Summer's Wiki Wiki stories

The Last Lilikoi

Tue, 14 Oct 2025 23:04:10 GMT

The Last Lilikoi

The

The Last Lilikoi

-A Wiki Wiki Heartfelt Island Romance-

The line at Nani’s Shave Ice snakes down the sidewalk, flip-flops slapping, voices buzzing like bees. The air is thick with the sweetness of plumeria, the scent rising from the heaps of fresh leis draped around the window. People have been bringing them all day, piling them high to celebrate Auntie Nani’s last shift. The blossoms spill over one another, soft crowns of pink and gold, a living tribute that makes the whole stand glow.

And Auntie herself—oh, she’s almost hidden under them. Leis piled around her neck, up over her shoulders, her face nearly buried in flowers. Only her sparkling eyes and her bracelets jangling as she works peek through. A queen in her throne of blossoms.

Today’s the last day. After fifty years, Auntie Nani is closing her window for good. And I promised myself I’d taste her famous lilikoi before it’s gone forever.

By the time I reach the counter, sweat prickles at the back of my neck, but my heart beats victorious. “One lilikoi,” I say, my voice breathless but determined. “The last one.”

“Actually,” a voice interrupts, low and confident right behind me, “I was here first.”

I spin and find him—sun-browned skin, damp hair curling from under a faded cap, T-shirt clinging like he just came from the ocean. His smile is easy, too easy, like he’s used to getting away with things.

“No,” I say, holding my ground. “You walked up. I’ve been in line. Big difference.”

He gestures at the counter, where a half-empty bottle of sunscreen stands stiff like a soldier. “I had a placeholder. SPF 50 counts as a person. A very pale one.”

I almost laugh, but I catch it before it escapes. “If sunscreen counts, I should’ve left my flip-flop here an hour ago. At least it has more personality.”

From behind the counter, Auntie Nani shakes her head, her tower of leis trembling. Her bracelets jingle as she scolds, “Ethan boy, shame on you—stealing dessert from a young wahine. You’re just like your grandpa, always making trouble.”

His grin falters, sheepish, but he doesn’t argue. So that’s his name. Ethan.

Auntie digs the scoop down with exaggerated drama. “And this is it. One more pour of lilikoi syrup.”

My pulse kicks up. “Perfect. I—”

“Or,” Ethan cuts in, leaning closer, the scent of salt clinging to him, “we could share.”

I blink at him. “That’s—”

“Romantic?” His grin dares me to agree.

“—tragic,” I finish. “But fine.”

“Tragic is my specialty,” he says.

Auntie laughs, her voice muffled by flowers. “Two spoons. Best seat in the house. Under the plumeria.” She sets the paper cup down like it’s a crown jewel: shaved ice shimmering gold from lilikoi, drizzled with creamy haupia, a dusting of li hing like red stardust.

Our fingers brush when we both reach for it. The shock is quick and warm, and I pull back too fast. “Fine,” I mutter. “But I’m taking the first bite.”

We sit under the plumeria, blossoms scattered whole across the ground, their crowns soft against the dirt. A mynah bird struts at our feet, cocky as if it owns the place. I take my bite—cold and sharp, the lilikoi exploding on my tongue with a tang that makes my eyes sting. Sunshine. Sour candy. Summer itself.

“This,” I say, pointing my spoon at him, “was worth the fight.”

He closes his eyes as he tastes his spoonful, like he’s letting it melt through his whole body. “Glad my suffering is delicious to you.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic. You’ll survive. Unless you choke on your half—then technically it’s all mine.”

His laugh is low, surprised. “You’re ruthless.”

“And efficient.”

He shakes his head, amused. “Your first Nani’s?”

“Yeah. I promised myself I’d get here before it was too late.”

He nods, quiet for a moment, and the humor slips into something softer. “I’ve been coming here since I was a kid. Summers with my grandpa. He swore Nani’s lilikoi could fix anything.” His mouth quirks. “Except my math grades.”

I smile before I mean to. “And you? Visiting?”

“Sort of.” I turn the spoon in my hand, the cold handle slick with condensation. “My grandma was born in Kalihi. But my mom left for the mainland and… we lost most of the roots. I came back to see if I could find them again.” My chest aches saying it out loud. “She passed last year. I feel like I’m chasing pieces.”

His eyes meet mine, steady, like he understands. “My grandpa too. Kaimukī. He told me stories, cooked the food, but…” He shakes his head. “Stories are just fragments, you know? I wanted to see the whole picture before it fades.”

Something shifts inside me, like the tide pulling back. We’re strangers, but his words land too close.

I glance toward the collage of old photos taped to the stand. One catches my eye—a team of teenagers in dusty uniforms, clutching a dented trophy, grins wide and messy. In the center, a boy and girl lean into each other, their names scrawled underneath.

I lean closer. My throat tightens. Lila Iona. My grandmother’s name.

“That’s her,” I whisper.

