Gabe Maxfield has reached a comfortable point in his life. His past troubles in Seattle are all but forgotten, he co-owns his own business, Paradise Investigations, with his best friend Grace Park, and he’s happy in his relationship with sexy cop—his neighbor—Maka Kekoa. Maybe the best part is, no one’s pointed a gun at him in weeks.
Knowing his luck, that is bound to change. Lack of clients and money forces Paradise Investigations to take a job
helping Edwin Biers search for a treasure he promises will be worth their while. Gabe has a knack for finding trouble, though, and find it, he does.
Salt water burned my nose as I flailed my arms and legs in the ocean, trying desperately to reorient myself. Every
time I started to surface, the ocean waves broke over me again and again. I was done for.
When I finally surfaced and the water drained from my ears, I could hear my companions laughing at my expense—my best friend, Grace Park, sounded like she was going to asphyxiate herself from laughing too hard. My boyfriend, Maka Kekoa, at least had the decency to attempt to hide his laughter from me.
“I’m glad my near-death causes you such amusement,” I growled, glaring at them as best I could with salt water from the Pacific Ocean stinging my eyes. “I knew surfing lessons from you two was a bad idea.”
The three of us were floating in the ocean a ways off from the shore of Waikiki Beach in Honolulu, Hawaii, the city
I now called home. Well, I was floating in the ocean, which was where I seemed to spend all my time in these lessons. Maka and Grace effortlessly straddled surfboards, Maka also keeping a tight grip on mine so it didn’t get swept away
by the waves.
“Don’t get frustrated,” Maka told me supportively once he’d schooled his face to mask his laughter. “No one does it
well on their first try. It’s kind of like sex.”
I didn’t take much comfort from his words.
“How about the four-hundredth time?” I grumbled, swimming to the surfboard. I managed to heave my body onto it,
feeling the sun warm my skin. I’d gotten tan in my month of being out and about in the constant sunshine of Hawaii, and my hair had gotten longer, almost enough to give me the surfer image. Now if I could just stay on the damn board.
“Don’t be grouchy, Gabe,” Grace chided, splashing water my way. She looked beautiful in the morning sunlight, her dark skin glistening. She wore a teal bikini that showed off her trim, fit form, toned from a lifetime of exercise and the surfing she’d taken up in Hawaii. She was half Hawaiian and half Korean, which is what drew her to Hawaii after we both graduated college in Washington.
“We’ve been at this for two weeks, and I have improved exactly zero percent.” I probably sounded like a whiny kid
complaining to them, but I couldn’t help it. I hated not being good at something. “I think I’m just not meant to be a surfer.”
“Everybody’s meant to be a surfer,” Maka said, as if I’d made the most ridiculous remark ever. Grace nodded her head in emphatic agreement.
“Easy for you to say,” I scoffed, flailing my arms wildly as a wave nearly displaced me from my board again. “You
were a professional surfer, remember? And you,” I rounded on Grace, “were basically born incapable of being bad at something. Me… I’m just me.”
It felt strange having a pity party in the ocean on a beautiful mid-October morning. Hawaii was paradise in a lot of
ways—the sunshine seemed constant, and at a time when Seattle would already be plunging into a chill that heralded winter, it was warm and pleasant in Hawaii. I wasn’t a morning person, though, and Maka and Grace insisted we have these lessons before work. That meant we were usually in the ocean by a quarter to
“You’re more than ‘just you’ to me, babe,” Maka assured me with a wink, making me blush.
Maka was full-blooded native Hawaiian, and he had the complexion to prove it, bronzed by a life spent frolicking in
the sun and waves. He had broad shoulders and narrow hips and was taller than my five foot eight, with perfect black hair and lush, full lips that were utterly kissable. His deep brown eyes always seemed to twinkle, as if a powerful light danced behind them.
“Ugh.” Grace rolled her eyes and pretended to gag.
“You’re jealous,” I teased, sticking my tongue out at her.
“Jealous of you having to eat the same meal every night, so to speak? I don’t think so.”
“Hey, if I could eat prime rib every night, I would,” I said.
“Did you really just compare me to ribs?” Maka asked flatly.
“Huh? What? No—I was referring to eating the same meal every night…” I trailed off, realizing how it must have sounded to Maka, even though I didn’t mean it that way.
“If I’m anything,” Maka went on firmly, “I’m loco moco.”
