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20
Kal
I’m going to be Meg Miller’s tour guide for the week. While it isn’t what I had in mind, I don’t hate the idea.
My plan formed last night as I drove myself home. I stopped halfway to my little house and I sent Makani a message, asking him to let Ms. Miller know that I’d be by to pick her up at nine in the morning. She’ll be up. Meg doesn’t seem like the kind of girl who sleeps in. Not even on vacation.
I’m just lucky she’s staying at the Polihua and that Makani loves me. He didn’t ask one question, just said he’d take care of it.
The next morning, I pull up to the side of Meg’s room, driving off the concrete parking, onto the sand, and right next to her gate. It’s 8:57 a.m., but like the punctual force she is, she’s standing there in her straw sun hat, pink tank top, and white shorts. Her pale legs need more sun, but they are long and lean, and hard to look away from. Those legs should never ever wear pants. Legs like Meg Miller’s should be seen.
The beach bag on her arm is big—and full. A red corner pokes out the top, and I know that red well. That would be Meg’s teeny-weeny bikini.
I’m a gentleman, my mother taught me right. But it’s not as if I missed Meg’s lavalava falling off of her last night—or that red two-piece beneath. In fact, no one at Gracie’s wedding missed Meg’s show.
The girl may be a little uptight, and at times rigid, but she also lit up that reception—long before she lost her dress.
She doesn’t wait for me to invite her inside. I’ve only been stopped a second when she crosses the front of my jeep and climbs in the passenger side.
“Hi!” she says, almost breathless, her blonde hair wisping up and over her hat in the breeze. “I didn’t know what we were doing, so I brought my swimsuit, a towel, snacks, ChapStick, a novel, long pants, closed-toe shoes, water shoes, rope—”
“Rope?” I say, but she’s on a roll.
“My water bottle, but also a Gatorade—you never know—my first aid kit.” Her head tips to the side. “Also because you never know—”
“Meg,” I interrupt. “Do you have a map of the countryside?”
Her brows cinch a little. “Not with me.” Her head shakes, wondering why she didn’t think of that. “I can grab one. I think there’s one in my room.” She sets her hand on the door handle, ready to bolt.
I stop her, taking her hand in mine and ignoring the pulse it sends through my limb. “I’m kidding. I’m your map. And you know, for a girl who hadn’t really planned to vacation, you brought a lot of stuff.”
She clamps her front teeth down on her bottom lip and releases the Jeep door handle. “Yeah. I’m kind of an over-planner.” She swallows, then presses her lips in on one another. “I like being prepared.”
“I get that,” I say. I have no desire to offend this girl. I’ve turned into a bit of a boy scout myself, being her Hawaiian guide and all. That, and I like her. She took a hot minute to get used to. And while we may be worlds apart with our ideas of living, she’s a good human. She was kind to my mother. Makani likes her—he told me so last night. She grew on me while we danced and even more so when she clung to me in the ocean. I clear my throat. “But I think we’re covered. If we need water-shoes, I’ll let you know. And you’ll never need pants. Why on earth would you wear pants when you have legs like that?”
Her creamy cheeks flood with pink.
I shrug one shoulder and pull back onto the road. “I’m just saying. Besides, what on earth was your plan with rope?” I tease. “You legit packed rope?”
She screws her lips to the side. “I keep a ten-foot rope in the front of my suitcase. Always. I grabbed it…you know, just in case.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. “In case what?”
“I don’t know.” She shakes her head, but she’s smiling.
“All right, Spontaneous Meg, buckle up. We’ve got a two-hour drive before your next adventure.”
“Whoa, two? Where are we going? Should I have forced you to get a background check before we started all this?”
“You met my mother—that’s background check enough. And don’t worry. I promise it’ll be the prettiest drive you’ve ever been on.”
I’m curious about my new friend—and strangely a little protective. Protective isn’t really my MO. Still, I glance at Meg taking photos out the window at the lush gardens and grounds as we climb to the top of Mount Lana’ihale. “How long did you date Mr. Obnoxious?”
She doesn’t even look confused. She holds her hat in her hands, her hair whipping with the top of my Jeep opened up. “Too long.”
I wait, patient.
She sighs. “Two years.”
