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This must be the lousy ex her friend spoke of. At least it would be in a Hawaiian soap opera.
“No need to waste perfectly good tickets,” the man says.
My mother would scold him, and my tutu wahine would slap him upside the head.
“I’m already here,” Meg says.
“No,” the jack-weed on the phone growls. “You’re not. You didn’t go. I know you didn’t. I know you.”
“Not as well as you think.” She holds the phone out, spinning once to show the jerk where she is.
“Hey,” he says, a new whine to his tone, “who is that?”
Meg’s eyes lift to mine, startling again when they fall on me. Her mouth opens to speak. “Umm—” But before she can say an actual word, I hop into the screen. Nothing keeps a startled girl calm like getting right up in her personal space.
I can’t help it. I can’t listen to this twerp any longer. “Aloha.” I wave into the camera. “It’s Kyle, right?”I think that’s what she called him.
The man’s brow wrinkles like it’s been in the ocean far too long. “Yeah. Who are you?”
“Kal,” I tell him. What do I care if this joker knows my name? “Meg and I have things to do. Please don’t bother her again. She’s on vacation. Aloha.” With that, I reach out and hit End on the girl’s phone.
I laugh. Man, what a great way to start summer.
8
Meg
I slap my phone to my chest. “Excuse me,” I yelp, staring at the stranger in front of me.
He knows my name. And Kyle’s. And he just saved me from the second worst conversation of my life. He is stupidly hot—but that is completely beside the point. Unless he’s my fairy godfather, and then I might need an introduction.
More likely, I have a stalker.
Crap. I do have a stalker! One I have never laid eyes on before. I’d remember those coffee-brown eyes and broad shoulders.
Hmm…a stalker that followed me all the way to Hawaii.
I watch him. And my stalker watches me back. He’s at least backed up to his beach chair, giving me a little room to breathe.
“Aloha,” he says, and his hands slip down to the button of his pants.
“Whoa!” I bark. What is happening?
I have a perverted stalker!
I hold out a hand, my personal stop sign, and turn back to the gate.
I tug and tug, but the thing is locked up tight. And here I am without a key. The fence around my porch is so stupidly tall I can’t even climb over the thing.
I spin back around, my back flat to the fence, attempting to remember the moves from that one lonesome self-defense class I took. I can’t be blamed. In Love, population 3,127, we don’t have a lot of crime. So, I took one class and called it good.
My traveling stalker has unzipped his slacks and has a hand on either side of his black pants.
“No! Stop it!” I yell. “You can’t just show up on my doorstep and strip, creeper man.”
“Creeper man?” He chuckles.
He chuckles at me. I’m having a stroke and he’s laughing—while stripping.
