Page 75 of Hawaii Can Suck It

“Are you calling me fat?”

Thanks to that ridiculous conversation, inspiration strikes.

“Hey, DareSquad, new challenge! First one to the top keeps their shirt on!”

I shove the selfie stick at Cam and bolt, the ground uneven under my feet. “Try to keep up, babe!”

“Oh HELL no!” Her voice rings out behind me. “If this clown thinks he’s faster than me, he’s got another thing coming!”

I already hear her footsteps closing in.

I risk a glance over my shoulder.

And there she is, neck and neck with me, breath coming fast, brutal determination on her face.

I push harder. “You’re slowing down, babe! Getting tired?”

“Wow, is this your top speed? Kinda embarrassing for a guy who does stunts for a living.”

The trail gets steeper, both of us gasping like asthmatic fish out of water but neither willing to back down.

“Didn’t know—”gasp“—you were so—”wheeze“—thirsty to see me shirtless!”

I let out a choked laugh, my lungs burning.

“Big talk—”gasp“—from someone getting lapped!”

Cam lets out a growl of sheer determination, pushing forward and matching my pace stride for stride.

The peak of the hill is within reach, the incline a final cruel test of willpower.

And then—

Like two exhausted lunatics, we both reach the top. Bent over, hands on knees, sucking in air as if we barely escaped a bear attack.

Cam, still clutching the long selfie rod, wipes the sweat from her brow, panting. She shrugs off her backpack, letting it fall to the ground.

“Winner?” I gasp.

“Don’t know.”

“Ask the fans.”

She glares but turns to the chat. “Alright, who won?” She pauses, reading. Then—her lips curl in wicked delight.

“Welp, it’s a tie. Guess we both win.”

My stomach drops.

“Rules are rules—shirts off, buddy.” She hands me the selfie stick then lifts her tank top over her head.

I have made a tactical error of epic proportions.

Because that red string? It’s connected to three meager inches of fabric masquerading as a bikini top. Two tiny triangles that dramatically respond to every breath she takes, threatening(no, promising)to reveal more with each movement. Her seriously hot underboob has my eyes quaking. That swimsuit is working harder than my self-control.

On autopilot, I lose my shirt, barely registering the movement because my eyes are fixated on her.

Cam, seemingly unaffected by my mental collapse, lifts her arms to gather her hair into that always-therescrunchie. The gesture reveals miles of olive skin, toned arms, and delicate collarbones that practically plead for my tongue’s attention. She returns her backpack to her shoulder.

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