Hula Girl Read online

  It makes me melt like a teenager. I struggle not to show the effect he has on me.

  Clearing my throat, I give him a noncommittal shrug. “Maybe.”

  He nods before securing the surfboard under his arm and making his way barefoot down a barely defined red-dirt trail.

  Instead of going my own way, I edge closer to the cliffside, watching his descent. It’s not an easy path, but he manages to glide down. Within minutes, he’s reached the water’s edge and has carefully climbed onto the rocky entry, finding just the right spot to drop his surfboard before diving in after it.

  Now that I have the perspective of watching someone in particular, rather than random bobbing figures, I realize that the waves are big. Bigger than any I’ve ever seen in person. My gorgeous stranger soon mounts his board and rides a glassine wave with ease, though. He navigates the rocky shoreline as if by instinct, dropping off the board before he gets too close to danger. I spend the next twenty minutes transfixed by his grace in the water, enjoying what appears to be his natural talent for surfing.

  But then he looks up and spots me. He’s straddling his board, in a lull between waves. I can see his grin even from this distance, and I’m mortified to have been caught watching him. He, however, seems amused as he raises a hand and flashes the hang loose sign.

  I finally turn away, wondering what I was doing staring at this surfer boy.

  Time to focus once more on my mission.

  5

  Ford

  Hula Girl.

  The spur of the moment nickname, inspired by the way the stranger’s hips twisted and swayed as she made a ridiculous attempt to find some bars on her phone, had amused me.

  Telling her to add a hula dance to get a better signal was just me being me. I’ve never been good at listening to that inner voice. You know, the one that warns you to shut up before saying something inappropriate, or walk away from a contentious argument, or pass up a pretty girl.

  But any amusement fell away the second she turned to me on that cliff at the top of Honolua Bay. In its place was something … overpowering.

  Talk about attraction. Man, there’s no doubt in my mind that something pulled us together. It was like a magnetic force that I couldn’t resist. Even if I wanted to.

  How could I walk away from Hula Girl, anyway, when she was so obviously giving me the once over with those dark, sparkling eyes.

  At the same time, I felt an underlying sense of danger in our mutual attraction. Because let’s face it, when did that kind of heat between two people ever do anything but burn them?

  And I almost let it go. I almost just wished her good luck and went on my way to catch some waves. But before I could move on, I went and invited her here, to Makai’s. It’s almost nine o’clock and I’m still alone, but the fact that she stayed and watched me catch waves makes me think she’ll be here soon.

  “Makai,” I call out to the one-man owner-bartender-waiter. “One more, yeah?”

  Makai gives me the dead-eye stare he’s so good at and hauls himself to his feet. His place is one of those side-of-the-road kinds of establishments that if you blink, you’ll miss it as you drive by. But it’s worth stopping for the chill atmosphere, the cheap drinks, and the incredibly fresh poke. Plus, Makai doesn’t care if I hang out with my buddies for hours on end or if I bring my acoustic guitar with me. He’d never admit it, but I think he likes having me around.

  “No friends tonight, then?” he asks as he places a fresh shot glass of tequila in front of me.

  “They had other plans,” I reply.

  “Your guitar have other plans, too?”

  I laugh at the implication that I’ve got nothing to offer if I’m not bringing in my friends to spend money or my guitar to entertain him.

  “Next time, Makai.” Using my foot, I push out the chair opposite mine. “Join me.”

  “No can do.”

  “Why not?”

  “Wouldn’t be professional.”

  Again with the dead-eye stare. But there’s just the slightest upturn at the corner of his mouth. I laugh again and shake my head.

  I’m about to go at him over this weak excuse when the door opens and Hula Girl steps into the tiny place. Five groupings of tables for four guests each line one wall and a long countertop serving as a bar fills out the other wall. There are a couple of other regular customers, but Hula Girl’s eyes go straight to mine.

  And I feel that same thing again. That pull.

  With her long, straight hair down and falling across her tawny, bare shoulders, she’s a stunner. She’s wearing a little strapless dress, the coral color contrasting with her dark eyes and thankfully showing off those legs once more. Don’t get me wrong, I love—no, adore—every part of a woman’s body, but I’ve always been a sucker for nice legs.

  I force my eyes away from her lower half in time to see the second thoughts mapped out all over her pretty face. She probably envisioned this as a rowdy bar she could scope out before making it known that she had taken me up on my invitation. We’re strangers to each other, after all. But this place is the exact opposite of that. There’s nowhere to hide.

  Before she can turn on her heel, I stand.

  “Chickens stay out of your way this time?” I ask with a grin.

  There’s a moment of hesitation before she seems to decide to give me a chance. It’s what I’d hoped would happen by bringing that up. When she smiles, I have final confirmation of what I’d suspected earlier: There is something irresistible about this girl. I know it by the way I’m suddenly desperate for her to stay, by the way I want her to get close enough to me so that I can tell whether she’s wearing perfume, by the way I’ve lost sight of anyone else in this place. It’s a strong reaction. I don’t usually respond to women like this. I’m usually a take ’em or leave ’em kind of guy. I just don’t tend to get invested in women, as some of my ex-girlfriends would likely say in a more accusatory way. But this thing with Hula Girl feels different.

