Heat Wave Read online

  I roll my eyes. “I don't think that will be a problem,” I tell him. I'd pretty much sworn off men since I left Piccolo.

  “Even so,” he says. “You're better off staying the night elsewhere if you want to get laid. Though since Kate actually has a door, it shouldn't be a problem.”

  “Doesn't it bother you to live like you’re in a dorm?” I ask him, folding my arms. “I mean, how old are you anyway?”

  “Twenty-six,” he says, raising his chin in defense. “And, this isn't living in a dorm room. This is just an affordable way to live in paradise. Not everyone can be rich here. The rich get the private condos and houses. We ain't rich and it ain't about that anyway. This is about really living life and finding out what's important. What's important to you, Ronnie?”

  I'm half-pleased that he's called me by my nickname and half-ashamed that I sounded so snooty. I swallow hard. “I don't know what's important anymore,” I admit, my voice dropping a register. “I just know that whatever it is, it’s not back at home.”

  He purses his lips, eyes studying me. “Hmmm. Honest. I like that. Well, maybe that's why you're here. To find out what's important. What makes your soul sing. I told you this place would shake you up, didn't I?”

  “You did.”

  He jerks his head into the room. “Anyway, you do have your own private bathroom, so if you must get busy, you can get busy in there. I can't tell you how many dates have ended up with a blow-job in the loo.”

  “All right, Charlie, that's enough,” I tell him. “Or is it N' Sync?”

  He scoffs. “I guess you heard Shephard dole out that one.”

  “Is that one of your nicknames?”

  “One of them,” he says. “Take care, I'll see you in a bit.”

  And with that Charlie leaves, while I ponder if the N' Sync comment is over his spiky hair or something else. He looks more like a surfing god than a boy-band member but I guess the best nicknames are the ones we don't suit. Or want.

  With Charlie gone, for the first time in twenty-four hours, I am well and truly alone.

  I'm not even sure what to do. Logan had said he was coming to get me for a tour but I don't know if I have enough time to shower or not. So I stand here for a few moments, moments that stretch into minutes, while I try and absorb everything that's just happened.

  Here I am in Kauai, in my new home, and not only do I have no idea what to expect, I have no idea if I'm ready to start working with Logan. I mean, he is, was, my brother-in-law, and even though Juliet died two years ago, he's somehow still family, whether I want him to be or not.

  And I don’t.

  I just wish I felt something toward him other than . . . well, everything I feel toward him. The biggest one of all is resentment. I can't help but feel a hot fist of anger in my chest every time I think about the way he wronged Juliet. Even though I'd never confronted him about it, we all knew the truth, and that horrible dilemma that Juliet was living with in the months leading up to her death.

  Even though she was hit by a drunk driver and her car plunged over the side of the cliff and onto the rocks below, I can't help but feel it's Logan's fault. Maybe if Juliet hadn't been so distraught by everything that was happening in her life, she would have been more aware, more on the ball. Maybe she would have survived. Corrected the car before it went over. I mean, it was Juliet Locke for crying out loud, my sister, the girl that could never do wrong, the girl who never made mistakes, the girl I spent my entire life living in the shadow of, trying to become someone half as good as her.

  And Logan was her husband, the bastard who cheated on her.

  We all knew. We could sense things were off before, about a year or two into the marriage, when Juliet would give a forced smile every time Logan's name was mentioned. My mother pulled me aside once when they celebrated Christmas with us and asked me, “Do you think Juliet's happy with Logan?”

  At the time I thought it was my mother being a snob, because she always insisted her daughters do the best, marry the best, and Logan, for all his entrepreneurial spirit, wasn't considered to be one of the best. My mother would rather have the politician’s sons for either of us, but especially for Juliet, her shining light, the daughter she was the proudest of.

