Page 49 of Resorting to Romance

Kai takes the outstretched container of dessert from me as I step over the threshold.

I walk past Kai, who should smell at least a little offensive from working out, but he doesn’t. He’s sunshine and tropics, earthy, but warm. Manly.

Shaka saves me from this weird mental trail I’m on about myfriend. Shaka’s wagging his tail even harder now that I’m inside the house, and he’s obviously about to jump up to greet me when Kai firmly says, “Hey! Off.”

Shaka sits, his tail wagging on the floor like a swiffer in overdrive.

“Hey there, good boy. Who’s a good boy?” I say to Shaka, scrubbing his head and under his chin.

“Not that one. Don’t let him fool you,” Kai says in a grumbly tone that makes me smile.

He walks into the kitchen, setting the bag on the dining table and then coming back into the living room. Shaka follows Kai.

“What did Shaka do?” I ask.

“He’s just everywhere I go. And he’s … well, look at him.”

I do. Shaka smiles the way some breeds do. An actual dog smile. Then he lets his tongue loll out for an extra dose of adorableness. Shaka’s obviously oblivious to the way Kai feels about him because he looks up at Kai as if no one else in the world exists.

“Well, the feeling sure isn’t mutual. That dog adores you.”

“Hrmph.” Kai makes a grumpy old man noise.

I burst into laughter. “I’ve never seen this side of you.”

“It’s that dog.”

“Mm hmm. Well, you’re a saint for putting up with him. I can see that he’s absolutely horrible.”

Kai gives me a side eye.

Then he waves his arm toward the couches and overstuffed chair. “Come in. Make yourself at home.”

Kai looks around as if he’s trying to size up whether the house is guest-ready. It’s immaculate. Surfing magazines are stacked neatly on a side table. Blue and white abstract paintings of the ocean line the walls, interspersed with a collage of surf photos of Kai, Kalaine, and Bodhi. I walk closer so I can see them better.

I’ve never been in Kai’s space alone. I’ve attended a few barbecues, but then I was only out back in the yard, entering through the gate from the alleyway behind the houses like the rest of the guests. I came in to use the restroom once during a party, but I never ventured into the living room.

“Wow.” I breathe out my awe in one word that doesn’t do justice to what I’m seeing.

Kai on a wave. This photo looks like it was taken by a professional with a high-quality camera. The details are vivid. He’s surfing in Hawaii or somewhere tropical. The wave is twice as tall as Kai, and he’s riding down the face with his body bent. I can feel the intensity of his focus, the way every inch of him is engaged in the ride. I study the next photo. Kai’s on the top of a wave like a skier on a slope. His board is aimed with the nose out of the water, spray arcing behind him. Every muscle flexed. The smile on his face is broad and free.

He’s gorgeous. Most days I forget Kai was a pro-surfer. He’s just Kai to me.

“Do you miss it?” I ask.

“Sometimes.”

He walks over so he’s just behind me. We stand there, silently absorbing the photos together.

Kai points at one. “That was the best day. I won all my heats. Took first in the whole contest.”

“You’re a superhero,” I nearlywhisper.

He chuckles low and deep. “Like Aquaman.”

I make the mistake of turning to smile at him. He’s right there, a light dusting of end-of-the-day stubble covering his jawline, dark and inviting. His golden-amber eyes find mine. We’re locked in this moment, so close I can hear his breath, for one … two … three seconds that feel like they defy time, and then I come to my senses, and it seems like he does too.

Kai steps back. “You never said what brought you knocking at my door this late at night. Surely it’s not so you could take in the history of Kai Kapule’s pro-surfing days.”

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