Relapse In Paradise. Roxanne Smith
sink. He joined her at the bar, taking the stool to the far right and leaving the one between them vacant. “There’s a race component to every place on the planet I’ve ever been, and Hawaii is no exception. Take me, I wasn’t born here. Even if I had been, I’m no Hawaiian.”
“Of course not. You’re obviously Caucasian.”
“Not everyone gets it. Hawaiian is not only a culture, it’s a race. It’s a blood thing, not a location thing.” He splayed a hand over his chest. “I’ve been living here long enough to say I’m a local. Lived here, born here, raised here, whatever, you’re a local. Haole is widely known as a derogatory term for white folks like us, but most times it’s not said as a racial thing. I mean, it can be, it’s just—”
“I imagine that largely depends on who’s saying it and to whom.” It struck Emily that Boston seemed defensive of the term.
“Well, yeah, I guess so. Try to not take it personally if you happen to hear it, that’s all.”
She almost laughed. “It’s takes a little more than pointing out my skin color to offend me, but thanks for the heads up. Or, mahalo, I should say.”
Boston popped up from the stool and held a shiny silver key in front of her face. “Well, then I’ll leave you in your own capable hands for the evening.”
Instinct forced her to cup her hands beneath the key to keep it from falling to the floor if he dropped it, which he did immediately into her waiting palms. “You’re leaving me here alone?”
“Did you want me to stay the night?” He raised his eyebrows but stopped short of wriggling them suggestively.
“No, I—what if I need to go somewhere? Do I call you?”
Already headed for the front door, he paused. “You can’t do that, unfortunately.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I get great reception out here. See?” She dug in her purse for her cell phone. She found it and pulled it out with a triumphant grin. “Bars. Lots of bars.”
“I’m happy for you. But I don’t have a phone.”
Neanderthal.
Barbarian.
Lost soul.
A million descriptive terms popped into her head. Emily posed her next question as carefully and non-judgmentally as her self-control allowed. “What kind of person are you?”
“Oh, what, because I’m not all reachable and stuff? How about I’m a person who doesn’t care about social networking. I’m a guy who thinks it’s creepy to be tied to a device like a robot. Hey, maybe I’m a guy who doesn’t like the idea of the whole world knowing where I am and what I’m doing every second of every day. A guy who doesn’t live his life ‘on the grid.’ A guy who—”
“Okay, all right.” She held her hands up in surrender. “I get it. You’re a conspiracy theorist. Or a hippie. Or a conspiracy hippie if there’s such a thing.”
His mouth fell partially open. “I’m serious. It creeps me out how they track us, and we willingly let them keep tabs. Science fiction isn’t so fiction these days. Also, I’m broke.”
That was probably no lie, given his attire. She had mistaken him for a homeless person. “Explain to me how my vacation is supposed to work if I can’t get ahold of you. I sit in my tree house until you come back to take me somewhere? Are you going to be nearby? Should I venture out on my own? And if I do, do I get to prorate for your services?”
He did an awkward sort of shuffle shoulder dip move—an apology meets needs-to-pee. “I have to return to Honolulu. But, hey, I’m not leaving you without resources. The house is fully stocked for your stay. You’ve got the necessities a woman of discerning tastes might need. Soap, shampoo, and food. There’s even a place to charge the government-issued tracking device of your choice.” He swung his pointer finger toward the front door, where the ocean peeked through the canopy. “The shore is to your north. If you venture out, head west. You’ll come up on a street chock full of bars and shops.”
Her body deflated, and the irony wasn’t lost on her. Upon arriving, she’d been less than excited to have a traveling companion. Now, she didn’t want Boston to go. The last couple hours had afforded Emily a distraction from thoughts of Blake.
What was he doing right now? Did he know about the surprise trip Quinn and Jack had sprung on Emily less than twenty-four hours ago? Emily imagined her night dragging on as she stared out from the balcony at the great expanse of ocean and tore herself apart with the knowledge she was very likely the last person on Blake’s mind. The view might be new, but the story didn’t change.
Boston put a hand on her shoulder. His eyebrows came together in concern, and he took off his sunglasses. “You all right, Emily?”
She sniffed and stepped back, forcing him to drop his hand. “Fine. I’ll probably eat in. I’m not much of a social butterfly, anyway.”
“I’m a guide, not a pocket escort. I’ll be here bright and early to take you somewhere special and obscure, then out for some fantastic local fare. But you’ve got to do a little exploring on your own, too. Honolulu is my grid. I leave this”—he opened his arms wide—“for your personal discovery. Meet folks. Hit a shrimp truck for lunch. Take a selfie with a sea turtle.”
“You’re giving me homework?” She lifted a skeptical brow. Why did Boston remind her so much of a shifty street performer? He used the right words but smacked of illusion.
He started for the door again. “I always did enjoy assigning essays right before the weekend. Kids hate that. It’s worth mentioning most parents do, too.”
If she’d had as much as a piece of gum in her mouth, she’d have choked. She marched over to Boston and glared. “You’re full of it. Who in their right mind would let you instruct children?”
He whipped his sunglasses back on, but not before Emily caught the hard stare he returned. “No one in the state of Hawaii. Unless this is a field trip gone terribly wrong. Must’ve packed the wrong mushrooms for lunch.”
“I’m serious. You’re a teacher?”
“Currently? Nope. Have I been?” He began a slow backward step toward the door. “Well, I do like to imagine myself as more than a mere guide, of course. You might say I’m an educator of sorts.” He grabbed the doorknob behind him as if he couldn’t escape fast enough, twisted it, and made a beeline for the stairs that would take him back down the mountain. “Tomorrow morning. Dress casually if…” He nodded apologetically at her outfit. “If you can.”
“What kind of answer is that?”
A devilish grin—no other way to describe it, without assistance from Quinn and her massive internal thesaurus—spread over Boston’s face. He looked like a lazy cat in a patch of sunlight. “A poor one, but maybe I wasn’t a very good teacher.”
Chapter 3
The refrigerator harbored the usual suspects. Deli cuts, including turkey and roast beef, plus every type of condiment Emily might wish to slather them with. The fruit drawer weighed heavy with green mangoes and what were probably papayas.
Maybe guavas. Couldn’t really expect an apples and bananas kind of girl to know the difference. At least she recognized the avocados on the speckled granite countertop.
She guessed the fruit was supposed to pass for breakfast, since there were no boxes of cereal or instant oatmeal in the cupboards.
She put together a sandwich with some of everything and washed it down with a cold Sprite, another courtesy from the fridge. A far cry from the hot breakfast she’d expected to enjoy at the Hilton, but it’d take some nerve to complain about her accommodations.
A bamboo spiral staircase connected the first floor to the loft-style second floor, where a king-sized bed took up