“No, but none of them have the brass to call me sweetheart, either.”
His lips thinned. “I knew we’d come back to that. I’m sorry, okay? It’s an old habit.”
“It’s one you should try real hard to break, Mr. Rondibett.”
“Ah, crap. We’re back to the mister and missus stuff again?”
She smiled and sat down on one of three barstools set in front of a tall marble bar. “It’s an old habit. You were going to tell me something?”
Boston drained his glass, rinsed it, and set it inside the stainless steel sink. He joined her at the bar, taking the stool to the far right and leaving the one between them vacant. “There’s a race component to every place on the planet I’ve ever been, and Hawaii is no exception. Take me, I wasn’t born here. Even if I had been, I’m no Hawaiian.”
“Of course not. You’re obviously Caucasian.”
“Not everyone gets it. Hawaiian is not only a culture, it’s a race. It’s a blood thing, not a location thing.” He splayed a hand over his chest. “I’ve been living here long enough to say I’m a local. Lived here, born here, raised here, whatever, you’re a local. Haole is widely known as a derogatory term for white folks like us, but most times it’s not said as a racial thing. I mean, it can be, it’s just—”
“I imagine that largely depends on who’s saying it and to whom.” It struck Emily that Boston seemed defensive of the term.
“Well, yeah, I guess so. Try to not take it personally if you happen to hear it, that’s all.”
She almost laughed. “It’s takes a little more than pointing out my skin color to offend me, but thanks for the heads up. Or, mahalo, I should say.”
Boston popped up from the stool and held a shiny silver key in front of her face. “Well, then I’ll leave you in your own capable hands for the evening.”
Instinct forced her to cup her hands beneath the key to keep it from falling to the floor if he dropped it, which he did immediately into her waiting palms. “You’re leaving me here alone?”
“Did you want me to stay the night?” He raised his eyebrows but stopped short of wriggling them suggestively.
“No, I—what if I need to go somewhere? Do I call you?”
Already headed for the front door, he paused. “You can’t do that, unfortunately.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I get great reception out here. See?” She dug in her purse for her cell phone. She found it and pulled it out with a triumphant grin. “Bars. Lots of bars.”
“I’m happy for you. But I don’t have a phone.”
Neanderthal.
Barbarian.
Lost soul.
A million descriptive terms popped into her head. Emily posed her next question as carefully and non-judgmentally as her self-control allowed. “What kind of person are you?”
“Oh, what, because I’m not all reachable and stuff? How about I’m a person who doesn’t care about social networking. I’m a guy who thinks it’s creepy to be tied to a device like a robot. Hey, maybe I’m a guy who doesn’t like the idea of the whole world knowing where I am and what I’m doing every second of every day. A guy who doesn’t live his life ‘on the grid.’ A guy who—”
“Okay, all right.” She held her hands up in surrender. “I get it. You’re a conspiracy theorist. Or a hippie. Or a conspiracy hippie if there’s such a thing.”
His mouth fell partially open. “I’m serious. It creeps me out how they track us, and we willingly let them keep tabs. Science fiction isn’t so fiction these days. Also, I’m broke.”
That was probably no lie, given his attire. She had mistaken him for a homeless person. “Explain to me how my vacation is supposed to work if I can’t get ahold of you. I sit in my tree house until you come back to take me somewhere? Are you going to be nearby? Should I venture out on my own? And if I do, do I get to prorate for your services?”
He did an awkward sort of shuffle shoulder dip move—an apology meets needs-to-pee. “I have to return to Honolulu. But, hey, I’m not leaving you without resources. The house is fully stocked for your stay. You’ve got the necessities a woman of discerning tastes might need. Soap, shampoo, and food. There’s even a place to charge the government-issued tracking device of your choice.” He swung his pointer finger toward the front door, where the ocean peeked through the canopy. “The shore is to your north. If you venture out, head west. You’ll come up on a street chock full of bars and shops.”
