Page 125 of Hawaii Can Suck It

Onegoal.Onemission.Find Cam.

I’ve faced a live bear while wearing a salmon suit, sprinted through flaming obstacle courses, and even endured the deeply regrettable stunt where I let Blaze shoot arrows at balloons taped to my chest. But nothing—and I mean nothing—has ever made my internal organs as twisted as stepping into this hotel room right now.

Operation Tell Cam I’m Stupidly In Love With Her is a go. Or it will be, as soon as my hand remembers how to turn this doorknob that I’m sweating all over.

Come on, you’re Reece goddamn Dare.You routinely fling yourself off structures normal people wouldn’t consider climbing. You can handle a simple conversation about feelings.

Even if the potential for rejection seems seventy billion times scarier than that time I rode a shopping cart strapped to a rocket.

The resort key card beeps green, and I push open the door to find Cam, cheeks flushed, fresh from the shower, wrapped in a fluffy white robe. She’s toweling off her damp hair, and the whole room is filled with the scent of her coconut shampoo. My mouth goes dry, and every version of my carefully rehearsed speech disappears.

“Hey,” she says, her voice carefully neutral.

“Hey,” I respond as the brilliant wordsmith that I am.

Real smooth, jackass. Shakespeare would be jealous.

As I work to get my brain back online, she gestures toward the far corner of the room.

“Those arrived while you were out.”

I follow her gaze and spot a mountain of boxes. I couldn’t care less. Cam is the only thing on my radar. I open my mouth to speak, but she’s locked and loaded. Too little, too late.

“Is it more merch for us to wear? I do need to plan my outfit for tomorrow. Ziplining and a private Jeep tour.” She’s all business.

Something is seriously wrong. Cam’s walls are so high and thick, I’m wondering if I need a wrecking ball—or possibly a nuclear strike—to bust through them. This isn’t her being busy or distracted—this is deliberate distance. Distance that could be a precursor to goodbye.

I walk over to the boxes, my mind racing through strategies as if I’m planning a complex stunt. How do I approach this version of Cam? I’ve seen her frustrated, annoyed, turned on, amused, horrified—the full emotional spectrum. But distant? Cool? Clinical? This is uncharted territory, and it’s freaking me the fuck out.

I scan the shipping label on one of the boxes:Twist & Tie.

Oh, hell yes. This might actually help.

“These aren’t for me. They’re for you. It’s a surprise.”

Cam lifts an eyebrow. “Another surprise?”

There’s something there in her tone—a little bit of the old Cam creeping back in. I go with it.

“Yeah, I like to surprise my girl.”

She winces when I say “my girl,” a flash of almost physical pain crossing her face.Fuck.

But I’m not backing down. Not now. I know what I want.WhoI want.

I stride toward her with false confidence, like I know what I’m doing—like I’m not mortified that every step closer could mean my happiness slipping away. She looks up and I take her hand—still slightly damp from the shower—and pull her toward the boxes.

“Come on, see what I got you.”

“Reece, you really don’t need to get me things,” she says, her voice softer, almost apologetic. “I’m not expecting it.”

“I didn’t say you were,” I say, squeezing her hand gently. “I enjoy spoiling you.”

She gives me a smile that’s so clearly forced, it might as well have “FAKE” stamped across it in big red letters. It triggers a knot of dread in my stomach, heavy as a nine-pound bowling ball.

“You have to guess what it is before you can open it.” I say, grabbing a box and handing it to her.

Cam gives it a test shake, brows furrowed, lips pursed—as if she’s a bomb technician listening for ticking. Inside, something rattles, a muffled cascade of objects tumbling against the cardboard walls.

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