  But instead Juliet settled for a rugged Australian with little money, who had dreams of opening a hotel in Hawaii (a pipe dream, as my father had initially called it) and when Moonwater Inn finally did open six years ago, it was done with the backing of his friend, Warren Jones, and almost all of my parent’s money. In fact, they're still part owners of this place, yet another reason why I think I was shipped off here.

  Looking back now, I'm sure that's not what my mother meant, though. She must have sensed Juliet's unhappiness. Knew that Logan was having an affair behind her back. She’s a politician and they’re the first to sniff out the shady shit. Takes one to know one and all that.

  When Juliet came to visit alone that one year, staying at my place, that's when the truth came out. Logan was a cheater. Had numerous affairs. Was an asshole of the highest regard.

  I was livid on her behalf, knowing that I should have never trusted him, and I hated myself for initially being so attracted to the man. All before Juliet swept him off his feet, of course—and vice versa. Especially since my family had helped to fund his dream. This was how he repaid them?

  But I never got to talk to Juliet about it again. She became more and more distant as the months went on and wouldn't talk about it. My emails, my texts, my phone calls—it was like it had never happened, that she had never admitted anything. Which, when I think about it, is totally a Juliet maneuver. It hurt her to admit that anything wasn’t perfect.

  She wouldn't leave him either, which I never really understood. Was it that she had become so accustomed to the lifestyle that she was afraid to break it off? Was it that she still loved him somehow, despite all that he'd done? Either way, the Juliet I grew up with, my beautiful big sister, she never would have put up with anyone's shit. Her ego was strong, her pride was unbreakable. And yet she stayed married to Logan for reasons I'll never know.

  But even still, I can't help but hold him partially responsible for her death. If anything, if she didn't fall in love with him, she would still be in Chicago. Maybe she'd show up at my restaurant and finally glimpse the career I was building for myself, see that I too was becoming something. Maybe we would have grown closer as we became adults. Instead I lost the last years of our relationship to long-distance. Kauai had become her new home and new life, and I was just the shadow left behind.

  I was always the shadow left behind.

  I sigh, trying to shake it all from my nerves. I refuse to be negative on my first day here. What I need is a shower.

  I pry my phone out of my jeans pocket, the interior damp from my sweat in this tropical climate, and give it a glance. It's four p.m., October 2nd, and I think—I hope—I have just enough time to have a shower and wash the plane germs off me before Logan shows up. If he shows up.

  I step into the bathroom, grateful that I have a private one, and get in the shower. The moment the hot water hits my skin, I sigh in relief. I literally stand there for five minutes, just letting it all soak into me, like I'm trying to wash every worry and fear away. I swear it works. By the times I lather up with shower oil, shampoo, and conditioner, I feel like a brand-new woman.

  I step out and wrap the towel around me and lean over, wiping the steam away from the mirror. My reflection is a bit fuzzy, like I have the heaviest Snapchat filter on, which is probably why I look half decent. When Jin said I looked like Juliet, he wasn't exaggerating. We're not carbon copies of each other, but even so you can see the resemblance if you look for it, which is probably why Jin saw it (because he knew we were related) and Charlie didn't (because he didn't).

  Juliet was tall and thin, with a giant rack which so wasn't fair, and light brown hair that was shiny like a Pantene commercial. In the summer she had Jennifer Aniston highlights from the sun, and that all came
naturally. She was pale, but her skin was smooth and wrinkle-free, to the point that I started to suspect that our mother had given her the “treat” of Botox on more than one occasion. Her eyes were blue, just like our father's, and her lashes were long, looking positively fake when she loaded on the mascara.

  As for me, my hair is medium brown and I have to pay for my highlights. I'm not very tall, about five-five, and while I'm somewhat thin, it's because I work hard at it. When you think of a chef or a cook, you think of a rather “rotund” person, and I do my best to buck the stereotype, and though I have a full ass and thighs that won't go away no matter how little I eat or many miles I walk, my upper body is tiny (which unfortunately means my boobs don't runneth over). My eyes are more narrow and dark brown, like my mother's (we give good resting bitch face) and my skin tans easily, which, for the first time ever, might be a good thing when it comes to living in Hawaii.