Her body deflated, and the irony wasn’t lost on her. Upon arriving, she’d been less than excited to have a traveling companion. Now, she didn’t want Boston to go. The last couple hours had afforded Emily a distraction from thoughts of Blake.
What was he doing right now? Did he know about the surprise trip Quinn and Jack had sprung on Emily less than twenty-four hours ago? Emily imagined her night dragging on as she stared out from the balcony at the great expanse of ocean and tore herself apart with the knowledge she was very likely the last person on Blake’s mind. The view might be new, but the story didn’t change.
Boston put a hand on her shoulder. His eyebrows came together in concern, and he took off his sunglasses. “You all right, Emily?”
She sniffed and stepped back, forcing him to drop his hand. “Fine. I’ll probably eat in. I’m not much of a social butterfly, anyway.”
“I’m a guide, not a pocket escort. I’ll be here bright and early to take you somewhere special and obscure, then out for some fantastic local fare. But you’ve got to do a little exploring on your own, too. Honolulu is my grid. I leave this”—he opened his arms wide—“for your personal discovery. Meet folks. Hit a shrimp truck for lunch. Take a selfie with a sea turtle.”
“You’re giving me homework?” She lifted a skeptical brow. Why did Boston remind her so much of a shifty street performer? He used the right words but smacked of illusion.
He started for the door again. “I always did enjoy assigning essays right before the weekend. Kids hate that. It’s worth mentioning most parents do, too.”
If she’d had as much as a piece of gum in her mouth, she’d have choked. She marched over to Boston and glared. “You’re full of it. Who in their right mind would let you instruct children?”
He whipped his sunglasses back on, but not before Emily caught the hard stare he returned. “No one in the state of Hawaii. Unless this is a field trip gone terribly wrong. Must’ve packed the wrong mushrooms for lunch.”
“I’m serious. You’re a teacher?”
“Currently? Nope. Have I been?” He began a slow backward step toward the door. “Well, I do like to imagine myself as more than a mere guide, of course. You might say I’m an educator of sorts.” He grabbed the doorknob behind him as if he couldn’t escape fast enough, twisted it, and made a beeline for the stairs that would take him back down the mountain. “Tomorrow morning. Dress casually if…” He nodded apologetically at her outfit. “If you can.”
“What kind of answer is that?”
A devilish grin—no other way to describe it, without assistance from Quinn and her massive internal thesaurus—spread over Boston’s face. He looked like a lazy cat in a patch of sunlight. “A poor one, but maybe I wasn’t a very good teacher.”
Chapter 3
The refrigerator harbored the usual suspects. Deli cuts, including turkey and roast beef, plus every type of condiment Emily might wish to slather them with. The fruit drawer weighed heavy with green mangoes and what were probably papayas.
Maybe guavas. Couldn’t really expect an apples and bananas kind of girl to know the difference. At least she recognized the avocados on the speckled granite countertop.
She guessed the fruit was supposed to pass for breakfast, since there were no boxes of cereal or instant oatmeal in the cupboards.
She put together a sandwich with some of everything and washed it down with a cold Sprite, another courtesy from the fridge. A far cry from the hot breakfast she’d expected to enjoy at the Hilton, but
it’d take some nerve to complain about her accommodations.
A bamboo spiral staircase connected the first floor to the loft-style second floor, where a king-sized bed took up nearly every inch of available space. Then again, Emily decided so long as there was a path to the balcony, who even cared what was inside the house?
Emily stepped through the sliding glass door of the upper level. Unlike the downstairs porch, there was no cover. Only the green arms of the trees reaching for a dawn’s pink-tinged sky and a turquoise ocean stretching out forever in front of her. She settled into a bamboo chaise and reluctantly tugged her cell phone from the pocket of the lush robe she’d liberated from the bathroom.
A small part of her hated to disrupt the serenity of the morning with the blurp and beep of her phone. Maybe Boston was on to something with his aversion to technology.
Quinn answered in the flat tone, indicating she had her elbows resting on her desk and her face screwed up in concentration as she stared intently at her computer monitor. Her writing tone.