Ethan squints at the photo, nodding slowly. “That’s my grandpa. I’ve known this photo my whole life—he never shut up about that team.”

I turn, my pulse jumping. “Wait. Lila Iona was my grandmother.”

His eyes widen, surprise breaking across his face. “You’re kidding.”

Before I can answer, Auntie’s voice floats over, muffled by her mountain of leis. “Eh, so you’re Lila’s granddaughter?” Her eyes widen above the blossoms. “Girl, your tutu gave me gray hair before my own kids did!”

I let out a startled laugh, a little too loud, a little too shaky.

Auntie leans her elbows on the counter, her smile tinged with memory. “Lila and Ethan were my troublemakers. Always here, dripping sweat and dirt from the ball field. Best friends. Until they weren’t.”

“Weren’t?” I ask. My chest feels heavy.

She sighs, bracelets chiming like wind chimes. “Pride. Misunderstandings. Words said wrong. You know how it goes. They were young. Sometimes young turns into never.”

Ethan stares into the cup, spoon resting on the edge. His jaw tightens. “My grandpa used to say his biggest regret was not fixing one conversation.”

I swallow, the taste of lilikoi sharp on my tongue. My grandma never told me this story. But maybe that small smile she had in one old photo wasn’t just about memory. Maybe it was about loss.

“What if we fix it?” I blurt.

He looks up. “What do you mean?”

I nod toward the photo. My voice wavers, but I push through. “We can’t rewrite their story, but we can… I don’t know. Write a better last chapter.”

We borrow a marker from Auntie, and my hand trembles as I add three words under their faces: Always was ʻohana. My throat burns, but in a good way, like I’ve set something free.

Ethan adds his own words: Next game: us. His smile tilts, uncertain but hopeful. And for a heartbeat, I think maybe this is why I came to Hawaii at all.

We walk the empty cup to the recycling bin together, fingers brushing again, this time lingering.

“To letting go,” I say.

“To starting over,” he answers.

“Ahem,” I add. “Also to me winning custody of the next shave ice.”

He smirks. “You’re an only child, aren’t you?”

“Middle,” I fire back. “Why?”

“Explains everything.”

A single plumeria crown tumbles from the tree above, landing near the bin, whole and perfect, as if the island itself is blessing this strange, sweet moment.

I glance at him and stick out my hand. “I’m Maya, by the way.”

His palm closes around mine, warm and certain. “Ethan.”

Behind us, Auntie Nani calls, her voice muffled by flowers but sharp with joy. “Come on, Maya, Ethan—last picture for the wall!” She snaps one with her instant camera and clips it beside the old team photo. MAYA + ETHAN — LAST LILIKOI, her handwriting declares.

When we leave, the sky is painted in gold and rose, the ocean glittering like it’s holding secrets. We walk side by side toward the beach, the silence between us full instead of empty.

“So,” he says, his arm brushing mine, “next time—what flavor?”

“Lilikoi,” I answer instantly. “Obviously.”

He grins, eyes catching the last light of sunset. “Tradition.”

The word feels like a promise.

�� THE END ��

Author's note

Hawaiʻi is a magical place—full of little moments that feel almost miraculous. The scent of plumeria drifting through the air, the taste of lilikoi on your tongue, the way the ocean light shimmers like it’s keeping secrets… it all has a way of making even ordinary days feel extraordinary.

That’s the spirit I wanted to capture in The Last Shave Ice. While this story isn’t spicy like my novels, it carries the same heart: humor, connection, second chances, and the promise of Happily Ever After. These Wiki Wiki stories are my love letters to fleeting, powerful moments—the kind that remind us love can surprise us in the most unexpected ways.

I hope this little tale brings you a smile, a spark of wonder, and maybe even the sense of being wrapped in the magic of the islands. Thank you for reading and for sharing this journey with me.

Love, Summer

EMAIL:

summer@summerhunterbooks.com

MAHALO from Oahu!

CLICK HERE

Mouth of the Sea

Wed, 03 Sep 2025 00:11:20 GMT

Mouth of the Sea

-A Wiki Wiki Romantic Suspense Story-

The cave breathes.

Each pull of the tide drags cool air from its mouth, and each push sends it spilling back across my skin. I stand at the edge of the sand with my camera pressed to my chest, unsettled by how alive it feels—like I’ve stumbled into a secret I shouldn’t be seeing.

I raise the lens, trying to capture the way shadows ripple inside the cave’s throat. That’s when a voice cuts through the surf.

“Not here.”

I whirl.

A man stands ankle-deep in the tide pool, spear balanced against his shoulder. His hair drips in dark ropes against his jaw, water sliding down the ridges of his chest. His eyes are the color of storm clouds before rain—steady, hard, and fixed on me.

“Why not?” My voice is smaller than I’d like.

“The ocean doesn’t forgive mistakes.” His gaze flicks to the cave. “And that place is greedy.”

