Page 5 of Hawaii Can Suck It

His fingers brush mine as he takes the phone—a quick, incidental touch, but it sends goosebumps skittering up my arm.

Double shit.

There on my lock screen, in all their glistening glory, is my collage of Hawaiian beach hotties. Surfboards optional, abs mandatory. My finger flies to the sensor, but it’s too late—Reece has already gotten an eyeful of my tropical thirst board.

Reece’s eyebrow performs its signature judgmental arch. “Location research?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes, I fully intend to enjoy my workcation after this circus of a wedding. Umbrella drinks. Beach views. Might even do a hula lesson.”

“Don’t forget the cabana boys,” he says, the sarcasm dripping from every word.

“Trust me, I won’t.” I shoot him a pointed look, ignoring the heat crawling up my neck. “Now, are you going to admit my shot is perfect, or are we still pretending you know more about wide angles than I do?”

Reece glances at the monitor app open on my phone, his jaw tightening as he studies the feed. He simply stares like he’s looking for something to criticize.

Finally, he grunts. “It’s... acceptable.”

“Acceptable?”I gasp, palm to my heart. “Whoa, thanks. That’s a standing ovation coming from you. I better bust out my victory dance before you ruin it.”

“Don’t push it, Morales,” he says, handing the phone back. For a split second, a grudging—maybe even amused—look flickers across his face. But it’s gone just as fast, and he turns on his heel without another word.

For a guy about to marry thelove of his life, he’s carrying enough storm clouds to cancel a Hawaiian luau. I guess he’s nervous? Whatever. Not my problem. I’ve got a job to do.

“There’s my star! Who’s camera ready for his big day?”

The shout reverberates through the once peaceful church like a megaphone, and I instinctively cringe. Gordon Thorne, Reece’s manager and self-proclaimedstarmaker. He strides in, a human hurricane of ego, carrying a tray of coffees in one hand and shopping bags in the other. His smile gleams as if it’s superglued in place—glossy, lifeless, and weirdly off-putting.

From his obviously fresh Botox to his over-plugged hairline, everything about Gordon screams “fifty-year-old trying to pass for a Gen-Z-years-old.” Today he’s decked out in a lavender tuxedo—an attempt to complement Astrid’s iridescent aesthetic. Honestly, he resembles the missing friend fromDumb and Dumberwho got lost on his way to prom in 1995.

“Hey, camera girl!” he calls out. “Why aren’t you filming?”

“Gordon, man, we talked about this,” Reece cuts in. “She has a name.”

“Yeah, that’s how I remember her—Cam, camera girl! It’s our nickname. Right?” He flashes me a we’re-on-the-same-page smile.Newsflash: we’re not.

“Sure?” I answer, though it comes out more as a question.

“Here.” Gordon dumps some goodie bags in my arms then whips out a sage green shirt and tosses it to Reece. “Put this on for the intro. The color is everything. That chartreuse monstrosity? Disaster.”

“I’m not convinced starting over with designers was worth the cost,” Reece says, but his fingers are already working down his shirt buttons.

Sweet mother of manual focus. I should look away. I really should. But my eyes have a mind of their own, sneaking peeks at abs I can never get enough of. Which is completely inappropriate since he’s getting married in—I check my screen—one and half hours.

“Take it from someone who knows the game,” Gordon says, oozing with I-know-best confidence. “One wrong move, and you’re sunk. That’s why we kicked off with clothes. Come next month, when your shoe line launches—your income’s gonna skyrocket, mark my words.”

He spins toward me. “Camera girl, we need DareFuel cans everywhere. New Caffeine Tsunami Coconut for the honeymoon content, but Hyperdrive Honeydew and Orange Eruption are still our money makers.”

I stuff energy drink cans into my pockets while my brain short-circuits.Maybe Gordon doesn’t know my full name. What if he doesn’t realize that it was me who sent him the resignation email?

Fuck.

My heart starts racing against my ribs. I haven’t thought this through. The email only went out this morning. Even worse, what if Gordon does know and then he tells Reece about my two-weeks’ notice right here, right now? My entire plan of breaking the news in Hawaii(after Reece has consumed his body weight in piña coladas)will be ruined.

“Let’s go over the wedding sponsors real quick—” Gordon unfurls a list so long it could double as a bridal train.

Reece emits a guttural groan that sounds as if his soul is attempting to escape.

“Hey, who got you a private jet to Maui?” Gordon preens. “G-Thorne, that’s who!”

---