Page 32 of Hawaii Can Suck It

I groan, tossing the red set back like it’s radioactive. RIP, orgasms.

After sifting through an avalanche of lace and satin, my fingers land on something marginally less scandalous.Marginally.A hot pink satin crop top with a deep V that plunges shamelessly between my breasts. And shorts that are more boy-cut underwear. If I sneeze, I’ll be indecent.

I hold it up, squinting.

This? This is my most modest choice.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

“You know what?” I mutter, clutching the pajamas. “If Reece has a problem with my natural Latina curves, he can take it up with God.”

SNAP.Suitcase zipped.

My blood boils as his words loop in my head: “Some people belong behind the scenes.”

I’m sorry—did I ask for your unsolicited asshole opinion?

But dammit if he didn’t nail my insecurity with terrifying accuracy. And then with typical smugness, he drop-kicked my self-esteem to the curb.

Because the truth?

Yeah. Iambetter behind the camera.

The thought sits heavy in my chest, right next to my dreams of launching my own channel. It’s the dirty little secret I’ve been hiding behind my cargo pants and professional smile.

In this world of ring lights and “don’t forget to subscribe,” people aren’t just here for your content—they’re here for you. They want morning routines, coffee chats, and that bestie-next-door vibe that makes them feel connected. They expect to see your face, know your story, and be a part of your journey.

And me?

I’ve spent my entire career making sure I was the one capturing those moments.

Not living them. Not being seen. Not being judged.

It’s safer that way, where no one can count your flaws in the comments section or turn your worst moments into viral memes.

After watching Reece’s life implode over the last twenty-four hours? Not exactly making me want to step into the spotlight. No matter how much it pays.

I sigh, closing my eyes. “Cut the shit, Camila. Admit there’s another reason you said yes to this ridiculous scheme. One that has nothing to do with your channel or your bank account.”

The look on Reece’s face when he saw Blaze with Astrid—God, I’ve never seen someone fight so hard to stay composed. He’s completely alone in this. Gordon sees him as a brand in need of a refresh, not a person unraveling right in front of him.

Yeah, he’s grumpy.

Yeah, he says rude shit and has poor taste.

And yeah, he doesn’t find me attractive.

But deep, deep, deep down? Reece Dare has a good heart.

The guy will do literally anything to protect his employees. He carries the weight of everyone’s livelihood on those stupidly broad shoulders. And he deserves someone in his corner.

“Even if that someone is fake girlfriend number two,” I mutter then immediately cringe. “Yeah, not loving that nickname.”

And there’s the huge dent to my self-esteem at how fast he shot down the idea of fake dating me. I strip off my glitter-bombed cargos and chocolate-smeared shirt, only to be greeted by my butt-naked, bare ass reflection grinning back from the eight thousand mirrors in this gettin’ freaky fun house.

I channel my inner Instagram baddie and strike a pose.

“Clearly I’m not hideous,” I tell myself. “I mean, Kai for sure wanted me to jump on his pogo stick.”

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