  “Glad you came,” I tell her when she joins me at my table. “What’s your drink? Me, I’m having tequila. It’s the sipping kind. Good stuff. Not that trash you have to throw back in a hurry.”

  She eyes me for a minute. “I do like good tequila.”

  I gesture for her to take the chair I’d offered Makai. When she sits, I push my shot glass in front of her and ask Makai for another. He grumbles and waves at me dismissively but ambles over to fill my order once more.

  “So,” I say, “mission accomplished?”

  She gives me a blank stare. “What?”

  “You said this morning you were on a mission. To buy a laptop?”

  “Oh, right.” She shakes her head. “I decided that the chicken running me off the road was a sign reminding me to, you know, be on vacation, not work. So, I didn’t end up going to town after all.”

  “I have the feeling that was the right decision.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Nobody should be as wound tight as you were this morning.”

  When she laughs this time, it’s more out of disbelief than humor. Like I said, I should probably know better when to hold back. It’s just not in my nature, I guess.

  “Well, that’s an interesting way to welcome a girl. Call her uptight?”

  Thankfully, she seems more amused than angry. And better yet, Makai interrupts the moment by setting down another shot of tequila.

  “Poke?” he asks gruffly.

  Hula Girl looks confused.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask.

  “I, um—” she starts before Makai interrupts.

  “I’ll bring two.”

  She watches as he shuffles away.

  “Don’t worry about him,” I say. “What he lacks in charm, he makes up for in poke.”

  Laughing, she asks, “What is poke?”

  “Oh, my dear Hula Girl. Are you ever in for a treat if you’ve never had poke before. Makai’s version will knock your”—I pause to look at her feet under the table�
��“sandals off. You’ll be ruined for any other poke after this.”

  “I still don’t know what you’re talking about, Surfer Boy.”

  I like that she’s given me a nickname in return. Makes me think we’re off to a nice start. “It’s fish. Some of the freshest tuna you’ll ever have. It comes with rice and vegetables and an umami sauce that you’ll crave for weeks afterward.”

  “You certainly know how to talk things up. First the tequila, now this?”

  I shrug. “It’s just about appreciating the simple things.”

  “Next, you’ll tell me you’re just living ‘one wave at a time,’ right?”

  I laugh. “Pretty much.”

  “How old are you?”

  The question throws me for a second. “Twenty-seven. And you?”

  “Thirty.”

  “Cheers to that,” I say, raising my glass.

  She fights a smirk before knocking her glass against mine. We both take a sip and I watch as she slowly closes her eyes, savoring the rich, sweet agave of the tequila.

  “Good, right?”

  When she looks at me again, her eyes have lost the wariness she had when she first arrived. While she might not be completely relaxed, she’s definitely not wound as tight as she was this morning. Then she takes another sip and I know we’re heading in the right direction.

  “So, you appreciate the simple things,” she starts, and I can hear a challenge in her voice.

  I smile, up for whatever she might throw my way. “I do.”

  “That includes surfing, poke, and tequila.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And flirting with tourists?”

  I raise my eyebrows, not sure how to respond.

  She laughs. “It’s okay if that’s your game. I’m not bothered. I figured as much when you invited me out here.”

  “Figured what exactly?”

  “That you’ve got a pretty good deal for yourself. I’m guessing it’s not too hard to hook up with your pick of women.”

  “No use in arguing with you,” I tell her, mostly to get a rise. I’m not above the odd one-night stand with a pretty tourist I might meet at one of the bars in town. But I’ve never invited anyone here. This is my local place for hanging with my buddies or just on my own.

  “Didn’t think so,” she says with a self-satisfied nod.

  I squint, appraising her. She carries herself with sophistication and self-assurance. I can tell that she’s clever, that in her “real” life, she’s probably someone to be reckoned with. All of which is why I decide to turn the tables on her and make light of her accusation that I’m some kind of player on the prowl.

  “How do I know you didn’t go to Honolua Bay looking for a local surfer to flirt with?”

  “What?” When she laughs, her dark eyes sparkle with amusement. It’s such a pretty sight.

  “I’ve heard about you tourists. You know, the ladies who scope out us vulnerable islanders to keep you warm at night.”

  Now she’s appraising me, her smile lingering. Then she picks up her glass and raises it up for a toast. “Cheers to that,” she says.

  Damn, if I’m not lost in her for a second. I love the way she just acknowledged this attraction we’ve got going. She’s not going to bullshit me. She’s not going to play any games. I tap my glass to hers and when we each raise our glasses to our lips, we keep eye contact. I can feel the heat between us. I’ve never wanted to be this close to an open flame before.

  “So, you’re on vacation here?” I ask.

  She nods, playing it cool.

  “I suppose you’ve done all the expected things? Luau and such?”

  “Ah, no. I did a lot of the usual sightseeing, but that one just seems like a tourist trap,” she says dismissively.

  “There are some good things about luaus.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, if you went to one that truly focused on the tradition behind it, you’d see that it’s a celebration of music and food. The authentic food is amazing. Like kalua pork that’s been buried and roasted overnight in the beach, fresh poi—that’s taro root—local purple sweet potatoes, and even poke. Most kids have one for their first birthday and then it keeps on going for other milestones. It’s a really cool way to share stories and catch up with the community.”

