by Piper Lennox
Crash Around Me
Love in Kona Book Two
Piper Lennox
Copyright © 2018 by Piper Lennox
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For the king of stupid dares
There now - steady, love
So few come and don't go
Will you, won't you
Be the one I'll always know
When I’m losing my control
And the city spins around
You’re the only one who knows
You slow it down…
The Fray, “Look After You”
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Also by Piper Lennox
Sneak Peak
Stay in the Loop
About the Author
One
Luka
Today, I landed our most elusive affiliate.
I added another eight percent to our projected earnings, if all goes according to plan.
I’m in my favorite suit and I’ve got a team of executives literally lining up to shake my hand. And I haven’t even had my morning coffee yet.
So why is her flight schedule the only thing you can think about?
“...never seen numbers like this for a new exec. It’s beyond impressive.” Parker slaps my back. “Corporate’s freaking out.”
I graciously step away from the boardroom. He follows. “They’re just projections. Nothing to get excited over.”
“The affiliate is.”
With this, I can’t argue. We’ve been trying to land Kona Segway Rentals and Tours—abbreviated to “Kona Seg” by locals—for over a year.
“I only have clout because of my dad. The Kalanis are friends with him.”
“Selling yourself short, man.” He holds out his fist. I tap it.
My phone buzzes. I excuse myself and duck into the elevator. It’s got to be her.
Nope. An email from somebody in corporate. Not congratulating me on the surge of future income or new affiliate, but telling me which potential affiliate to speak with next.
It never ends.
I check her social media, which is a waste. She hasn’t posted anything new since the last time she was here.
It’s still her profile picture: the shot I took of her on the cliff at South Point, the last day of her trip. The wind was crazy. It tangled her hair and lifted it away from her face as she laughed, half-scared, half-amazed at the sight of the glittering ocean underneath us.
“We could fall in!” she screamed. A happy, high one.
“Or jump,” I teased, just as I snapped the picture. And that was the look I got: her laughing at me, at my jokes she couldn’t decide were jokes or not. The wild dares we were always giving each other. Seeing who could be the bravest. Or, sometimes, the dumbest.
The elevator opens to the bottom floor. This is one of the employee ones, meant for executives to ride to the top, and maids and servers to discreetly shift from floor to floor. All of us have the same job: stay out of sight as much as possible. When a guest does spot you, smile. Serve. Maintain the illusion.
This isn’t the happiest place on earth, but we come damn close.
“Head’s up.”
I duck out of the way as I enter the main galley, where servers are already in the weeds for midday, still catching up from brunch. Our restaurant has designated meal windows, but they run together all day. After all, that’s part of the perfect vacation: awesome food, whenever the mood strikes.
It’s doubly true for drinks, so I’m not even fazed when P.J. and Jake, looking panicked, cut off my path before I can make it to the deck.
“We’re out of tequila.” Jake runs his bottom teeth along his top lip and holds them there, panting and waiting for my solution. When I promoted him to head bartender in place of my brother, I gave him a two-hour speech about exactly this: handling the bar’s problems on his own.
It sounds shitty, but I really don’t have time for this.
But then again, we’re coming up on two years, and I still handle every issue he brings my way, so I’m partly to blame. The bar was my first big project to show the corporate guys—and my father—that I could handle this job. It’s hard to walk away.
“What’s the Drink of the Day?” I ask.
“It was the Melon Margarita. Now it’s nothing.”
I check my watch. “P.J., go see if Seaside will let us buy a case or two of their backstock, just to get us through to the next shipment. Here.” I hand him my truck keys and a roll of twenties. He salutes me, does an about-face, and leaves.
Jake pushes some sweat off his forehead. “Two cases are not going to last us tonight.”
“They will if we make the Drink of the Day something without tequila.” I step around him and beeline for the liquor stockroom. “What do we have the most of?”
“Vodka.”
Sure enough, when I open the heavy metal door, I’m greeted with shelves upon shelves of vodka. “Lot of pineapple juice, too. There’s something there—figure it out.”
I could actually tell him exactly what Drink of the Day he should make. In my head, where there’s a constant carousel of what’s in stock, what’s plentiful, what’s low, and what’s possible, the recipe pops up instantly.
But Jake second-guesses himself way too much. If I show him I have faith he can do this, he will. I know what it’s like to feel limited by everyone else’s expectations. Or lack thereof.
“After you pick it,” I tell him, already halfway across the kitchen, “write it everywhere. Tell the servers to push it hard.” I stop, snapping my fingers at him. “Make it big.”
“Wh— The promo, or the drink?”