I gaped at him for a moment. He had a problem with being called prime rib, but wanted to be a rice bowl topped with a hamburger, a fried egg, and gravy.
“Actually,” I said after a moment, “I can see that.” And I could. Loco moco was something you wanted to splurge on,
something that was decadent, almost sinful. That description fit Maka to the letter.
I tried to give him a smoldering look, but a rogue wave rocked under me, catching me off guard and dumping me once more into the sea.
“Can we please call it a day now?” I pleaded once I was back on my board.
Grace looked like she was in no hurry to bring my suffering to an end, but Maka took pity and checked his watch.
“Actually, we should call it a day. I still need to shower and get to work. It’s going on nine, now; I can only justify going in so late a few times a week, or the chief gets pissy.”
“We also have office hours,” I reminded Grace for what felt like the tenth time that week. She was really good at what
she did—we were private investigators—but she didn’t have the mindset necessary to run a business. That had been handled by her partner before me, and Grace was still getting the hang of being in charge of both sides of the business. Well, partially, since we equally shared ownership and those responsibilities.
“This is what we have a secretary for,” Grace pointed out, though she reluctantly began paddling to shore, Maka and I following suit.
“Poor Hayley’s only been with us for a week,” I panted, tired from the lesson and making it back to shore. “Give her a
“Best way for her to learn is to just throw her into the pool,” Grace said once we were back ashore.
I didn’t respond immediately; I was too busy sucking in sweet, sweet oxygen and hoping my wobbly legs didn’t give out as I trudged through the hot, sun-baked sand to the place we’d left our towels.
“I guess it doesn’t matter so much,” I said when I could. “Business has been pretty slow since we hired her. Not good,
considering the office we’ve got now. Rent’s a bitch.”
When I’d agreed to be Grace’s partner at the private investigation firm she’d been co-partner in, Paradise Investigations, I helped finance a move to a new building, worlds nicer than the one she’d been in before.
We’d had a keen interest in us the first week or so after the move, considering how we were constantly in the news
regarding the murder mystery I’d solved to get Grace off a murder charge. The interest had died down in the following weeks; as it stood now, we hadn’t taken on a new client in five days, and we’d finished the current projects three days before, which meant three days of no billable hours, and thus no money coming in.
“We could always fire her,” Grace suggested, tossing me my towel. “It’d be one less salary we needed to pay.”
“That doesn’t seem right,” I said, though I’d probably consider it after another week of no income being earned. “I’m
sure we’ll get by.”
“We could always take an ad out on TV,” Grace suggested suddenly.
“Isn’t that tacky?” Maka wrinkled his nose a bit.
Grace shielded her eyes from the sun, squinting at Maka. “It’s not like we’re lawyers.”
“Even if it isn’t tacky, we can’t afford it,” I reminded her as I wrapped my towel around my waist and gathered my board under my arm for the trek back to our cars. “We’re going to have to pray someone comes in and offers us a job that isn’t finding a lost cat or staking out seedy motels—something we can get some money out of.”
Grace grunted, her spirits somewhat dampened by my pragmatism, but I knew she would get over it. This was our
relationship, often consisting of her being flighty and dreamy and me being the cord that pulled her—sometimes forcefully—back down to earth.
“Okay, I’ve got to go,” Maka said when we reached his car. “Already running late.”
“See,” I said, pausing long enough to take a quick kiss on the lips—though I wanted much, much more than a quick
kiss—before continuing. “This is yet another good reason we should just stop these morning surfing lessons.”
“Not gonna happen. Seeing you dripping wet is worth being late to work.”
And again, in the space of ten minutes, I blushed.
J.C. Long is an American expat living in Japan, though he’s also lived stints in Seoul, South Korea—no, he’s not an army brat; he’s an English teacher. He is also quite passionate about Welsh corgis and is convinced that anyone who does not like them is evil incarnate. His dramatic streak comes from his life-long involvement in theater. After living in several countries aside from the United States J. C. is convinced that love is love, no matter where you are, and is determined to write stories that demonstrate exactly that. J. C. Long’s favorite things in the world are pictures of corgis, writing and Korean food (not in that order…okay, in that order). J. C. spends his time not writing thinking about writing, coming up with new characters, attending Big Bang concerts and wishing he was writing. The best way to get him to write faster is to motivate him with corgi pictures. Yes, that is a veiled hint.