Chapter 2

 

~ ANNIE ~

 

 

Dammit.

I swallow the expletive as I stumble and crash to the pavement, my right hand shielded by the stack of fliers I hold. Not so lucky for my left hand that plummets into the hard, hot concrete, scraping my palm.

If I had any dignity, I’d get up right now, brush myself off, and walk on.

But I have no dignity. In fact, I have no choice but to duck even lower, hiding behind the profile of a rented Ford Mustang. With luck, there would be a bigger car around, maybe one of those behemoth four-wheel-drives that residents are always off-roading to little hidden beaches and snorkeling coves around here.

Yet if luck were on my side, I wouldn’t have needed to escape the mainland, darken my hair to brunette, and be glad that people on this island generally don’t watch CNN or Fox News.

No, luck hasn’t been with me these past two months. So I skulk low behind the scant profile of the convertible until the big guy in the security uniform leaves.

Hearing footsteps against the gravel, I try to fuse myself to the concrete and come face-to-face with a mongoose hidden under the car. He stares at me, beady eyes looking perplexed as though he’s never seen a human kissing the pavement around here. At least not a sober one. Then he darts away.

The footsteps come closer and I know I’ve been caught. I curse inwardly again.

It’s not like I’ll get thrown in jail for sneaking into a gated community and putting fliers under people’s windshield wipers. Pizza guys do it all the time, even here on the Big Island. But I will get escorted off the property, and worse, my face will be imprinted on this security guy’s brain, making it harder for me to sneak in here again. And I need to access this place. These condos are at least eighty percent vacation rentals. Which means the families who rent them might need my services as much as I need their money.

I see two Nikes appear just a couple strides away from my hands.

Caught. Sighing, I start to rise.

“Stay down,” a voice tells me. It’s deep, yet hushed so that I can barely hear it over the wind.

The sun nearly blinds me as my eyes track upward, its rays nearly blocking out what looks to be a moderately handsome face.

“The security guy’s still there,” he whispers, stepping closer until his head blocks out the sun completely. And I see him. And I swear it’s like I hear angels sing.

Moderately handsome? I correct my first impression immediately as I soak in his rugged features and struggle for my next breath in his presence. This man is the stuff of fantasies—the wildly erotic ones—not the ones in which a couple million dollars falls off a Brinks truck in front of me and I spend the afternoon rolling around naked in cash.

Though he’d be welcome to join me in that fantasy, too, come to think of it.

“Hey, Kai!” the man above me calls out, presumably to the security guy. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah,” another voice shouts back from the other side of the lot. “Someone’s been putting fliers under people’s windshields again.”

Fantasy Man snaps his fingers in my direction, his hand hidden by the profile of the car. “Oh, that was me,” he says.

My eyes widen at his lie and I put my fliers into his offered hand. He raises the stack of them to show the security guy. “Is that all right?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” the other voice calls back in the distance. “I figured someone snuck onto our property and did it. But residents can do whatever they want, so long as no one complains about it, that is.”

“Mahalo.” Hot Guy answers his thanks in Hawaiian so easily that I know he’s not a tourist. “Good to see you. Tell Malie I said hi.”

“Will do.” The security guy’s voice seems fainter on the last syllable as though he’s turned and walked away.

Two beats pass before I hear my knight-in-shining-board-shorts say, “All clear. You can get up now.” One of his cheeks pinches into a half grin, and he offers me a hand up.

“Thanks,” I say taking it and letting myself enjoy the feel of my skin against his. My once-dead libido springs into action like a cheetah sprinting toward her prey—even though my libido doesn’t have the same success rate. I stumble over my next words as I retrieve my fliers from him. “That was really nice of you.”

He cocks his head, his eyes still on the papers. “So, what is it you’re trying to sell now that I’ve taken the heat for doing it? Hope to God it’s legal or I’ll get shit from my brothers.”

He has brothers? If they’re anything like him, the women of the world owe his mother thanks for not stopping at just one. “It’s legal. Just babysitting.”

His eyes widen, and I can’t help noting that the color of them looks like the Kapoho tide pools, a mix of turquoise with deep blue. If I had eyes like that, my hobby would be staring at myself all day.

“Babysitting?” he asks.

“Uh, yeah. I have a part-time job at the keiki care at the Queen K Resort. Their child care, I mean.”

“I know what keiki means.”

“Oh,” I breathe out when his smile illuminates this side of the island just as much as the midday sun. Damn, he could do toothpaste commercials. “Well, anyway, I babysit on the side.”

“You’re a babysitter…” His voice trails, as though he’s considering something. “You must do a hell of a business. All these AirBNB people in these condos could use a good babysitter if the parents want a night away from the kids.”

“That’s what I’m hoping. You’re not one of them, then?”

“No. I’m a resident, not a tourist,” he answers. His hand reaches out toward me and I awkwardly put a flier in it until I realize he’s trying to shake my hand.

My cheeks flush, feeling an inch shy of stupid. He passes the flier to his other hand and reaches out his right hand again. This time, I manage to take it.

“I’m Camden,” he says.

“Annie.” I offer the shortened name I’ve become accustomed to these past two months.

Annie can fly under the radar.

Arianna might conjure up images from CNN and make my life spiral into despair again like it did on the mainland.

