Halea struts past us in her scarlet dress with her heels clicking on the tile like she owns the island. She blows a kiss at Erwin, who turns redder than the poke.
Ruby leans in. “Place your bets—how many groomsmen will she seduce before dessert?”
“Three,” I say. “Four if she paces herself.”
The torches flare to life, music spills out from the hired band, and the Coconut Cove Paradise Resort officially becomes ground zero for Candy Tassels’ Wedding Week Extravaganza.
The band strikes up a version of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” so syrupy it could give you cavities. Guests sway, suggesting they’ve already had three mai tais too many, and it’s only been five minutes.
“The music is nice,” Ruby says, swiping a coconut shrimp from a passing tray. “If you ignore the part where they’re butchering Israel Kamakawiwo?ole’s legacy.”
“Don’t say butchering,” I whisper. “This place has seen enough actual murder.”
Lani swoops past with her wooden spoon like a general wielding a sword. “Out of the way, amateurs. I’ve got laulauto deploy.” She elbows through the influencers arranging shots of their plates.
Candy is in full performance mode, twirling under the torches with her glittery caftan catching the flames like she’s auditioning for a Vegas show that no one asked for. And Alana snaps pictures from every angle while barking hashtags like battle orders.
“Hashtag—LoveInParadise. Hashtag—ForeverTassels. Hashtag—CoconutCove.”
“Hashtag—SomebodySaveMe,” I mutter.
Erwin stands off to the side, already sweating through his linen shirt. He raises his mai tai in a half-hearted toast to no one in particular. And yet his bald spot gleams under the lanterns, no matter how much strategic styling he attempted in the mirror.
“Your ex is glowing,” Ruby says, following my gaze.
“That’s not glowing,” I say. “That’s plain old sweat.”
“Same thing in this humidity,” she replies, licking coconut crumbs from her fingers.
I shrug. “He’s going to bomb this marriage just like he bombed the last one, and he knows it.”
The torches flicker, the trade winds roar, and the cats arrive like a furry cavalry. They prowl through the crowd with their tails held high, sniffing plates and glaring at tourists who dare refuse them scraps. One orange cutie leaps onto the dessert table and helps himself to the haupia pudding before anyone can stop him.
The tourists squeal like it’s the best part of the show, and a whole slew of cameras flash in that direction.
“Now there’s some authentic Hawaiian hospitality,” I deadpan.
Halea slinks closer into view, and her scarlet dress clings to every curve as if it were hand-painted. She zeroes in on Detective Koa Hale—because of course he’s here, looming at the edge of the crowd in his official uniform, watching everything with those molten-lava eyes. He had to go and change.
Halea glides up to him, lays a hand on his chest, and purrs something that makes him frown harder than usual. And the entire scene makes me grit my teeth.
Ruby leans my way. “Careful, your jealousy is showing.”
“I’m not jealous,” I sniff. “I’m nauseated.”
“Really?” she says, sipping her mai tai. “Because that looks a lot like you plotting a murder.”
Across the courtyard, movement near the small stage draws everyone’s attention. Candy pops up from her seat, clinking her glass for silence and flashing a smile bright enough to power the tiki torches.
“Okay, everyone!” she calls. “I justhaveto introduce my baby sister, Della Tassels, to you all. She’s one of the best singers to ever pick up a microphone, so make her feel right at home!”
A dark-haired woman who looks a lot like Candy but with softer features gives a quick wave to the sea of people,and the crowd cheers on cue, because who doesn’t love an unexpected performance at a destination wedding?
Someone hands her a ukulele, and she launches into a moody ballad about betrayal and broken hearts that makes the guests shift uncomfortably in their chairs. The entire performance feels like a big mistake. Let’s just say her vocal cords are better suited for communicating with animals who respond to high frequencies rather than a beach filled with innocent eardrums.
Candy claps along like it’s the best performance she’s ever seen while Erwin looks like he wants the ground to swallow him whole.
Della narrows her eyes at Candy while strumming away on her ukulele and howling at the moon—I mean singing. “You’ve never understood tradition, have you?” she screeches. “Everything has to be a little off. A little embarrassing. I suppose this all makes sense, coming from you.” She motions to the chaos before us. “Even the chickens!”