  Overall I know I'm pretty. Not gorgeous like Juliet was, I mean, you couldn't find a person alive that would turn that woman down. She had everyone in the palm of her delicate hand. She was Blake Lively on beauty steroids. But I'm okay with myself, even if Veronica Locke is a person you usually end up forgetting in the end.

  With that in mind, I slather moisturizer over my face, hoping to combat the dryness from the plane, and take in a deep breath.

  I open the door and step out into my my room.

  Logan is standing there.

  I yelp, clutching my towel to my chest.

  “Sorry,” he says quickly, taking a little too long to avert his eyes away from my legs and chest. “I didn't know you were in the shower.”

  I glare at him. “But that still gives you the right to waltz on in here?” I ask incredulously. Talk about no boundaries!

  His eyes narrow in response, the kind of look that can nail you to the floor.

  I don't let it.

  “The door was ajar, I knocked. Again, sorry.” When he finishes that sentence, his eyes trail down to my chest again, my boobs squished together by my hands at the towel. He clears his throat and looks away, staring out at the expanse of lawn and the ocean beyond it.

  I hate, hate, hate the tiny thrill that runs through me from his gaze. This is so not what I want for my first day here. Even though it pains me to do so, I have to just push past all this and try my best to be the bigger person. Hell, Logan is almost forty but that doesn't seem to mean anything when it comes to being less stubborn.

  “Well, give me a moment to get changed,” I tell him.

  He nods and steps out of my zero-privacy bedroom.

  I sigh and quickly close the partitions, then bring down the blinds on the window. I can hear him as he walks along the tile floor, to the kitchen and back to the living area, pacing.

  I wonder if he’s nervous. Of me, of all people.

  It’s because he knows what you think of him.

  Even though it’s raining, I grab a tank top and slide on a pair of black board-shorts I picked up at Neiman’s just before I left. I pull my wet hair back into a loose bun and clean up the bits of mascara underneath my eyes that smudged from the shower. I would have liked to have had more time to actually dote on my appearance for my first day and all—I know how important first impressions are in a business like this—but this will have to do.

  I slide on my flip-flops and step out into the unit.

  Logan is standing at the balcony, hands folded behind his back, staring at the ocean through the screen door.

  I allow myself a quick moment to take him all in. Seeing him earlier at the pool was so jarring, I was barely in the moment.

  He looks good. Really good. It physically pains me to admit it but it's the truth and my body often reacts to the sight of him before my conscience can. If anything, he's gotten better with age, like a very fine wine, the kind you can’t wait to get drunk on.

  His body is still built like he surfs and swims all day, and I have to wonder if that's true and if so, how he finds the time. His hair is dark, longer on the top, shorter on the sides, with just a peppering of grey in his sideburns and along his scruffy beard.

  He might have a few more lines around his eyes, and a definite crevice between his brows, no doubt a result of frowning all the time, but his skin looks taught—tanned and smooth.

  And unlike the times I saw him in Chicago, where he was trapped in layers to fight the cold—hell, he even looked uncomfortable at his wedding, having to wear a tux—here he seems more at ease. He's wearing olive green cargo shorts that come to his knees and a plain white tee shirt. Unlike Charlie and so many of the guys I've seen so far, he is wearing shoes, simple sandals.

  I know I'm staring for too long but to his credit, he lets me do this and doesn't call me out on it. I know he’d love to. Before Juliet told me the truth about him, we had more of a, well let’s say, jovial relationship. He’d tease me all the time. “Little sis,” he’d call me, before letting loose a one-liner about this and that. Luckily I was pretty good at the comebacks. “Big brother” or “old man,” were my favorites.

  I swallow hard and step forward.

  “Okay, all ready,” I tell him, my voice sounding terribly weak. I need to stop letting the past sneak into the present.

