His mouth kicks up. “Come on, let’s get this done.”
We head inside, and a man rises from under the hood of a truck in the middle bay, wiping his hands on a rag. He’s big and wearing a grin that’s genuine from the second he spots Luca.
“Koa,” Luca calls out.
Koa’s eyes flick to me, quick and assessing, but not in the slimy way I’m used to. More like he’s checking the situation because Luca brought me here, which somehow makes me suspicious for an entirely new reason.
“This your van, yeah?” he asks.
His voice is warm and easy, local in that unmistakable way, the words rolling softer at the edges. Up close, he looks even more solid than he did from a distance. Dark golden-brown skin, thick black hair pulled back at the nape, forearms streaked with grease and tattooed from wrist to elbow in bold patterns that disappear under his shirtsleeves.
I raise a brow before Luca can answer. “I do actually have a name.”
Koa’s grin flashes wider. “Shoots, I was hoping you did.”
Luca mutters, “Told you.”
I fold my arms. “You told him what, exactly?”
“That you had a mouth on you.”
Koa lets out a low laugh, clearly enjoying himself. “I like her already.”
Then he turns to Luca, and his whole face opens up. “Brah, good to see you. Been too long.”
He grabs Luca’s hand, pulling him into that quick clasp-and-shoulder-bump that only happens with people who go way back.
“You made good time.”
“When don’t I?” Luca says. “This is Adelaide.”
Koa looks back at me. “I’m Koa.”
“Hi.” I shake his hand, and he shifts his grip right away when he realizes I’m not braced for the full mechanic-crusher version, which I appreciate. “Thanks for doing this on short notice.”
“A’ole pilikia. Anything for this one.” He jerks his chin toward Luca. “Van’s round back, all opened up. Tires gotta come mainland. Need the right load rating, yeah? Otherwise, she gonna ride all stupid.”
“A few days?” I ask.
“Maybe less, if one salvage yard comes through.” He shrugs. “Guy’s looking at it.” Then he gives Luca one solid clap on the shoulder. “Holler if you need me.”
He heads back into the bay, and one of the other men calls something at him from under a lifted truck. Koa fires back in a quick stream of local English too fast for me to catch more than a few words, and whatever he says makes both of them laugh.
Luca jerks his head for me to follow, and we head around the back of the building, where the whole lot opens up. More parts stacked in rows. An old Camaro up on blocks that looks like it’s been there since the nineties. A faded couch shoved over a tarp. And there, under a corrugated shelter in the far corner, is my van.
She looks weirdly lonely sitting there.
Luca opens the rear doors, and I climb in and start going through what’s left, grabbing a bag and filling it with more essentials. Clothes, toiletries, shoes, which is genuinely the one fortunate thing about today. I pass two bags out to Luca, and he holds them open as I fill them with more things, including my snacks, as they are not going to waste.
“You surf really well,” he says from outside.
I pause with a T-shirt in my hands. “Was that a compliment? From the professional surfer?”
“It’s an observation from someone who’s been on a board a long time.” He leans against the van. “Anyway, you surf like you’ve been doing it most of your life.”
“That means a lot coming from you,” I murmur, loving that it brings a smile to his face because this guy’s grin unleashes the butterflies in my stomach.
“When I left the military, I carried a lot of baggage. Couldn’t sleep or sit still. I struggled to really figure out who I was outside of work. So I got a board and started going out every morning. Hours of surfing every single day. It gave me something to focus on that wasn’t everything else.”
