“With Della running a distant fourth for career resentment, and Candy bringing up the rear—because killing the person who controlled every aspect of your life isn’t the worst motive I’ve heard.”
Koa tips his head as he examines me in the tiki torch light, the idea of a smile tugging at his lips. “That’s a solid amateur detective analysis,” he says with what might beprofessional respect or might be amazement that I haven’t gotten myself killed yet. My guess is both.
“I prefer enthusiastic amateur with solid instincts. We can skip the self-preservation critique.”
“That’s a very specific category.”
“I’m a very specific woman. Besides, you seemed to enjoy watching my interrogation techniques in action.”
“Your interrogation techniques involved getting intimately familiar with fire safety procedures while a crowd cheered and threw money.”
“All in the name of justice. And possibly mild exhibitionism in front of attractive law enforcement.” I give a sly wink his way, and that smile he’s fighting expands a notch.
“You know,” Koa says, dropping his voice to an octave that makes rational thought temporarily unavailable, “for conducting a freelance murder investigation, you’re surprisingly...”
“Irresistible?” I suggest helpfully, because I enjoy finishing sentences with maximum confidence. It’s rare, but it happens.
“I was going to say dangerous, but irresistible works, too.” His eyes stay trained on mine. His lips curve just enough as if he’s spotted his dinner.
He leans in with slow, deliberate movement—the kind that promises proper romantic technique in tropical settings. The moment builds perfectly as the waves crash like a love song, stars twinkle overhead doing their best impression of mood lighting, and the satisfaction of shareddetective work creates ideal kissing-in-paradise conditions.
Just as his lips reach approximately three inches from mine and I’m calculating optimal romantic angles for noses and such, his phone erupts with the aggressive ringtone of terrible timing, and completely destroyed romance.
“Who could that be?” he mutters, checking his screen with a grunt because we both know his job has consistently poor timing when it comes to romantic moments.
He winces. “I’d better take this,” he says with the reluctance of choosing professional duty over paradise kissing opportunities.
The conversation involves a lot of “Yes, sir” and “I’ll be right there” while I sit watching my perfect romantic moment dissolve like cotton candy in a tropical rainstorm. Koa’s expression shifts from romantic interest to professional focus faster than the weather changes in paradise.
“There’s been a break in the case,” he announces, already standing and reaching for his keys.
“What kind of break?” I ask because I believe in miracles like police officers sharing confidential information with civilian girlfriends.
Wait, am I his girlfriend? Don’t we have to declare these things before I can say them? Things were so much easier in that department back in middle school.
“I’m sorry, Jinx. I can’t discuss the details, but something significant has developed. I need to get you back to the resort and head to the station.”
The drive back happens in record time, with Koa clearly processing new information while I attempt to extract details through strategic questioning that proves completely unsuccessful. The man’s been trained to resist interrogation by determined amateurs.
“Will I see you tomorrow?” I ask as he pulls into the resort parking lot with the speed of a detective with places to be and mysteries to solve.
“It depends on how this develops,” he says, giving me a quick kiss that tastes like unfinished business and tropical frustration. “Stay out of trouble.”
He drives away, leaving me standing in the resort parking lot with more questions than answers, romantic frustration, and burning curiosity about what kind of case development could interrupt perfectly good nacho-sharing and kissing opportunities in paradise.
Spam trots my way in all his fluffy, orange glory, and I quickly scoop him up and drop a kiss on his furry forehead.
The wedding is tomorrow. Our suspect list is narrowing. And somewhere in police headquarters, Koa is getting information that might crack this case wide open like a coconut, while I’m left wondering if our tropical romance will always get interrupted by a murder investigation.
At least the nachos were excellent.
CHAPTER 19
If paradise had a sense of humor, it was in full slapstick mode for Candy and Erwin’s big night. The wedding was scheduled for sunset—dreamy, romantic, the whole tropical destination wedding nine yards. Instead, the sky opened up just as the guests took their seats, and rain came down in sheets thick enough to drown the décor. Plastic covers flew like parachutes, mai tais diluted into sad puddles, and the chickens, sensing opportunity, rushed the dessert tent like feathered mercenaries.
“Rain on your wedding day is good luck,” Ruby shouts over the downpour while shielding her head with a napkin.
I dab at my face with a cocktail umbrella. “Tell that to the roasted pig drowning on the spit.”
