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I have to bend down, but she gets the other one on me, and then I sign off on the bill and Akamu passes us each a drink.
“We’re off to a good start,” Stella says with a grin. “Haven’t even left the airport and we already got lei’d.”
I hide my surge of arousal as I sip my fruity drink. That was a joke and it almost made me hard. I’m so fucked. The head on my shoulders knows this marriage and honeymoon are fake, but my other one? It’s going to be very frustrated this week.
“Here we are, the Paradise Palms,” our Uber driver says thirty minutes later.
I have to give Owen credit. He’s a cheap bastard, but he came through on honeymoon accommodations. The driveway to this place led us through about a half-mile of jungle, and when we emerged and saw the sprawling resort, Stella inhaled sharply.
It’s made of a spectacular-looking stone with a pale pink color, the grounds impeccably landscaped. As we get out of the car, we can hear ocean waves crashing and tropical birds singing.
“Wow.” Stella grins at me and it hits me right in the chest.
It’s not the guarded smile she’s been flashing since Owen fucked her over; this one’s real. If this trip can help her heal even a little bit, give her a respite from her mom’s illness and leave her with some good memories, that’s everything I can hope for.
I wanted to book us at a different resort so she wouldn’t have to go on the honeymoon Owen planned, but at the last-minute, nothing decent was available. At least, in this one way, Owen came through.
“I can’t wait to go to the beach,” Stella says, beaming.
The lobby of the Paradise Palms is even more luxurious than the outside. It’s an open three-story room, the white marble floors glistening and fountains gurgling as soft music plays in the background. Huge urns of tropical flowers and greenery give off sweet, perfumy scents.
“Welcome to the Paradise Palms,” a man with a perfectly trimmed mustache says as we approach the front desk. “How may I help you?”
“We’re checking in,” I say. “Owen and Stella Hogan.”
I reach for my wallet, where I have my brother’s driver’s license to show as ID, and before my hand makes it to my back pocket, the wedding march song starts blaring over speakers in the lobby.
Every uniformed employee in the lobby drops what they’re doing and walks over to us. Two bellhops, a concierge and three others in uniforms are smiling at us like we just won the lottery.
“What the fuck,” Stella says under her breath.
One of the men, wearing a nametag that says “Marco,” pops the cork on a bottle of champagne and starts pouring it into empty glasses that seemed to come out of nowhere.
“Welcome to your honeymoon, Mr. and Mrs. Hogan,” he says. “We’re so pleased you chose our Newlywed Deluxe Ambassadors package.”
He passes the first two flutes of champagne to Stella and me, then distributes glasses to the other employees. A woman hoists her glass in the air.
“To the Hogans,” she says with a huge smile.
We clink glasses and everyone has a drink. The sweet champagne tastes peachy, like candy. Stella seems to like it, though.
Marco clinks a spoon—which also seemed to come out of nowhere—against his glass, and Stella meets my gaze. I’m not sure why check-in is treated like a wedding reception here, but okay, I guess. It means I get to kiss Stella.
She looks up at me and I brush a soft kiss against her lips. The champagne tastes a hell of a lot better on her mouth than it did when I swallowed a sip.
Everyone but Marco sets their glass back down on the silver tray he brought them out on and returns to work.
“Your first event as ambassadors is a luau tonight,” he says.
I didn’t sleep on our flight, and my internal clock is telling me it’s bedtime. But it’s daytime here in Maui, sun pouring into the hotel lobby.
“All eight of our ambassador couples will be there,” Marco continues. “This is a silver event, and as you’ll recall from the information I sent you, that means business casual attire for men and island glam for women.”
Stella and I exchange a quick glance before she says, “Wow, we really appreciate the invite, but I think we want to do something low-key on our own tonight.”
Marco’s smile drops away. He’s a lean guy with short bleached blond curls and dark brows and lashes who resembles a Justin Timberlake impersonator, but without the smile, he looks much different. Almost wounded.
After a couple of seconds of awkward silence, his smile slides back into place. “I know you’re travel weary and ready to seclude yourselves in that honeymoon suite...” He gives us an exaggerated wink. “But as you’ll recall from the contract you signed, Mr. Hogan, ambassadors are required to attend all official Newlywed events and they also consent to being photographed and having those photos used for promotional purposes. You received a fifteen percent discount for your participation.”
