Page 11 of Hawaii Can Suck It

Rule number two—keep your eyes on the camera. Whatever you do, don’t drown in those fuck-me hazel eyes.

Rule three—her lips. Don’t look. Don’t wonder. And for the love of God, don’t fucking fantasize about how they’d taste.

I’ve failed at all three. Spectacularly.

So I went with plan B: become the grumpiest boss in YouTube history. Keep her at arm’s length with criticism and complaints. Make her think I’m a demanding jerk who lives to nitpick her camera work. It’s easier than the alternative—admitting how extraordinarily beautiful and talented she is or how badly I want to kiss that sassy mouth, how I would lick every curve and...

Nope.

I’m her boss. Her BOSS!

Hard stop.

The end.

Get the memo, brain-between-my-legs.

“And what’s your dream job, sweetheart?” Mama V asks.

I watch Cam’s entire body language shift through the lens.

“Oh! Working for Reece is—”

“The truth, dear.” Mom’s tone could slice through bullshit at fifty paces.

“Um, well…” Cam swallows hard. “Someday, a long time from now, I hope to make documentaries. Real ones, you know? Help people who need their stories told. The ones society pretends don’t exist.”

Well, shit.

“Oh!” Mama clasps her palms together. “What a beautiful heart you have.”

“So noble,” Mom says, shooting me a look that I steadfastly ignore.

Something possessive stirs as I remember Cam’s phone conversation from earlier. “Speaking of hearts, tell them about your vacation plans. You said something about treating cabana boys like coconut trees… sampling everything on the Hawaiian buffet.”

Her eyes promise slow, painful death, but I can’t help myself. The thought of her with random island douchebags makes me want to punch things. Which is ridiculous because I’m on the verge of getting married and—

“REECE!” Gordon shrieks, his designer loafers squeaking against the floor as he storms over. “What are you doing with that camera? You’re the talent, not the help!” He snatches it from my hands, throwing it at Cam. “I’ve been texting you!”

“Gordon, c’mon now. This is our son’s wedding day.“ Mom Hawk delivers his name like a warning shot.

“Why, hello ladies. Your front-row seats await. It’s showtime!”

I clear my throat. “Hey… ya know, I’m having reserva—”

“Camera girl! Front and center with Reece and Blaze. Now!”

Cam catches my eye, and for a moment that sass disappears. “You good?”

“Absolutely,” I lie. “Let’s get this circus started.”

***

Thisismyfuneral.It seems like a wedding, but trust me, my will to live is DOA.

Every surface of this church sparkles with an unholy amount of glitter. Each guest is more concerned with their ring light positioning than the actual ceremony. The traditional wooden pews have been replaced with clear acrylic chairs—because God forbid anything come across as naturally beautiful. It’s as if Astrid handed Pinterest a blank check and said, “Do your worst.”

“This place is extra as fuck,” Blaze whispers beside me. His bowtie is crooked, and there’s a suspicious flask-shaped bulge in his pocket. “How’s the stomach, man? You look like you’re about to yartz.”

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