Page 4 of Hawaii Can Suck It

“There has to be at least one Hawaiian hottie willing to show me his—”

“Tiki torch?” Petra finishes for me.

“Exactly!”

“Are you planning to seduce lifeguards with your tactical cargo pants?” Katie snickers. “Although my Aunt Deb would probably suggest using those zip ties as kinky handcuffs.”

“Hell no. I’ve got five sizzling bikinis packed and ready to hit the beach. And my sexy sleepwear collection is so skimpy, it’s one step away from imaginary.”

“Hunt down that Hawaiian D!” Petra cheers.

“Oh, I plan to go full predator mode. I’m gonna climb every cabana boy at that resort like a coconut tree. I want the entire Hawaiian buffet—appetizer, main course, dessert. Any guy who wants a piece of this curvy Latina ass better grab a number, because mama’s got six months of pent-up—”

“Mm-hmm.” A familiar throat clears below me.

It’s a deep, disapproving rumble.Uh-oh.

There he is… Reece fucking Dare.

“¡Ay, Dios mío!”The Spanish flies out, and I let go of the support beam as if it’s suddenly on fire.

WHAM!

I slam into Reece’s chest in the world’s most unexpected trust fall. His arms wrap around me like steel cables, strong and unyielding. For a man who spends most of his time laughing in the face of gravity, Reece Dare unexpectedly cradles me as if I’m…fragile?No, that can’t be right.

My cell is still clutched in a death grip, and Katie and Petra are frozen in perfectoh shitexpressions. I slam theEnd Callbutton so hard I probably crack my screen.

His steel-blue eyes lock on to mine…

with the intensity of a shark…

who just saw me double dipping…

and then caught me peeing in his section of the ocean.

And if he wasn’t already gorgeous enough, a beam of sunlight—on cue—shines through the stained glass, hitting his jawline as if God himself is his personal lighting director.

His dark, tousled hair slightly covers the scar above his right eyebrow—earned from one of my favorite videos,Will It Bounce? Trampoline Edition—and it only adds to his whole brooding-but-fuck-I’m-sexy vibe.

For just a millisecond, I forget how to breathe. Maybe it’s the rush of cheating death, or maybe his scent—a heady combination of ocean saltwater and spicy ginger—has hijacked my senses. My cheek grazes his shoulder, and yep, that’s pure muscle under the thin layer of fabric.

He’d be absolutely perfect if—

“Is scaling church property while discussing your sexual conquests part of your normal pre-wedding routine?”

—if he never opened his mouth.

“Oh definitely,” I say, ignoring how his arms flex as I try to wriggle loose. “Jesus and I were just having a heart-to-heart about my upcoming romance-cation.”

His darkening expression is an incoming storm. “About that conversation—”

“My personal itinerary?” I say, breaking free and immediately missing his warmth.Disloyal body.“Don’t worry, I’ll schedule all my Hawaiian hookups around your content calendar. I won’t be the third wheel crashing your honeymoon vibes. I’m nothing if not professional!”

There’s a fleeting spark of surprise in his gaze before he’s back to his default perma-scowl.

“If you’re done cosplaying as a holy acrobat,” he growls, jabbing a finger toward my camera, “maybe fix that disaster of an angle. You’re going to miss half the processional.”

Oh no he didn’t. I risked my life for that shot.I thrust my cell at him. “Prepare to eat your words with a side of ‘I was wrong’ sauce.”

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