Accidental Shield

He rakes a hand through his thick hair, a dangerously sexy mess despite how annoyed I am with him. “Don’t know, Val. Just misplaced it. Didn’t mean to bark shit at the kid.”

I side-eye him again. There are a lot of things I can’t recall, but I know a little aloha spirit goes a long way on all the islands. Hawaiians strive to treat everyone with kindness, love, and respect, whether we’re born and raised here or just transplants.

Sure, this state has its share of jackasses just like anywhere else. But it’s the principle of the thing.

It’s what makes this place a little more beautiful and welcoming to visitors and residents alike.

Honestly, I’m not even sure why his freak-out peeves me so much, but I get the funny feeling it’s an integral part of me. Something I believe in, deep down.

“Whether you meant to or not, I don’t get it. You treated him like a masked bandit trying to break in,” I tell him, folding my arms. “What gives?”

“I overreacted, yeah,” he says, clicking a button on his key fob and looking past me out the door. The gates slowly close in the distance while he watches. “Guess because I’d locked the gates, and my phone pinged me they were open when I was a block away, I feared the worst. Thought something happened to you. Maybe you’d wandered off or…or, fuck, maybe someone broke in.”

I cock my head, wondering who’d possibly be crazy enough to break-and-enter this place. But the stern flicker in his eyes tells me he’s deadly serious.

My heart softens at his concern. Misplaced or not, it’s absolutely real. “No need to fret. I’m still in one piece, and I didn’t wander off to get abducted by aliens.”

Flint snorts, fighting back a grin. “I’d kick their asses if they took you. Martians are a big improvement over Satan, honey.”

Biting back my own smile, I shake my head. “You’re crazy. Little Louie was just selling popcorn, one of those silly fundraisers kids his age always do.”

“No shit. I know that now,” Flint says, a bit sheepishly. “Give me a second. Got a few things to bring in from the truck.”

“Do you need any help?” I ask as he walks toward it.

“Nah, thanks, go on inside. I’ll pull into the garage.”

He still sounds kinda grumpy.

Probably because I’d chastised his caveman act. Can’t say I regret it, though. The poor kid will probably be too scared to ring any door bells for the rest of the day.

I’ve never been a big fan of how these programs turn kids into mini sales teams, but I get how they need money to fund their activities, always running on shoestring budgets.

There it is again, another odd little thing I know.

Why do I remember such peculiar stuff like how middle school fundraisers work, but nothing important?

Maybe that’s the way this works, the little things coming first?

No clue. I’ve never had amnesia before—not that I remember.

Another question for Cash Ivers, I guess, lame jokes aside.

I shake my head again, this time at myself, and step into the house, holding the door while Savanny bolts inside. As we walk through the living room, I take a few seconds to appreciate the tan, plush leather furniture and bamboo coffee table and end tables topped with frosted glass. The monkey wood pieces and matching finishes really make this house pop.

A matching shelf sits in front of the huge set of windows overlooking the front yard. Several potted plants, books, and large seashells sit on the five glass shelves like they’re meant for each other.

How tranquil. That’s the best word for this home.

I wonder if my life has always been so peachy. Or was it the opposite, and that’s why I’m so appreciative of my surroundings now?

A chill runs through me, wondering if it’s the latter. But I won’t let myself dwell on it. Not now.

Hearing a door, I continue on to the kitchen. Flint sets several bags on the center island.

“How’d you sleep?” he asks.

“Oh, just fine. I woke up a little while ago.” I lean across the island countertop and grasp the top of a bag. “Just in time to hear Louie’s sales pitch.”

Flint grins. “Hope you like popcorn. We just bought a year’s supply.”

I grimace. “Oh, crap. That much?”

“Close enough,” he chuckles. “Guess we’ll find out how much popcorn a hundred and twenty bucks is when he delivers it.”

“A hundred and twenty bucks on popcorn?” I’m not sure if that’s a normal thing or not.

It feels like money doesn’t mean that much to me, or hasn’t in a while. Or maybe I’ve just never bought an expensive mess of popcorn from a Boy Scout before.

“The number fives were forty bucks each, plus the rest. Shit adds up,” Flint says.

I shrug. “He said they were bestsellers. Gourmet. So…it must be delish, right?”