Page 18 of Hawaii Can Suck It

Is it possible to climax simply by tracing the outline of his dick with my eyes? I think I’m about to find out.

He snatches a pillow, dropping it onto his lap. He’s totally frazzled and frantic, and I know I am not imagining the flush creeping up his neck.

I grab my laptop. “Well! Time to brainstorm video ideas! For Gordon! Who wants them when we land! In Hawaii! Where we’re going! To work! As professionals!”

“Yup.” His response is brisk, almost dismissive. “I better take a sleep… go to nap. Don’t disturb me.”

He flops onto his side while I stare at my blank screen.How am I going to survive two weeks without kissing him?

Killing. I meankilling him. Notkissing.

Although, a little kissing wouldn’t hurt anybody.

NO! KILLING ONLY.

...probably.

***

Thewinddoesitsbest to ruin me, whipping my hair into my mouth, up my nose, and slapping it against my cheeks. With a huff, I wrestle it back into a ponytail, twisting my scrunchie around it. The breeze still sneaks in, tugging at loose strands, but I’m not even mad. Not when we’re cruising down the Hana Highway in a black convertible, the ocean shimmering beside us and the sunset painting the sky like a screensaver.

This moment? It’s straight out of a movie. All I need is a pair of oversized sunglasses, a chiffon scarf tied dramatically around my head, and maybe a hunky co-star…Oh wait. Scratch that last part.I scope out Reece, who’s casually steering with one hand as if auditioning for a luxury car commercial. He’s annoyingly good-looking, and he knows it.

“Hey, Reece. Why’d you pick this grandpa car instead of some crypto-bro Lamborghini? Isn’t that more your speed?”

“Grandpa car? This is a 1958 Porsche 356 Speedster Convertible.”

“Are those words supposed to make me fall to my knees in automotive worship?”

I watch his right eye do a cute little twitching thing.Wait—not cute. Annoying. Definitely annoying.

“This is the same car fromTop Gun. The original? Tom Cruise?”

“Never seen it.”

“You’ve never—” His jaw drops. “But you know who Tom Cruise is, right?”

“Duh.” I roll my eyes. “What’s with all the man-thusiasm?”

He straightens in his seat, clearly unbothered by the implied jab. “The guy does all his own stunts. No green screen, no CGI—just pure guts. You gotta respect that.”

“Sounds like my daredevil boss.”

That earns me my first ever genuine Reece Dare smile. And Dios mío, the man’s even more sexy when he smiles.

“Is that a compliment, Morales?”

“Maybe.”

“He’s got this run,” Reece continues. “It’s a whole thing. The Tom Cruise run—perfect form, high knees, arms pumping, no hesitation. There are YouTube videos that break it down like it’s a sport. You should check it out. He takes running more seriously than most people take their careers.”

“Okay, I will.”

“Good. You should.”

I’ve never heard him talk like this, at least not to me. Usually, our conversations arehimcritiquing my every breath andmedoing my best to ignore how his T-shirts stretch across his chest.Who is this person?

“Maybe you should try acting someday?”

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