Sometimes it meant Emily would be lucky to get a full thirty seconds of her sister’s attention. Emily usually groaned and hung up without bothering, but not today. Today, she’d get answers. “I cannot believe you’d send me all the way to Hawaii to get your revenge.”
“Hm…no, that’s not it. I decided to call it Cornered. Remember? Revenge is more suited to the antagonist’s point of view, not so much the victim’s. Since it’s the victim’s story I’m telling.”
“Step away from the manuscript.”
“What?”
Emily went for broke. “I’m getting on a plane back home this very minute.”
“Huh? Emily, is that you? What, you’re coming home? You can’t come home. You just got there! You left yesterday, for crying out loud. You didn’t sleep at the airport, did you?”
Mission accomplished. Emily nestled down into her robe and studied the canopy overhead. The last of the morning’s pink color had morphed into a pale blue, not unlike Boston’s eyes.
Boston. Her sister’s response to a three-year-old wrong. “I’m calling you about the con artist you set me up with.”
“You mean Boston. He’s so great, Em. You’re gonna love him.”
“Am I, Quinn?” A moment of clarity rocked her. “Oh, I see. You went off to London after your divorce and found Jack, so I’m supposed to fall for the first hobo I meet and forget Blake’s and my failed marriage? You amaze me sometimes, you know? My life isn’t some story you can manipulate and bend to your will. Has anyone ever talked to you about your serious case of God complex? Because this would be the ideal time—”
“Slow down. What are you talking about? If you’re attracted to Boston, that’s…weird. I was going to say great, but I won’t lie, Em. It’s weird.”
“I am most certainly not attracted to that rogue.”
“It’s been my experience rogues are most attractive. Although, it’d be nice if you gave me some credit. You and Boston couldn’t be more different. Not in the ‘opposites attract’ way, either. I’m cringing on the inside at the thought.” She let out a small, breathy laugh. “You’re so dramatic.”
Emily ran her hand across the smooth wooden arm of the chaise. “But you said—”
“That you’d love him? Because you will. First, let’s address your initial cause for concern. For the last time, Emily, I’m not out to get you. Neither is Jack. Once upon a very confusing time, you tried to break up our relationship.”
She flushed with shame at the memory.
Quinn didn’t give her time to respond. “Your motives were from the heart. We got it then, and we get it now. And Jack and I are together, aren’t we? You didn’t succeed. It worked out.”
Emily bit her lip but not in time to stop the words from spilling out. “Not entirely.”
“Oh, Em.” Her sister’s voice came across as sad but not pitying. “I was so happy for you when you and Blake married. It seemed like everyone’s prayers got answered at once. Blake… Well, Blake’s an idiot. What can you expect?”
Indeed, what should Emily have expected?
For her new husband to love her instead of hanging onto his feelings for his ex-wife, who happened to be Quinn? “I think I’m the idiot. Two degrees and a resume that shines like gold, yet dumb enough to fall for the old fix-a-guy trope.”
“You fell in love, honey. You weren’t trying to fix Blake. You only wanted him to love you back. It’s the human condition, not some overplayed story arc.”
Quinn had been a professional author for thirteen years. Emily had to yield to her authority on overplayed story arcs.
“Maybe you’re right.” She shook her head and allowed herself a wry smile. “We have the most convoluted family. At least my divorce from Blake is clearing the air somewhat.”
“I’ll admit we struggled with what Seth should call you.” By marrying Blake, Quinn’s ex-husband and Seth’s dad, Emily had gone from aunt to stepmother. “Also, Jack tortured me with a horrific southern accent for months, but I’m sure there’s worse out there.”
“Like marrying your stepbrother?”
Quinn groaned. “Oh, hell, you’re right. So convoluted.”
As if she could’ve guessed their dad would go to London to visit and end up falling for Madeline, Jack’s mother. Emily grinned. “You should write a book.”
