that in a good way.
Linda Hale wears a simple sundress and an apron that declares “Kiss the Cook” in both English and Hawaiian, which strikes me as either very confident or very dangerous, depending on your relationship to the kitchen. She’s built like a woman who’s spent decades managing men, weather, and large family gatherings with equal competence.
“Happy birthday, Mom,” Koa says with a wave.
“Makoa!” she calls out, and the way she says his full namesuggests I’m about to witness maternal love in its full tropical glory. “And you must be Jinx!”
Before I can respond with something appropriately charming, a rogue trade wind decides to provide its own introduction. My carefully chosen sundress catches the breeze like a parachute, discovering it’s been deployed at exactly the wrong moment, flying up in dramatic betrayal of fabric that reveals my emergency underwear to the entire Hale family compound.
“GAH!” I scream, trying my best to hold down the fluttering fort, and looking like a panic-riddled rendition of Mariyln Monroe in the process. So. Not. Flattering.
I’m not just wearinganyemergency underwear—I’m wearing the comfortable cotton ones that rise to my boobs with the wordTuesdayprinted across the back, except today is Wednesday, which means I’m not only flashing my undergarments but also advertising my complete inability to manage basic calendar coordination.
Once upon a time, I thought they were practical in a fairy tale sort of way. Apparently, my fairy tale involves getting pantsed by the trade winds in front of my boyfriend’s entire family. Very Brothers Grimm, zero Disney.
I grab frantically at the flying fabric while trying to maintain my balance, my dignity, and my grip on the plate of food that Linda somehow managed to load into my hands during the wardrobe malfunction. The plate tilts with the inevitability of gravity, discovering a new victim, sending haupia flying in a graceful arc that lands squarely on theshoes of an older gentleman who is currently giving me the stink eye.
A chicken materializes from thin air, apparently summoned by the sight of coconut pudding, and begins pecking at the man’s feet while he stands there with a patient expression that lets me know he’s accustomed to livestock assistance during family gatherings.
I had a feeling this family dinner was going to be memorable. I just hadn’t expected it to involve my underwear, airborne pudding, and poultry intervention.
CHAPTER 10
“Well,” says a deep voice from behind the food catastrophe, “at least we know she’s not afraid of making an impression.”
We turn, and Koa nods at his older, more distinguished lookalike right here at the family compound on the night of Koa’s mother’s birthday.