“Do you have a website?” he asks, one eyebrow rising as he looks down at my flier.

“Um, no. Not yet. I’m kind of on a shoestring budget right now. So fliers are the most I can afford,” I partly lie. In truth, a website is out of the question for a girl like me, even if that Brinks fantasy does come true. I can’t take the risk.

“Well, I can pass some out for you here. Most of the units around mine have tourists in them.” He glances down again at it. “Impressive. References and Red Cross certified?”

“Yep.”

His smile deepens, impressed. “Do you have access to a car?”

“Yeah.” I better have a car. Because next month I might be living in it.

“I might be calling you.”

I cock my head. He doesn’t look like the dad-type. “You have kids?”

“I’ll have one in a few days. She’s not mine, but I’m taking care of her while her dad’s deployed.”

“Wow.” The word comes out breathy; I can’t help it. His statement makes me feel all warm and fuzzy, at the same time I feel wildly aroused. “I’ll bet his dad appreciates that.”

When I see another car pull in near us, I bite my lip, glancing around the parking lot. I’d love to stay and chat—soak up some more of his pheromones while I hopefully drum up some business from him. But with the security guy gone, I need to get out of here.

“Thanks again for passing out my fliers. And for saving my… tail.” I say tail instead of ass because it’s a lot more appropriate for a babysitter. After being a nanny for so many years, I’m used to switching on my rated G vocabulary like a light switch. I pass him half of my stack of fliers, grateful for his offer.

“No problem. Take care, Annie.”

“You, too,” I say feebly as I turn from him. It’s like turning my back to a beautiful sunset, and I fight the urge to steal just one more glimpse.

He probably won’t call, I remind myself as I slip through the opening in the hedge that leads to the soft sands of Mauna Kea Beach. I’ve run into enough people who show some measure of interest in a babysitter, but then never pull the trigger on it.

I do need a website, just like that guy told me. It doesn’t need to be anything fancy—just something people can pull up on their phones after they see my flier on their windshields. Something about a website makes people think you’re the real thing, which is ironic because any nut job can get a website.

Still, I can’t take the risk.

When I’m safely on the beach, I tug off my flip-flops and glance behind me to the hedge again as I sink my toes into the sand.

These gated communities around here are all alike. There’s always some hidden, unguarded entry like this one that leads to the beach, because who in their right mind wouldn’t want easy access to the sand and surf?

Beaches are public on Hawai‘i, except for a rare few that are managed by the government. Beaches are the common denominator of everyone here. It doesn’t matter if you’re living in a van or a multi-million-dollar home along the shoreline. We all end up at the same beaches, sporting the same tan lines and multicolored sand in our hair.

So different from where I came from, where the divisions of the classes are much more apparent.

The sight of the water lures me to sit, even when I should be moving on to the next community I’ve got on my target list. A sigh escapes me, and even though I shouldn’t, I indulge myself, letting the sand slip through my toes as I sink them deeper into the vague remnants of someone’s sandcastle that now is nothing more than a low hill.

The sand here is powder-soft and golden, so different from other beaches on the Big Island, where the sand varies in color from black to green to this magnificent pale gold that soothes my eyes.

I used to take the kids down here to swim on calm days back when I had my first nanny job on the Big Island. I was eighteen then, and those carefree memories in the Shimozatos’ home in Waimea seem a lifetime away from the present.

Landing the job was a bit of a shock to me back then. I’d applied on a whim. Growing up in the breadbasket of America, I’d always wondered what it would be like to be surrounded by water instead of land.

Then, Hawai‘i was a dream to me.

Now, it’s a sanctuary. A place to escape. Unlike the busier islands of this archipelago, you won’t see mainland news playing on the TV in bars or waiting rooms around here. News here is pretty much restricted to whether the surf is up. And that suits me perfectly right now.

My eyes track along the horizon, like they always do, darting back and forth until I see what soothes my soul. A whale breach. It’s far from the shore, yet so massive in size that I can even see the grooves along its underbelly as it catapults itself from the water.

My breath catches at the immense splash it makes.

“Whale!” I find myself shouting—an uncontrollable reflex—and my arm extends out as I point to it. You can always tell the newcomers—or malihini, as the locals call us. When a whale breaches, we feel the inherent need to share the news with anyone within earshot. Locals only give a shout if there’s a shark.

I glance to either side of me. The others here this afternoon must be kama‘aina—long-time residents—because they seem immune to the spectacle of it. It’s just a normal occurrence here, part of the heartbeat of the island when the whales come here to nurse their young for several months out of the year.

As I gaze at the view, a smile settles on my features, thinking of the man who helped me evade security just minutes ago. I slip into fantasy. It’s so easy to do with the calming sound of the waves. And in my fantasy, he sits down beside me and hands me a cup of coffee. Not cheap, store-brand instant like the kind I drink in my street-level studio apartment down in Kona.

No, the drink I accept from his strong grip smells like one of those expensive coffeehouses they have at the touristy King’s shops in Waikoloa that use only locally-harvested beans. Fresh Kona coffee is worth every penny (if you have several hundred pennies to spare). And then we sit together, silently waiting for the next whale to breach the water in the distance.

Camden.

I savor the fantasy of him at my side. Because a view this good is best shared.