Page 156 of Hawaii Can Suck It

This isn’t our house in LA.

Or that castle hotel near Paris where Reece surprised me for my birthday last month.

Or the Airbnb in Costa Rica where we filmed the sea turtle conservation series.

My hands slide across unfamiliar silk sheets, definitely not the organic cotton ones Reece insists on buying because “they’re better for the environment, Cam.” I squint, making out a distinct outline of jungle plants against dark walls. And—¡Ay, Dios mío!—is that a sex swing in the corner?

Maui. We’re back at the Aloha Amour Resort.

A shiver races down my spine as I realize I’m completely naked. Again. I swear I went to bed wearing the cute matching set from that boutique in Tokyo, but Reece must have some kind of sleep-stripping superpower. The man’s magic fingers can remove lingerie without disturbing my REM cycle. I’d be impressed if I weren’t freezing my tits off right now.

Because once more, he’s stolen every single blanket.

I glare at the Reece-shaped burrito next to me. Somehow the guy’s wrapped himself in all the available bedding, as if he’s burrowing in for the winter. Only his face is visible, his dark hair sticking up in tufts on the pillow.

HNRFFF-zzzthbt. Mmmrrph. Hhhnkshhpoo…. Snkxxkchh…!

The snoring. Dear God, the snoring—imagine evil scientists crossbred a motorcycle with a congested walrus. How can somebody so ridiculously gorgeous sound like he’s crunching rocks with his teeth?

Still, my heart totally flips watching him sleep, enjoying that sweet, secret smile he used to hide behind scowls and barked orders.

Now? It’s mine—when he wakes up, when he finds me editing in his T-shirt, when he catches me dancing in the kitchen on FaceTime with my besties Petra and Katie… and especially after nights like last night, when he starred in a kinky, unholy smutshow that’ll have me walking funny for a week.

See, that boy wasn’t kidding about never wanting to leave once he got inside me. A year later, we’ve christened more hotel rooms than I can count. It’s gotten so out of hand, we had to institute a weekly NO SEX DAY so that my lady bits don’t riot. Our favoritelet’s behaveactivity? Couch marathons of Tom Cruise movies—though we rarely make it halfway throughMission Impossiblebefore one of us caves. What can I say? Tom’s running scenes do things to Reece, and Reece’s fanboy enthusiasm flows right into me(pun intended).

I shiver all over, goosebumps spreading across my bare skin. Punishment is definitely in order.

I slide off the mattress with ninja-like stealth, my feet making contact with the floor in the one blind spot I’ve learned doesn’t trigger the rotating bed sensors. Rummaging through Reece’s suitcase, I find what I’m searching for—the neon eyesore he calls his “lucky shirt.”

Save the Rhinos—One Ride at a Time!

Those rhinos still look entirely too happy being caught on camera in a mid rump bump. Their enthusiastic expressions have faded after countless cleanings, but Reece refuses to let it go. He wore it the first night we made love, and I had it on the day I agreed to be his real girlfriend. He claims it has “powers.” That it’s “part of our love story.”

The big softie.

When I pull it over my head, his familiar spicy ginger scent washes over me. I step into my discarded pajama shorts from the tile, the silky material sliding over my thighs.

My phone sits charging on the dresser. I unplug it, open YouTube, and hitGo Live.

“Psst! DareSquad! Rise and shine, my beautiful chaos enablers!” I whisper, keeping my voice low. “We’re back in the sex dungeon—I mean, the Aloha Amour Resort—and I need your help waking up The Beast.” I flip the camera, revealing Reece in his blanket cocoon, his snores reaching seismic levels. “Isn’t he adorable? A hibernating grizzly with incredible abs.”

The comments start flooding in immediately:

OMG! the snoring.

BLAST THE AIRHORN CAM!!

The Blanket Bandit STRIKES Again.

THE RHINO SHIRT LIVES!!!

“Today’s a super important day, which means I was supposed to get my beauty sleep,” I whisper to the audience, “but your boy over therestolemy blankets. I was a human ice cube reenacting the Titanic last night while he slept like a baby, practicing his whale calls.”

I tiptoe over to the shower area—still no walls, still no privacy, still ridiculous—and turn on the water. The familiar cascade begins flowing over the volcanic rock, steam rising in delicate curls. I reach behind the stones for the shower wand, memories of my first disastrous encounter with it making me bite back a laugh.

I carefully pull it from its new home—a special holster Kai had installed after numerous guests complained about “Happy Button Mishaps.”

“See this switch?” I position for a close-up. “It says ‘Volcanic.’ That’s not false advertising, folks. Don’t ask me how I know.”

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