Page 66 of Hawaii Can Suck It

Before I can question him, he takes me by the shoulders and physically moves me into position at an art station. My seat wobbles in the sand, and I grab on to the tiny folding table to steady myself. There’s already a small group of artists assembled around me, most of them older women in breezy resort wear, clutching glasses of wine.

“This is your spot, front row billing,” Reece announces, making a grand gesture toward the easel like he’s presenting me to an audience. “All set?”

I narrow my eyes at him, but he turns and skips away.

A woman in her seventies leans over and winks. “Oh, honey, you’re in for a treat.”

That sounds ominous.

Reece climbs onto the stage under the thatched-roof canopy, where a giant banner readsPaint & Sip : Find Your Muse, Find Your Passion.

Uncomfortable energy hums through the crowd.Or is that just me?A quiet anticipation. Like something unholy is about to happen, only we can’t comprehend how unholy it will be.

He adjusts the tripod and fine-tunes his shot, ensuring he’s front and center before facing the artists.Even crazy, he looks stupidly hot.

“Welcome, everyone! For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Reece Dare. And today, in the spirit of humiliation and forgiveness, I’m doing something a little different.”

He subtly angles the camera.What’s he trying to show the livestream viewers that we can’t see from our beachfront seats?I quickly pull out my phone and jump onto his live. To my relief, the shot seems normal. It’s a close-up of Reece, highlighting his DareSquad tee.

Phew, crisis averted.

“Camila Morales, this is for never appreciating you enough. My humiliation is nothing compared to the regret that haunts me. I made you feel unseen and unappreciated.” Then, with a smirk that sends a shiver down my spine, he adds, “So consider this payback for the unforgettable view of your killer naked body in the shower.”

And without warning, he strips.

Totally.

Naked.

Pause everything, because my life is rushing past me like a highlight reel. Every decision, every path that led me here—each one more questionable than the last.

And holy mother of abs.

The man is art.

It’s not fair.

Shoulders? Massive. Arms? Tattooed perfection. Chest? Absurd. Stomach?What even is that V-cut?

And then there’s his—

NOPE. NOPE NOPE NOPE.

Abort mission! Avert Eyes!

My lungs collapse. My vision goes blurry. My internal scream factory malfunctions.

The crowd loses their collective minds, especially the elderly woman wearing bifocals holding down the last row.

Catcalls. Cheers. Paintbrushes are being thrown.

Reece poses like a chiseled naked bachelor at an auction, one arm flexed, the other casually resting on his hip, chest gleaming, legs spread.

I CANNOT.

I snap my gaze to my phone screen, desperately making sure the entire internet is not getting any full-frontal.

Okay. Crisis somewhat averted. The live-stream is only framed on his bare chest—which is still an act of violence because those pecs were hand-carved by Zeus himself.

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