Page 52 of Hawaii Can Suck It

When he looks up at me, something in my chest splinters. Those blue eyes that usually spark with criticism or heat are dull, heavy. His jaw is buried under dark scruff, and his hair is a wreck—as if he’s been clawing anxious fingers through it all day.

He sighs—a bone-deep sound of defeat—and takes the phone.

I’d love to snatch it back and throw it into the ocean. But I can’t. I’m just his fake girlfriend with an exit strategy and a guilty conscience that’s getting heavier by the second.

Gordon launches into his tirade before Reece can say hello. “You need to get your head out of your ass!”

I turn to leave, to give them privacy, but his hand shoots out and grabs mine. The contact sends electricity zipping up my arm, but this isn’t some romantic gesture. His eyes stay fixed on the screen, jaw clenched, but his grip saysplease staylouder than words.

So, I stay.

His thumb strokes over my knuckles, tentative, as if he’s unaware he’s doing it. I squeeze back, hoping he gets the message.I’m here. You’re not alone.

“That pool video was total shit! Astrid has better footage of you onherchannel! And where’s the chemistry between you and camera girl? It’s like watching two male seahorses not sure where to stick it! The potted plant on my desk has more sex appeal!”

Reece doesn’t react, simply stares straight ahead, but his grip on my hand tightens.

“Either sell this fake relationship, or we’re going in a different direction. You hear me? DIFFERENT. DIRECTION.”

I stiffen. I don’t know exactly whatdifferent directionmeans, but considering Gordon operates with the moral compass of a…Hell, who am I kidding? He has no moral compass.This is bad.

Reece must know too. His hand slips from mine, and I immediately miss the warmth.

“It’s not Cam,” he says, voice rough. “It’s me. I’ll fix it.”

Gordon doesn’t miss a beat. “Damn right you will. Because this content is going to sink this ship faster than—”

“I will.” He hangs up mid-rant. The silence that follows feels thick enough to chew. He releases a heavy breath and says, “Don’t listen to that blowhard.”

“It’s fine.” I aim for casual. “I’m used to it. Though I resent the potted plant comparison. I’m at least as charming as a succulent.”

“You shouldn’t be used to it.” Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. “It’s not okay from him or… me.” He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it even more devastatingly disheveled. “I placed you in an impossible position yesterday. I’m sorry.”

I blink.Is this a real apology? From my fake boyfriend?

Honestly, I don’t know what to do with that.

“Ya know, Reece… you don’thaveto film. You could take a break. Actually breathe for once? Figure out whatyouwant instead of what everyone expects?”

His head tilts slightly, as if he’s considering it. Then his gaze drifts over me, and his face softens.

“You look really nice, Camila,” he says quietly. “Beautiful.”

Heat floods my cheeks. “Thanks. Just… you know. Getting my luau on. Living that tropical life. Attempting to not flash anyone when I hula.”

His lips twitch, he smiles, and my heart liquefies into a warm, gooey puddle.

He gestures to the balcony. “If you don’t mind waiting, I’ll join you. I’ll shower quickly.”

“Sure! I mean, yes. That’s… yes.”

Someone please remove my speaking privileges.

He unwraps himself from his comforter cocoon, and even emotionally wrecked, he moves like a tragically majestic Greek god—chiseled, brooding, and devilishly dramatic.The curtain swishes shut behind him, leaving me alone with the sunset and approximately eight thousand racing thoughts.

I grip the terrace railing, watching waves crash below. Why did he hold my hand? Was I merely the closest warm body? Was I just temporary emotional support while Gordon yelled at him? Or does he actually feel comfortable with me?

My documentary filmmaker side can’t help but analyze this, breaking him down like he’s my next big project. Every good documentary needs three things: a compelling subject, a journey of transformation, and a truth waiting to be uncovered.

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