“I’m cracking up. On the inside.” Quinn’s dry response was standard-issue. “Since we’ve addressed the main concern, why don’t we get back to the reason you called? What’s your beef with Boston?”
Emily’s lips moved, but words failed to emerge. What exactly was her problem with Boston? Besides, of course, his attire, unwashed hair, and overall smooth-talking attitude. “He’s a beach bum.”
“He surfs if that’s what you mean.”
No, but it made sense. “Why him, Quinn?” Since her first theory hadn’t panned out, maybe she ought to garner some enlightenment from the source. “What’s so great about this guy you’d hire him despite how obviously unsuited we are?”
“Sheesh, Em. How suited do you need to be? His job is to drive and point. When I was in London, Jack taught me great cities have secrets you won’t find without some insider know-how. Don’t ask me how he found Boston, but I know he’s worth every dime. We really hit it off with him. He personifies the island. Relax a little. Give in.”
“Are you paying him enough to buy a new pair of shorts? Either half of them were eaten during a surfing accident involving a shark, or he’s perpetrating the surfer-dude thing to put on a show for his clients.”
Quinn jumped to his defense. “You’re reading him wrong. He’s the genuine article. No gags or gimmicks.”
“Maybe not, but there was something…” Something shifty. Something not quite honest. “I might not know him like you do, but I’m pretty good at reading people, and something’s up.”
“Maybe he picked up on your dislike.”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.” Quinn paused to sigh. “I realize he’s not your usual type of company, but you’ll be glad you gave him a chance.”
Your usual type of company. The words struck Emily right in the gut. Since when did she have a type of company, and how long had her sister thought of her as such a snob? She rose from the chaise, trying not to grunt from the effort, and shuffled to the edge of the balcony, where she gripped the ledge and let the thin silence stretch out while she pondered how to reply and still keep a firm grasp on her dignity.
She realized after the briefest moment of reflection it was impossible. Since she’d met Boston at the airport yesterday morning, she’d been a total snot. To make herself feel worse, she imagined how Jack and Quinn must’ve greeted him—happily and without a care for what he’d been wearing.
Oh, my God. I’m a stuck-up bitch. She swallowed, pride and all. “I think I might owe Boston a small apology.” She still believed he had a shady little secret, but it d
idn’t give her a free pass to treat him like a second-class human being.
“You’ve got plenty of time to make it up to him. I’m sure his one requirement is you be an appreciative tourist. Not exactly a chore.” Quinn stopped talking abruptly before continuing in a quiet, hefty tone. “Em, listen to me. I know divorce isn’t something you bounce back from like one of those little rubber balls. I would never send you off in the hopes that a little island nookie might solve your problems. In case you are attracted to Boston, I only want to you stop and recall I’d been apart from Blake for over a year when I fell for Jack. It took time. First, I had to come to terms with Blake not really being the one for me. It felt like a big mistake. For a long time, I clung to these images of our past together, instead of scrutinizing who we’d become. But we’re not talking about me, and this trip Jack and I forced on you isn’t about a man. In fact, I hereby ban you from men for the duration of your vacation. You do you, Em.”
Emily gazed down the mountainside she’d climbed yesterday. The dirt-packed parking spot where Boston had parked the van peeked through the web of branches. “And no one else?”
“Right. Thoroughly enjoy Boston, but only in his capacity as someone who can turn your time on Oahu into something magical and special.”
“He did seem well versed on an array of trivial facts.”
“The guy knows everything. It doesn’t surprise me, since he taught high school in a past life.”
The teacher thing again. Emily tried to imagine Boston with properly hemmed clothing and a respectable haircut. Nope. It didn’t jibe. She caught a glint of reflected sunlight through the trees from below. A black sedan sat parked in the drive. “I’m going to ask you more about that later, sis, but I better go. It seems my magic rental car has arrived to whisk me off for some island adventure.”
“Call me anytime. Jack and I are taking Seth back to California in a few weeks to visit Blake. I’m trying to get this rough draft done before we leave. I hate taking work on the road.”
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