“I do hope you can manage to get through the week without any of your usual complications, dear.” She continues walking, leaving me with the distinct feeling that if complications do arise, she’ll make sure everyone knows exactly who to blame.
The roosters start crowing again, the trade winds carry the scent of approaching evening rain, and somewhere in thedistance, I can hear the waves hitting the shore with a rhythm that usually means a storm is coming.
Is it bad that I hope it’s a hurricane?
Seven days until the unholy deed is done, which means far too many hours of managing my ex-husband’s destination wedding, his passive-aggressive mother, his artificial fiancée, her cultural-appropriation-expert business partner, and a wedding planner who could seduce a statue.
What could possibly go wrong?
Everything.
Have I mentioned murder?
CHAPTER 2
Coconut Cove has never smelled so much like money. Orchids dangle from every beam, plumeria leis are stacked as if we’re running a floral cartel, and the tiki torches are lined up military-style, waiting for someone to accidentally set their muumuu ablaze.
Evening has settled over the resort like a warm blanket soaked in perfume, the trade winds are whipping my hair around as if I’ve offended them personally, and in less than an hour, Candy Tassels’ wedding circus officially kicks off with her so-calledLove in Paradise Luau. Translation—it’s a seven-day social media siege complete with hashtags, matching outfits, and more ring-light selfies than this island has the bandwidth to handle.
The entire beachfront of the resort has already turned into wedding central. And I’ll admit, the cobalt Pacific, thepale sand, and the orange-kissed sky make for a romantic backdrop. And don’t get me started on all the flowers.
“Who ordered all this floral nonsense?” I mutter, trying to balance a tray of pupus while sidestepping a rooster who’s currently blocking the lobby door like he’s head of security. Normally, I love flowers, but since these are specifically designated for my ex’s impending nuptials to the Queen of Nipples, I’m not feeling all that jovial.
Ruby appears at my side in a turquoise muumuu splattered with hibiscus prints that could be seen from the Big Island. She flicks her red braid over her shoulder and gives the rooster a glare. “I swear these roosters have unionized. He’s been on door duty all afternoon.”
“He’s doing a better job than half the staff,” I say. “At least he doesn’t charge overtime.”
The rooster crows in my face, which I take as agreement.
Out by the buffet tables, Lani is bossing the junior staff as if she’s commanding a five-star restaurant. “No, no, no. Pineapple skewers on the left. The laulau goes on the right. And somebody get those cats off the poke table before they help themselves.”
Three cats stare back at her from the table, tails flicking, clearly weighing whether raw ahi qualifies as fair game. Spoiler: it does.
I set my tray down and fan myself with the clipboard that’s been permanently glued to my hand since Candy’s people took over the place. “Why did I agree to this again?”
Ruby grins. “Because the idiot you were married to begged. And because Candy is paying triple the going rate.”
Right. My ex-husband’s wedding. At my resort. Because apparently, my bad luck is an overachiever.
The sound of tires crunching against gravel comes from the front of the resort, signaling that the first shuttle of wedding guests has arrived.
Ruby peers in that direction like she’s about to narrate a red-carpet event. “Here we go. Mainland money meets island humidity. Oh, look—matching linen outfits. Didn’t see that one coming.”
A crowd spills onto the lanai—women in gauzy white dresses, men in linen shirts already clinging damp with sweat, and Candy herself in a glittery caftan that screams sponsored content. She poses under the torchlight while Alana circles with a camera. Alana’s bob is razor sharp, her phone case sparkles, and her expression says she’d sue the sun if it dared set without her approval.
Candy throws her arms wide. “Aloha, darlings! Welcome to paradise!”
The guests cheer as if she just parted the ocean.
Ruby leans my way. “If she says aloha one more time, I’m throwing her in the koi pond.”
“Don’t,” I say. “We just had it cleaned.”
Bertha shuffles through the door in a floral muumuu and orthopedic sandals, her purse swinging like a wrecking ball. She takes one look at the orchids and snorts. “Too much.Weddings should be simple. Roast chicken and sheet cake in a church basement. Not this carnival.”
Her eyes land on me. “If you’d learned how to cook a proper pot roast, maybe my Erwin wouldn’t have strayed.”
“Oh, my word.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “It’s not even cocktail hour, and I already need a drink.” Or the entire bottle.
