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“Absolutely.” Gio swipes a clipboard and pen from the table.

“You’re just in time. After you fill that out, head over to the stage.” She points to an area where several contestants gather.

Gio tilts the clipboard my way. The form attached reads:

The Wiamea Pineapple-Eating Contest

“You aren’t serious,” I say. This is what was so important?

“I’ll bet you didn’t know you were in the presence of an expert pineapple eater. I’ve won King Pineapple Eater a few times.” Gio signs his name on the dotted line with a grand flourish.

“That explains so much.” I shake my head.

“You want to do it too?” Gio waves the pen. “Unless you’re afraid of a little friendly competition.”

If he’s the king of anything, it’s prodding. And then my mind slips to another way he could prod me. My mind stutters on a dirty image. I blink a few times to clear my eyesight.

I really need to get it together. Just because he twirls a colossal salami like a baton doesn’t mean anything.

I flip the form to the back and read. “Why is the back a flier for a papaya eating contest?” I raise a brow, confused.

“That’s tonight. It’s the main event with professional papaya eaters flying in from all over Polynesia to compete. It’s a big deal. The pineapple eating contests are just pre-game fun held throughout the day for the kids and tourists,” he says.

“Hmm, I think I’ll sit this one out. I’m not dressed for the occasion.” I look down at myself and cringe at the thought of ruining my dress. Too many outfits have been harmed by our shenanigans.

“I would have destroyed you anyway.” Gio pats my shoulder as if to say it’s okay.

“That’s presumptuous. You’ve never seen me eat a pineapple, papaya or any fruit,” I say quickly.

He laughs and boops my nose. Boops me!

“You know what I love about you? Your competitiveness. It’s top-notch. But I have a serious question for you.”

“Sure,” I say, and twist my lips.

“What color is a papaya?” he asks with keen interest.

“Um, you know, it’s hard to describe.” I grab at the air like I’m reaching for the answer I can’t see.

“Try,” he says with a smirk.

“In some lighting, it’s more of a black-purplish, sometimes brown color,” I say, but it sounds more like a question.

“Bzzzz.” He makes the noise near my ear, and it tickles every bone in my body. He hugs me to his side and laughs.

“I meant yellow-orangish green!” My face turns scarlet.

“Too late! Come on.” He juts his chin toward the event. He hands the clipboard to the volunteer and receives a paper contestant number and a few safety pins.

Before we move on, though, Gio’s gaze flicks past me. His good mood falters, and his face tightens. Then he tugs me toward the stage like he’s trying to escape something.

Over my shoulder, my gaze pings from person to person to see what spooked him, but I don’t find anything alarming.

“Sit there. You’ll want a good view.” Gio gestures to a seat in the front row. “But first, can you help me? My fingers are too big to work these little pins.” He holds up his number.

“Do your thick fingers get in the way of cooking? It’d be a shame to chop one off.” I take a pin and move closer.

“They’re perfect for many things,” he says, his voice suddenly lusty.