Dirty Girl

Island Traditions

Jordan was buzzing with anticipation for her very first luau—a vibrant celebration of Hawaiian culture unfolding beneath the warm, golden glow of the setting sun. The traditional island party was being thrown for all the Mud Run volunteers, a night of music and magic to enjoy before the big event scheduled for the next day—which just happened to be Valentine's Day.

As she strolled along the boardwalk and down the beach toward the gathering, her thoughts drifted, as they so often did lately, to Jake. She hadn’t seen him since earlier that day, when he’d rested his hand at the small of her back with such possessive ease it made her ache. It was maddening—how he could claim space in her mind without even trying.

When she arrived, Jordan was swept up in the dreamy mix of music, laughter, and the rhythmic pounding of drums that echoed across the shore. Tables were piled high with an entire roasted pig, heaps of tropical fruit, and mounds of poi. Tiki torches flickered along the sand, their flames dancing in time with the setting sun.

And yet, somehow, it was impossible to feel out of place here. The locals radiated warmth. The hula dancers moved with hypnotic grace. The music pulsed with a primal rhythm that felt like it had always been in her bones. For a moment, Jordan forgot she wasn’t from here—because in this moment, she belonged.

She wore a short-sleeved dress with a sweetheart neckline in a bold floral print, the hem swaying just below her knees. A member of the welcoming committee approached and gently placed a pink-and-white lei around her neck, then handed her a coconut shell brimming with a Mai Tai.

Cupping the drink carefully, she took a beat to admire it—garnished with a fresh pineapple wedge, a slice of lime, and a bright red cherry. Its golden-amber liquid shimmered under the twinkling lights strung around the tiki bar. It looked too pretty to drink, but after a long pause of admiration, she brought the tiny black straw to her lips and took a sip.

The flavors hit in waves. First came the tang of lime, bright and invigorating. Then the sweetness of almond orgeat, smooth and silky. Finally, the warmth of rum crept in, its caramel and smoke teasing her senses. The orange curaçao tied it all together in a citrusy bow that lingered on her tongue like a secret.

She let out a soft sigh, her lips curling into a slow, satisfied smile. "Oh, that’s... dangerous," she murmured, her voice low and velvety. Another sip. The coolness soothed her, the heat of the night mingling with the sweetness on her tongue.

Just then, Jake appeared beside her. “I see you’ve discovered Maui’s most infamous export,” he said with a grin, nodding at her drink.

Jordan looked up, and for a second, forgot how to breathe. Her heart stuttered as she took him in—his Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned just enough to be criminal, his khakis crisp, his muscles still pumped from a day of heavy lifting. Even under the low lighting, he looked impossibly good. His wavy hair was artfully tousled, and his smile reached all the way to those dark, mischievous eyes. The scent of cedar and sandalwood clung to him, warm and heady.

The rum in her system mingled with the magnetism of his presence, melting away whatever resolve she'd built up to keep her hands to herself.

“It’s like all the colours and flavours of Hawaii got together to throw a party in this coconut shell,” she giggled, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Why didn’t you warn me it would taste like this?”

Jake chuckled, leaning in close. “I figured you’d appreciate the surprise.”

She swirled the drink lazily, mindlessly, as her brain whispered, How does he manage to make everything sound so damn dirty? So delightfully dirty.

He nodded toward the drink, eyes twinkling. “I see you haven’t tried the rum-soaked cherry yet.”

Before she could react, he plucked the cherry off the toothpick and ran it slowly along her bottom lip. She parted her mouth, took it in, and bit down. The juice burst across her tongue, rich and sweet.

“Oh. My. God,” she groaned, eyes fluttering shut.

A voice snapped her out of the moment. “Having fun?”

Jordan opened her eyes, laughing as she wiped her mouth with a cocktail napkin. Brooklyn stood before her, radiant in a soft white leotard that cut off mid-thigh, draped with a sheer coral-pink shawl that floated like mist down to her ankles. A pink plumeria nestled behind her ear, and her coral-painted toes peeked from the straps of white sandals.

“You look beautiful!” Jordan exclaimed, pulling her in for a hug.

Brooklyn twirled, her shawl catching the breeze, the picture of a Hawaiian princess.

“Oh, I almost forgot—I didn’t just come over here to flaunt this fabulous outfit!” she teased.

Jordan and Jake both laughed at her giddy theatrics.

Brooklyn held up a bowl full of colourful plumerias. Without a word, Jake reached in and selected a red one, then tucked it gently behind Jordan’s left ear.

Brooklyn’s grin widened. “I knew it,” she said, giggling as she danced away into the crowd.

“Knew what?” Jordan asked, confused. She glanced toward the horizon just as the last rays of sun dipped beneath the waves, painting the ocean in gold.

A sudden crescendo in the drumming turned their attention to the center of the beach, where fire dancers had taken the stage. Torches spun and streaked through the air, leaving trails of flame. The performers moved with breathtaking precision, each flick and twist drawing cheers from the crowd.

Jake leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “Impressive, right?” he said, his voice low and intoxicating. He wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her in close. “Though not as impressive as you, sweet girl.”

Jordan melted against him, her body surrendering to the heat, the rhythm, and Jake.

When the performance ended, applause erupted, and a ukulele player stepped onto the stage. He began strumming the opening notes of “Over the Rainbow.”

The atmosphere shifted, softening. Couples began to drift onto the dance floor, swaying beneath the glow of the torchlight.

Jake turned to her, his hand outstretched and his expression tender—but commanding. “Dance with me.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a demand.

And she loved that about him.