  There’s a new sense of appreciation in her eyes. I’m glad to have enlightened her. Hawai‘i has become such a cliché for so many people that they lose sight of the basis for all those tourist things they’ve come to roll their eyes at.

  “And I suppose you can enlighten me on what hula is really about, too?”

  “Besides being hella sexy, you mean?”

  She laughs. “Yes, besides your peculiar fixation on that point.”

  I laugh. “Well, it’s definitely more than all the cheesy tourist versions would have you believe. There’s Hula Kahiko, the ancient style, and Hula Auana, the modern style, that would be more familiar to you now. The first one was an homage to the gods and tells the stories of Hawai‘i. But they say it was only danced by men. So, you can guess that I’m a bigger fan of the second one.”

  She laughs. “Somehow not surprised.”

  I give her a wink. “Exactly. So this modern version is less religious but still tells stories about Hawai‘i. And it’s got more westernized music and singing. And it’s a bit more … sensual. At least by my take.”

  She raises her eyebrows at this last bit but holds back any comment. I get lost in her sparkling brown eyes for a moment. There’s a tease in her gaze. And something more alluring. I like it.

  “So, are you vacationing on your own? No boyfriend?” I ask.

  “Um, no. Not at the moment.”

  “I bet you won’t be single for long.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You’re beautiful. You’re smart. You’re fun. I bet you get hit on all the time.”

  “No, not really.”

  “Because you close yourself off?” I ask, examining her. “Yeah, I could see that. Some guys don’t like to put in the effort to get past the don’t-fuck-with-me vibe some girls project.”

  “I don’t think I—”

  “Doesn’t bother me, Hula Girl. Shouldn’t keep any real man from wanting to get past it.”

  “And you’re a real man, I suppose?”

  I know how to take an opening when I see one. I lean forward, level my eyes on her, and put on the intense expression I know women usually fall for. “You better believe it, honey.”

  She takes that in and smiles appreciatively at me. We stew for a minute in this magnetic thing we’ve got going until Makai interrupts to offer us a refill on our drinks and I readily accept. She doesn’t seem to mind as we then drink quietly for a time, content to just be while we take sips. Eventually, her eyes drop from mine and she turns contemplative.

  She murmurs something but I can’t quite catch what she’s saying.

  “What’s that?”

  She looks startled by my query as if she hadn’t meant to say anything out loud just now. “Oh. Um, my father. I was just thinking he would have appreciated this.”

  “Would have?”

  Taking a deep breath, she nods. Her expression has morphed into something different. It’s gone sad, regretful. “He’s passed away.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  I shake my head. “You don’t have to say that.”

  “Say what?”

  “Qualify that it was a long time ago. He was your father. You lost your father. That loss isn’t made any easier by the fact that it was a long time ago.”

  Her eyes tear up, which wasn’t what I’d intended. I meant to honor the place he would always have in her life, rather than let her think she needed to dismiss the subject altogether.

  “Hey,” I say, leaning over the table, “tell me about him. What was he like?”

  “Um, you don’t really want to—”

  “I do. Tell me one thing, at
least.”

  She takes a moment to think about my request and then a beautiful smile transforms her face. I can’t help but mirror it in return.

  “He was a huge baseball fan. He made me into one, too.”

  “Dodgers?”

  “Of course,” she replies with a laugh. Her eyes go distant as she seems to replay memories in her mind. “When I was really little, he’d sit me on his lap and we’d watch games on TV. Or sometimes, we’d just listen to Vin Scully make the call on the radio. But the best times were when he’d take me to the stadium—up in the nosebleed seats.”

  I nod. “But it wasn’t about the seats, was it?”

  Her eyes come into focus as she looks at me again. “No, it wasn’t.”

  “It was about the shared experience.”

  “Exactly.” There’s a kind of relief in her voice now, as if me understanding this bond she had with her father gives her some kind of peace. “We always wanted the Dodgers to win, but even if they didn’t, watching the game together was really about having that time that was just ours. Sometimes we talked about other things like school or which boy was picking on me on the playground. And other times, we didn’t talk about anything other than baseball. But I always came away feeling better. Feeling more secure.” She takes a deep breath. “I haven’t been back to a game since he passed away. But I still love the sport. He left me that.”

  “Sounds like a really good dad, if you ask me.”

  She nods, and a wistful, sweet expression follows. “What about you?”

  “Me? I love baseball. I played first base in high school. We were state champions, in fact.”

  “That’s awesome. But I meant, do you have a good dad, too?”

  I knew that was what she meant but had hoped to slip out of any talk of my father. I know I could find a way to avoid it, but for some reason, I opt to be brutally forthcoming.

  “No, I grew up without a father,” I tell her. “He knew about me, but he wasn’t interested in being around. Him not being around was all I knew, so I didn’t dwell on it too much. But, honestly, that didn’t mean it wasn’t hard.”

  That hangs in the air for a long second as I realize I’ve just said far too much. I want to change the subject, but she speaks before I have a chance.