Page 15 of Hula Girl

Though she laughs, the throwback to how I described her stings. “I didn’t mean—” I start.

She holds up a hand. “It’s okay. I get what you meant. I know I can seem closed off.” She laughs ruefully. “My ex would agree with you wholeheartedly on that.”

“Oh, jeez,” I say, “I really didn’t mean to be such a dick. Listen, I’m sorry I said any of that.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“But I am worrying about it. I sometimes don’t know when to shut my mouth. I’m sorry about what I said.”

She meets my eyes for a long, silent moment. And then I see a shift in her gaze. It’s the moment where she’s decided she’s done talking about it because she says, “Maybe we can drop the heavy conversation? I’d love to just … have fun.”

Though I absolutely enjoyed our brief back and forth sharing session, I’m glad to do as she asks. “Of course. Whatever you want, Hula Girl.”

She laughs. “I like the no-names thing, too. That sets the right tone.”

“Two poke,” Makai announces, dropping our bowls down on the table unceremoniously.

We share a look before laughing at Makai’s interruption. When she smiles, her eyes brighten. That I have the power to make that happen gives me a thrill—and makes me want to do it again. And again.

What is it about her?

I can’t say. All I know is that I’m glad she got lost this morning.

And that I found her.

6

Ava

The more tequila I have, the more I enjoy the fact that I don’t know Surfer Boy’s real name. As we eat and drink and chat, I realize the lack of a proper name is giving us permission to do what we really want: flirt until we can acceptably leave this place—together.

The poke was just as he described. I declared myself obsessed after the second bite and he was delighted. We’ve each had another serving of tequila. Make that two servings each. Makai, as Surfer Boy calls him, eventually just leaves the bottle on our table.

I drag my finger over the ornate bottle of Dos Artes Reserva Especial. “You’re right. It’s good. Smooth.” Like your muscles, like your tanned skin, I almost add. He’s just as gorgeous in this dim light as he was in the bright morning sunshine.

“Goes down easy,” he says, his voice just a touch lowered for effect.

I’m surprised to feel myself blushing and the innuendo. I’ve never been shy about sex. That coquettish, girly thing of pretending I don’t really like sex just isn’t me. I definitely like sex. It’s a shame that I’ve been so busy working the last few years that I haven’t had nearly as much of it as I’d like, in fact. But the naked lust in Surfer Boy’s eyes takes me aback. There’s no doubt that we’re in tune with how much we want each other.

“I’ll have to get some of this in LA,” I say.

“When do you head back?” he asks. He’s leaning on his hand, elbow on the table, watching me languidly. Not that I think he has any other mode. He’s relaxation personified. The prototypical surfer dude. I can’t imaginehe’sever been wound tight in his life.

“Three days, not counting the day I leave.”

“What made you vacation on your own?”

“Nothingmade medo anything,” I say with a laugh. But that’s a lie. The truth is that Randall made me come here. But I can’t go into that because I’ve already lied and said I wasn’t a lawyer. “I actually haven’t had a real vacation in six years. This was overdue.”

“Six years? What kind of job do you have that’s kept you from vacationing for six years?”

Whoops. I scramble to think what I can tell him. I consider saying I’m the owner-operator of the house cleaning business that is actually my mother’s. But I don’t want to lie to him any more than I already have.

Instead, I swallow, and say, “Let’s leave the ‘real world’ out of this … thing we’ve got going here.”

He watches me appreciatively. “I can do that. I happen to be really good at—how did you describe it? Living one wave at a time?”

I wince. “Sorry. That was a total oversimplification, wasn’t it?”

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