“Both.” I point to a rack of the huge fishbowl glasses we reserve for our fruitiest, most ridiculous drinks. They’re meant to share between couples or friends, but usually get ordered by lone customers for social media boastfulness. Whatever works.
Outside, finally, I relax. It doesn’t last long.
“Luka, there you are.” Iona looks like she’s close to tears, which happens a lot. She’s very sensitive, but passionate, which made her the perfect choice for Head of Guest Experiences. In other words: one concierge to rule them all.
“The check-in computer is down.”
“The computer,” I clarify, as I start walking in the opposite direction I wanted to go, “or the system?”
“Uh....” She pulls out her phone and scrolls. “Ace said the computer.”
“Did you call IT?”
“They can’t get out here until two. All the suggestions they gave us didn’t work.”
“Here.” I dig out a key from my pocket and palm i
t to her. “Get Ace to help you grab one from the Business Center, then call IT back so they can start the system on that computer. I’m pretty sure they can do it remotely. And get Parker to order two new setups, for the love of God. It’s ridiculous we only have one.”
“Thank you,” she sighs gratefully, running ahead of me into the lobby. I notice Ace, our front desk frontman, already checking guests in with our emergency system: an old tablet, where the most rudimentary data is stored. Not nearly as fast as a computer, but at least the line is thinning. I pause to say hello to some guests, shake their hands, and welcome them to Paradise Port.
God, I hate that name.
It’s probably the one thing about the franchise I’ve lobbied to change completely, always shot down. I get it: Paradise Port is the franchise. They’ve been in business since the 1980s, constructing all-inclusive resorts on every tropical or slightly-warm beachfront they can. By now, people recognize the name as a mark of hassle-free luxury.
Technically, our resort is Paradise Port: Kona. I thought Port Kona had a nice ring to it, until I was chastised for shortening the name the first year we were under contract. “If you’re going to shorten it at all,” they warned me, “just drop ‘Kona.’”
The important thing here, after all, is Paradise. The specifics don’t matter.
“Luka, one of the shuttles is broken. I think the engine overheated.” This small disaster hits me the very second I step out of the lobby.
I close my eyes, sigh, and remind Stefan to call the mechanic we keep on standby. “And we’ve got the other two shuttles, right? Make one run to the airport for pick-ups and drop-offs, then the other does tours. It’ll slow things down, but at least they’ll be moving.”
He thanks me and vanishes back around the building. I take this rare moment of solitude to sprint down the back road, unbuttoning my jacket and draping it over my arm as I go, before someone else can spot me.
My schedule spins in my head. Head home, grab lunch, drink enough coffee to not care I barely slept last night, then back into the office for a list of tasks so long, I can’t even remember it when I’m this hungry.
Halfway down the road to my parents’ house, I stop. Through the trees, as the wind blows and shifts the fronds, I see the water. Sunlight catches a wave way out near the horizon. A really good one.
I try not to, but I think about Noe as I walk.
“You can’t be afraid of it,” he told me, the day I got my ass kicked by a huge wave and came up puking seawater. “When you’re afraid, you hesitate and lean back. And when you lean back, you slow down. And—”
“And when I slow down,” I finished, spitting as I mounted my board, “the wave gets just enough time to change. I know.”
“Look, I’m trying to help. Getting out of a tube in time was hard for me too, when I was your age.”
“Me, too,” Kai added. “Well, actually, I was a little bit younger than you when I mastered it. But who’s counting?”
I flung a palm of water his way and we all laughed, the sunrise turning the tops of our heads orange: the reminder that Noe would soon get called to shore to start his shift at the lodge. Kai and I would straggle our way inside, eventually. He usually caught one more wave before he rushed to work. I would tempt fate with an hour, even two, gliding along the water. Waiting to see if anyone would notice or care I wasn’t there.
I was a kid, though. Of course I didn’t want to work.
Now, as I catch pieces of the beach through the trees, I spot two surfers in the center of a wave. It’s closing off fast at both ends. There’s no way they’ll make it.
I’m half-right: one doesn’t, but whether he falls in or just dives before the wave can knock him, I can’t tell. The other guy heads straight for the end. The curl closes like a ribbon in front of him. Behind him, it’s all foam.
Then, at the last second, he angles his board and shoots out down the face. I watch him crouch and glide to a stop, then high-five his friend.
The road shifts under my feet and trips me, the asphalt uneven. I right myself before I can hit the ground and cross the street, away from the trees. Farther from the beach. There’s no time to surf today.
I haven’t gone out there since…God, Christmas. My rash guards are all at the back of my closet. I can’t even remember where my swimsuit wound up.