  I also need to stop checking him out.

  He finally looks my way and nods. I can't read a thing in his expression, other than the fact that he's frowning, and that could mean anything really.

  “Are you happy with the accommodations?” he asks, sounding so formal.

  I shrug. “I haven't had a roommate in a long time, but sure.”

  He squints at me. “You do realize that the two of you in here means I can't rent this unit out to guests. And we could use that money.”

  “So in other words, shut up, right?”

  His frown deepens as he eyes me. “I wouldn't think of being so rude, but yes, shut up. If you're going to work here, you're going to have act like everyone else. This isn’t Chicago anymore. This isn’t the big bloody city. This is Hawaii, and if you're going to survive you need to leave your preconceived notions at the door. Got it? What I mean is, there will be no special favors from me to you. You'll be treated like everyone else and that means showing up to your shifts on time, working hard, helping out when we need you to, and learning to live with a roommate again. Are we clear?”

  My heart is pounding louder, filling my ears. He doesn't have to be so condescending, I mean I just fucking got off the plane, give me a break.

  “Are you a bossy asshole with all of your employees?” I ask him. “Because you just said I’m not getting special treatment and if this is the same way you treat them, then I think you might have a problem.”

  He raises his brow in shock. Damn, he gives good eyebrow.

  “I’m not being a…” He stops and clears his throat. “Sorry.” The apology sounds painful. “I’m just...finding this weird, that’s all. I haven’t seen you…”

  “Since the funeral. I remember.”

  He swallows and looks away. “So where do I need to start? Did anyone show you around?”

  I sigh loudly and shrug. “I'm not really sure. We met Kate at reception, and for your information, she didn't look too thrilled to be having a roommate either. And that's pretty much it. He mentioned a bunch of names that I can't remember and the fact that everyone has side jobs aside from their main ones.” I pause, wondering for a moment if I should say more. “And he said he liked working here, that you're a good boss.”

  Logan grunts dismissively and looks away. “Doesn't sound like he filled you in on anything. Serves me right to send a monkey to do a man's job.”

  “Hey, he's been nice,” I say, feeling particularly defensive of Charlie at this moment. “Much better than you're being.”

  He eyes me sharply and I know I've pissed him off.

  Good.

  “Look, Veronica,” he says gruffly, crossing his thick arms across his chest, “I know we have our differences and this situation is less than ideal for both of
us. But for the sake of the employees and this hotel, the very same one that was run so lovingly by your own flesh and blood, we'll both have to put it past us. I can be nice if you'll be nice.”

  He really doesn't sound like he wants to be nice. Frankly, neither do I. And the fact that he mentioned Juliet, that we have to be nice for her sake, reminds me that the ghost of her really is large and in charge.

  It's also a bit of a sucker punch.

  “Hey, I'm nice everywhere except in the kitchen,” I tell him, standing up a bit straighter.

  “Good,” he says. “That's the kind of thing I want to hear. Johnny, the head cook, he’s a good guy, talented, sweet as sugar. Without him, the restaurant would have floundered. He made it what it is. But he's good friends with Charlie and has a hard time keeping him in check. It will be good to have someone on the team that doesn't mind being a hard-ass. And I know you can be a hard-ass.”

  I smirk at that, feeling some strange sense of pride at that compliment.

  “Well let's get going,” he says quickly, starting off toward the front door, as if he regrets saying anything remotely complimentary about me. “The grand tour awaits.”

  We walk out the door, the rain having eased off. The air smells fresh, like cut-flowers and something earthy, with the ever-present tang of salt in the air. The breeze is warmer now, like a thick cloak as it blankets me, rustling my wet hair.

  He points out the buildings, the units where the rest of the staff lives, the pool area, past perfectly groomed lawns, landscaped with palm trees and flowering bushes. There are some families out on the balconies, drinking beer or playing with their kids.