Page 10 of Hawaii Can Suck It

“I still know what I’m doing behind a camera,” I growl.

“Sure you do.” Cam pats my arm with mock sympathy. “And I’m sure somewhere, buried under all that grump and hair product, is the guy who once inspired me to pick up a camera. You know, back when you made cool content that didn’t have to be sponsored.”

The words slam into me, a wrecking ball to my ego, mainly because they’re true.

“Oh snap!” Mama clutches her chest dramatically. “Helen, our son just got served!”

“Indeed.” Mom’s finger taps thoughtfully against her chin. “Though I’d rate it more of a gentle roasting than a full serving.”

Cam’s smile widens.

Time to switch tactics. I lift the camera, pointing it directly at her. The reaction is immediate—and fascinating. Cam’s usual confidence falters, replaced by something softer, almost vulnerable. The girl whoonce hung off a helicopterto get the perfect shot suddenly can’t meet the lens.

“Now this is interesting.” I adjust the focus, watching her squirm.

“What are you doing?” she says, her voice uncharacteristically shy. “Reece, no—”

“Moms, break out the questions. We need answers.”

“Reece,” Mom warns.

“It’s my wedding day. Pretty sure there’s some universal law about everyone doing whatever the groom wants.”

My mothers exchange their patented “our son is stressed” look—the same skeptical squint they shot me when I dropped the engagement bomb. It’s no secret they’re not thrilled with who I’m marrying today.

“The phrase is bridezilla, not groomzilla, dear,” Mama corrects with a theatrical sigh. “But we’ll play along. Sorry, Camila.”

Through the viewfinder, I watch a blush climb up her neck until pink is flooding her cheeks. Then she bites her lower lip.Is she nervous?

“Mom Hawk, you go first,” I say. “What should we ask her?”

“Let’s start with family, dear,” Mom says with a troubling grin. “Who do we thank for that impressive ability to handle difficult men?”

I make an offended noise. “Me? I’m a delight.”

“Oh really?” Cam suddenly forgets about the camera, and her body relaxes. “Isdelightfulsomething I should feel more of when you criticize my camerawork or when you tell me I dress like a dad on a Home Depot run?”

The wit. The attitude. The way she comes alive the second she’s calling me out. It’s as if I’m watching a completely different person.

“Umm… Born and raised in New York,” she continues, shifting back to shy when she remembers she’s being filmed. “My parents immigrated from Puerto Rico before I was born. And my sister Aria is trying to make it as a chef. She’s incredible. In her spare time, she volunteers at different food kitchens for the homeless and underprivileged kids.”

Wait—sister? Two years of watching her risk life and limb for my content, and I didn’t know she had a sister?

My brain flashes back to when Gordon dragged her into my office like she was a shiny new toy he was delighted to show off. “Fresh out of film school,” he said.

I was overwhelmed with filming, editing, running multiple companies, and in the fresh hell of my fake relationship with Astrid. My channel needed help, and Gordon decided the solution was a videographer.

Worst. Idea. Ever.

Cam’s portfolio was as stacked as she was—artistic shots, perfect framing, and this award-winning documentary that had Gordon salivating. She was brimming with talent and ambition, and, to my immediate dismay, drop-dead gorgeous. The instant she walked in, I knew hiring her was a bad idea.

Because Cam? She’s the kind of woman who makes guys forget things. Important things. Like professionalism. And personal space. And that it’s my fucking wedding day.

Gordon hired her before I could process what was happening. Just clapped her on the back as if they were old friends and declared, “Welcome to the team!”

The second I forced out “Congratulations,” my brain slammed the emergency brakes and threw up a list of survival rules.

Rule one—don’t stare at her ass. Yes, that thing is round and curvy, but do not memorize how it bounces, shifts, and taunts you.

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