I promise myself I’ll go tomorrow. It’ll be my reward for the affiliate contract. I’ll shut my phone off. Better yet, I’ll leave it at home.
Now that I’ve thought about it, I have to check. Still no messages from her.
I pull up the text app and find her name. The wind blows again as I type. Even though I’m deliberately not looking, I can see the water to my left, tumbling over itself.
“Hey, it’s me. U swimming here?”
Good: it’s a way of asking her ETA, and pointing out the fact she’s late, without being clingy or demanding. That’s not my style.
By the time I get to the house, she still hasn’t answered. I silence my phone while I eat, and don’t let myself check it until I’ve finished.
Tanya
If there were ever a perfect side guy, Luka is it.
First, his location. Hawaii’s my favorite place to vacation, ever since I went after college graduation with friends. It’s become a personal tradition.
Second: he’s unbelievably sexy. Cut and tan, sports custom suits, with the kind of face you just know used to be baby-cute, but completely transformed when manhood hit. When he smiles, it’s sideways and sly, always. He runs his hand through his hair a lot, and yet the sight never gets old.
Third: in bed, he’s incredible. The boy can draw out a single orgasm for minutes on end with nothing but his fingertips. He can get you dangerously close just by stating, in the lowest, most mellow voice, exactly what he’s going to do to you when dinner ends.
And fourth, by far the most important aspect of the ideal side interest: he wants no more and no less than I do.
The first year we got together, we laid down ground rules. Don’t get attached. Don’t get jealous.
Whatever happens, accept it.
We even shook on it.
Our first night together, he texted me to get a drink with him at the bar. It was my last night in Kona.
“Your friend left, huh?”
I nodded, a little sad as I stirred the drink he’d ordered for me. It was late: the bar was closing, and almost no guests remained on the deck. They were all either up in their rooms, drunk and happy, or walking it off along the beach. “I’m going to visit her and vice-versa, so it’s not that big a deal. But I do miss her. I mean, we were roommates for two years. And best friends for basically all of college.”
“Oh, you’d be a terrible roommate.”
I laughed and kicked his leg, almost falling off my barstool. When he caught my elbow, that sideways grin emerging, I knew my last night in Hawaii was about to get very interesting.
“How would you know?”
Luka watched me sip my drink before finishing his gin. He drank it like I’d never seen: neat, with a single cherry speared into it.
“I bet,” he answered slowly, eyeing me, “you listen to really loud music whenever you’re upset. And when you’re really happy—any extreme. I bet you get random notions to repaint rooms without asking anyone, or cook huge, elaborate meals that just totally destroy the kitchen.”
“Very funny. Did Mollie tell Kai that, and he told you?”
“I’m good at reading people. My brother didn’t do anything except give me your number.”
He took the toothpick with the cherry from his drink and held it out to me. I leaned closer, opened my mouth, and let him slide the fruit past my lips.
“Did you ask him for my number?” I raised my eyebrow while I chewed. The cherry was absurdly sweet, an orb of pure sugar, but followed with the tingling bitterness of gin.
Luka loosened his tie. “I did. When I saw you in that little red bikini...” His stare grew heavy-lidded, but focuse
d. “...I just couldn’t get you out of my head.”
Whether things moved fast with us because that was just who we were or because they had to, it being my last night and all, I couldn’t tell. My personality was on the fast side, I knew that: I didn’t like mind games and three-day rules, stupid timelines that made no sense.
Of course, I didn’t know Luka’s personality yet. I didn’t know anything about him, other than what I’d heard from Mollie, who only knew Luka through his older brother’s filter. But as that night stretched on and the countdown to my flight grew smaller, I learned.
“Is it true you used to be a slacker?” I asked, on the way to my hotel room.
“Okay, now I know you talked to Kai.” He laughed and ran his hand down my back while the elevator rose. “Yeah, I guess it’s sort of true. I didn’t care about the family business as much as I could have. Not until my dad signed with Port.”
“I heard Kai still lives at home.” I gave him a lingering once-over, pretending to reconsider. “Should I assume you do, too, since you’re following me to my room, instead of inviting me to your place?”
“Oh, come on,” he said, laughing again. “It’s not like that. I live at home to help out my folks—I’m not mooching.”
“Sure, sure.”
“And where do you live?”
“An apartment.” My sadness crept in as I remembered the fact that, when I got back, half the place would be empty, Mollie’s stuff boxed up and shipped to her parents’ house in Hillford.
“Seriously,” he said, “I’m not a scrub. Well...anymore.”
I stepped back and took in the view, head to toe and back. His suit was ironed to perfection, and I could just see him in his bedroom, running over every crease to make sure he got this thing as crisp as possible.