Page 53 of Hawaii Can Suck It

And Reece? He’s a sexy, complicated mess of all three.

The compelling subject: YouTube’s favorite daredevil turned burned-out showman.

The transformation: Going from grumpy boss to… what? To the man who stood up for me and held my hand when he was hurting. That’s the story I want to tell.

Not that I’d actually make a documentary about him.Although…The thought takes root. The pressure of influencer culture, the toll it takes on mental health, the way social media turns people into products.

Hold on. You’re supposed to be helping him, not turning his pain into content.

“Ready?”

I turn and—hot damn—the blanket burrito has morphed into a tropical dreamboat. I havenocomplaints. My boss-slash-fake-bae sports a pair of light linen shorts that hang low on his hips, giving me a sneak peek at those sculpted legs. His short-sleeved button-down is a vibrant explosion of blues and greens, the top buttons undone, offering a tantalizing glimpse of the tattoos on his chest.

His dark hair, still damp from the shower, curls at his neck in a handsomely boyish way, and I have a sudden craving to tangle my fingers in it. The camera strap crosses his body like some kind of unfairly hot accessory.

“You clean up hot,” I blurt out, immediately wanting to jump off the ledge. “I mean,fast.You clean up fast.”

“You already said hot, Morales. No take-backs.” His blue eyes roam down the shape of my figure like an invisible caress. “You’re pretty hot yourself. That dress is fire.”

“Smooth talker,” I say casually, pretending his words don’t set off a chain reaction inside me.

“Seriously. You look incredible,” he says before adding a smirk. “Almost as good as me.”

My heart skips because right there—camera in hand, smile lighting up his whole face—I see him. The teenage boy who used to film backflips off his garage into pools of Jell-O. The Reece before the algorithms. Before the brand deals. Before the world’s relentless demands turned him into a monetization puppet.

The camera settles naturally in his hands, like it belongs there. And in that instant, I know—reallyknow—that I can help him. Not with fake dating, or saving his empire, or whatever project-of-the-week Gordon’s throwing at him. I am going to make Reece fall in love with filming again.

Make him feel… that pure joy of creating something real, something that matters.

Give him… the rush of capturing a perfect moment, not because it’ll get views, but because it’ll make his soul sing again.

Help him find… therealReece, the one who loves making content as much as I do.

“You’re staring, Morales. See something you like?”

“Just wondering if you remember how to use that thing.”

“You’re the one who has a problem finding buttons on little toys.” He offers his arm with a wink. “Ready to convince the internet we’re madly in love?”

I slip my arm through his, startled by the pull—the quiet, electrical charge between us—and how undeniably right it feels.

CHAPTER EIGHT

REECE

Ishouldgobackto the room. Every logical bone in my body says so. Because after two days at the Aloha Amour Resort, one thing is clear—this won’t be anormalluau. This is gonna be Kai’s version(or rather perversion), which probably means fire dancers with dildos or strippers dry humping totem poles or us slow-twerking in hula skirts.

Tiki torches dot the edge of the winding path toward the beach, casting flickering shadows across the manicured lawn. The tropical night air is a light blend of plumeria and the salty sea, until it’s overpowered by the deliciously charred scent of grilled meat. The smell is intoxicating—dangerous, even. This whole romance-on-steroids atmosphere is pushing me to do something primal, like kiss Cam senseless.

I clench my jaw, scanning the scene. Facing the rolling ocean is an elaborate stage, draped in crimson silk, billowing in the breeze as if it’s about to host a burlesque performance instead of hula dancers. And with the tables, there’s no “group seating” option, no buffer of extra chairs. Just tiny, candlelit tables for two, each designed for either making out or marriage proposals.

My gut tightens.

Cam starts filming a panoramic of the area. “A path of rose petals,” she narrates, voice thick with amusement. “Wow, you do not see that every day. And next to that is a… pulsating volcano statue?” She zooms in on the obscenely phallic sculpture with water exploding from the top. “It’s throbbing, right? Not just me. That’s definitely a penis.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

She had to say it.

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