Page 47 of Hawaii Can Suck It

Firmly gripping the unmistakable bulge poking up under the blanket.

I release him as if he’s radioactive. My limbs go fullMission Impossiblemode, slowly peeling away so I don’t wake up the human furnace I’ve been unconsciously cuddling the hell out of.

The burrito blanket situation is not helping. Reece has wrapped himself up so tight that only one bare arm, the sharp edge of his jawline, and a sliver of messy dark hair are visible. The rest is a mummified cocoon of heat and muscle. No wonder I’m snuggling on top of him.

Because God help me, he’s adorable.

Dammit.He should not be adorable.

He stirs right as I make it to my side, and I freeze faster than Gordon’s Botoxed forehead.

He shifts slightly then—the snoring resumes.

SNNNRRRKKKKK! RAAAARRRKKKKK!

This is no ordinary snore—it’s an auditory contradiction: part congested rhinoceros, part malfunctioning Roomba.

“Seriously,” I mutter under my breath, “you might want to get that checked out.”

I pull the covers over myself and stare at the ceiling, replaying yesterday’s shitshow like an embarrassing highlight reel.

Astrid calling me “thunder thighs.” Reece retaliating and publicly declaring my curves “perfection.” The poolside penis floatie battle. Reece retreating to his blanket cocoon like a man on the brink.

Yeah. Yesterday sucked.

And no, I’m not still thinking about the way he pointed to me and said, “This is what perfection looks like.” It was a ploy—had to be—a way to get back at Astrid and score some fake-dating credibility.

I know this because he has reminded me, approximately 3,542 times, that I am not his type and he is my boss.

“Cam, you’re my employee.

“Cam, this is just for PR.

“Cam, you are my boss. Wait, no—I’m your boss. I am the boss.”

I get it, Reece. You’re not interested.

And yet… why was he being so freaking weird about touching me yesterday?

Like, he had zero issues accidentally groping me in the shower, but when it came time for structured, totally-allowed-in-the-rulebook pool games, suddenly he was handling me(or rather NOThandling me)as if I was made of live explosives.

Ugh. Men.

I glance over at his blanket-wrapped form as another seismic snore shakes the mattress. He’s dealing with so much—a failed wedding, viral humiliation, his entire brand imploding because his ex replaced him with his bestie. I think he’s finally cracked.

His words from yesterday slice through my confidence like a machete. “You don’t have experience,” he’d said, unknowingly sneering at my dreams. The guy who inspired me to buy my first camera thinks I belong permanently behind it.

No preparation. No guidance. JustBAM!“Hey, DareSquad, meet my new girlfriend!” And out of nowhere, I’m supposed to sparkle as if I’ve got glitter in my veins instead of anxiety. Two years of making him look good through the camera, and he couldn’t give me five minutes to find my footing.

And boy did I bomb…hard.

I was stiff, awkward, and painfully aware of the way my face moved. Was I blinking too much? Was my smile weird? What about my hands? Should they be limp? Activated? By my sides? Moving so they accentuate what I’m saying?

And then there was Astrid, with her “everything’s artificial” superiority complex: “Go hide behind your little camera.” I played it off like her words were as fake as her eyelashes, but they hit me hard. Every second thought I’ve had about being good enough—about deserving to tell my own stories—came rushing back in a tsunami of self-doubt.

So, while Sir Blanket-a-lot was having his existential crisis yesterday, I practiced. Hours of talking to the camera, watching the playback, and confronting the horrors of my own awkwardness. My fake-happy voice sounded like an overly chipper Starbucks barista. But I kept going, because they’re right—both of them. If I want this dream, I need to level up.

Plus, there’s no place to take care of myotherfrustrations in this mirror-covered fun house. I might as well redirect all that sexual energy into something productive.

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