“Aloha!” sang a woman in a floral-print muumuu, her voice as smooth as guava jam. She stepped forward, placing a lei around Cal’s neck, then mine, then—bravely—Mrs. Mulroney’s.
With a narrow glare, Mrs. Mulroney’s face filled with suspicion. “What are you giving me flowers for? Do you expect money… or are you looking for a virgin to hurl into the nearest volcano? If that’s the case, pick one of the others, because this old biddy’s been kissed more times than the Blarney Stone.”
Angus giggled at the lei around his neck. “Mine smells like purple. Do we eat them?”
Meanwhile, Mr. Banks bowed graciously. “I accept this garland on behalf of the United States of America.”
“Mr. Banks, Hawaiiispart of the United State of America.”
“We’re in Hawaii? Well then, I suppose I won’t be needing any of my fake passports.” He patted his blazer pocket solemnly. “I even brought the mustache and monocle so I could pass as Monsieur Baguette-Bordeaux. Pity. I rather enjoy living vicariously through him now and then.”
Rashida, to her credit, did not even blink. She simply stepped forward, adjusted her sunglasses, and took her lei like she’d done this a thousand times. “Mahalo,” she said coolly. “Now—where’s the limo?”
And just like that, a sleek black stretch limo rolled up like it had been summoned by a magic spell—or, more accurately, Rashida. Naturally. Anything less than a limo would’ve felt like a clerical error.
“Climb aboard, everyone,” she announced with one sharp clap. “Our accommodation awaits.”
I assumed we were headed to a hotel. Maybe a discreet resort, something elegant but eco-conscious, with influencer-friendly lighting in the bathroom and a minibar that charged eighteen dollars for almonds.
So when we turned off the main road onto a long private driveway canopied by swaying palms and flowering plumeria trees, I said, “Um. This doesn’t look like a hotel.”
Rashida didn’t even look up from her phone. “That’s because it’s not. Cal asked me to rent a house. Just for the few days we’re here. Something private. Comfortable. Tasteful.”
I turned to Cal, eyes wide. “You didn’t tell me we were staying in ahouse.”
“I wanted it to be a surprise. I wanted something that felt like a home away from home.” He looked at me with a smile that made me melt a little, damn him. “I hope you don’t mind. I know how much you love a breakfast buffet.”
“Mind? I don’t mind at all. It sounds like a wonderful idea.”
The limo slowed to a stop in front of an arched wooden gate, carved with intricate wave patterns and flanked by lava-rock walls. The gates opened silently, and I swear I heard angels sing.
Beyond them stood a house—no, a mansion—that looked like it was ready to be listed on a real estate reality TV show where everyone has six-packs and trust funds.
We stumbled out of the limo and stepped through the front doors of the property, and before I could say a single word, Rashida took the lead like she was about to close a sale on commission. “Welcome to your temporary sanctuary, as selected, vetted, and booked by yours truly—using a combination of intuition, satellite imagery, and an article in Vanity Fair titled ‘Where Would Oprah Stay.’”
She walked backwards into the foyer with the confidence of someone who’d spent a week here, even though I was pretty sure she’d just memorized the floorplan on the plane.
“To your left, we have the formal living space,” she continued,sweeping her arm toward a sunken lounge filled with rattan furniture and buttery linen cushions. “Note the open-air concept, the vaulted ceilings, and the gentle cross -breeze that whispers, ‘You don’t belong here, but your money does.’”
Mrs. Mulroney gasped as she caught sight of the ocean view through the far doors. “Sweet Jesus with a piña colada, I can see the beach from the sofa!”
“You can see the beach from everywhere,” Rashida called over her shoulder. “Including the bedrooms. There are six in total—each with sliding doors that open onto their own private balcony, en-suite bathrooms, and enough closet space to fit Matt’s emotional baggage and Cal’s actual wardrobe.”
“I resent that,” I muttered.
“No you don’t,” Cal said, grinning as he dropped our bags by the staircase.
“The kitchen,” Rashida continued, leading us through an arched doorway. “Comes fully stocked, should anyone wish to cook.”
“I make excellent toast,” Angus offered helpfully.
“Not exactly a breakfast buffet,” I remarked. “But who’s complaining.”
With a whoosh, Rashida opened the massive sliding doors that led outside. “And this,” she announced. “Is the access to your own private beach.”
We stepped outside. The exterior of the house was all warm teakwood and coral stone, with a wide veranda wrapping around the property like a warm hug. There were hammocks strung between mango trees, and a small koi pond tucked beside a reading nook that looked stolen from a tropical romance novel.
Beyond that the grass turned to sand, opening out to a picture-perfect view straight out of a brochure. The sand was golden, soft as sifted flour, and led to a gentle turquoise shore that looked photoshopped.