The words chill me more than the wind. I should leave. Instead, I lower my camera and say, “I’m Olivia.”

His expression doesn’t shift. “Koa.”

I come back the next morning. And the morning after.

I tell myself it’s for the light, the colors, the lava rock. But really it’s him.

Koa moves like the tide belongs to him, sure and unhurried. I watch his hands—rough when they knot nets, gentle when they free a fish too small to keep. He doesn’t speak much, but silence feels different around him. Full, alive.

One afternoon, I edge too close to the cave, drawn by the way sunlight scatters across the water inside.

Suddenly, Koa is there. His hand clamps around my wrist, strong and warm, stopping me cold.

“Not there,” he murmurs. His thumb brushes against my pulse.

My breath stumbles. “Do you warn everyone off?”

“Just the stubborn ones.”

For a long moment, neither of us moves. When he lets go, the absence of his hand feels sharper than the grip itself.

In town, his name reaches me again—this time whispered.

At the shave ice stand, two women lower their voices: Koa… the cave… his wife.

The words sting like salt in a cut. A dive gone wrong. A tide too fast. He surfaced alone.

The next time I see him, the weight of it is in his shoulders. His face is calm, but grief lingers in the way he stares at the horizon like it might give something back.

I want to say I’m sorry, but the words feel too small. Instead, I say, “They say the plankton might glow tonight.”

His jaw tightens. “Forecasts lie.”

“Then let’s find out.”

He doesn’t agree. But when I come back after dark, he’s already there.

The cove is black velvet. Then my feet stir the water, and stars wake beneath the surface. Light spills from my toes like sparks. I laugh, startled, and Koa’s gaze finds me—not the glow, but me.

I reach for his hand. He hesitates, then gives it. Blue light blooms around our joined fingers, bright enough to make me catch my breath.

The night feels too alive, too charged. His face is close, shadows softening his edges. My lips part, waiting.

But he pulls away, and the glow fades. The ache he leaves behind is sharper than the cave’s breath.

The storm arrives before dawn.

Wind bends the trees sideways. Rain lashes my face as I run the trail, mud slick beneath my shoes. When the cove comes into view, the ocean is wild, a furious gray maw.

Koa is waist-deep, battling to free a turtle caught in his net. His body strains with effort, muscles taut, waves crashing against him.

“Koa!” I shout, plunging into the water. Together we hack at the mesh until the turtle bursts free and vanishes into churn.

The next wave slams us sideways. Salt scorches my throat as I tumble under, the current dragging me hard toward the cave’s black mouth. Panic tears through me—cold, suffocating.

Then his arm locks around me, solid and fierce.

“Breathe now! Hold. Now. Hold.” His voice is hoarse but commanding, the only thing cutting through the roar.

I force myself into his rhythm, lungs burning but tethered to his. His chest crushes mine, his hand braced at my ribs, holding me steady as the sea tries to tear us apart.

The cave swallows us, surging and slamming. He shoves me onto a ledge slick with water, but the current claws him back.

I seize his wrist, fingers slipping on his skin. “Don’t you dare let go!”

A sound tears out of him, jagged and strange—half laugh, half sob—as if his body doesn’t know how else to let go. He lunges up beside me, and we collapse together, gasping, the cave’s fury echoing in every breath we steal.

For a moment, all I hear is water and the hammer of my pulse. Then his voice breaks. “I couldn’t save her.” His head bows, as if the weight of the words drags him under. “I let go. And she was gone.”

The grief in his words tears something inside me. My hand finds his, trembling. “But you didn’t let go tonight.”

His eyes lift to mine—gray and storm-wrecked, but burning now with something else. Want. Need.

By morning, the storm is spent. The world smells of wet earth and salt.

He sits repairing his net, hands steady again. I raise my camera but lower it. Not every moment needs to be captured. Some are meant to be kept.

On my last evening, we walk the ridge. The horizon burns gold, the ocean below calm, the cave still breathing.

“Stay,” Keoni says. One word, heavy with everything he doesn’t say.

I think of the city waiting for me—noise, deadlines, empty rooms. And then I think of him, of how he dove into the place he feared most to pull me out.

“I can,” I whisper.

His breath stutters. He steps closer, slow, as though testing if I’ll vanish like the tide. I don’t.

When his lips find mine, the kiss is deep and certain. His mouth tastes of salt and rain, and my body trembles with the release of everything we’ve held back.

Below us, the cave exhales. For the first time, it doesn’t sound like mourning.

It sounds like the beginning.

�� THE END ��

Author's note

In Hawaiʻi, the ocean is never just background — it breathes, it provides, it takes. In Hawaiian culture, the sea (kai) is both giver and destroyer, and that duality inspired The Mouth of the Sea. The sea caves carved into lava cliffs reminded me how grief can carve into us too, while the rare glow of bioluminescent plankton offered hope — proof that even in darkness, light rises to the surface.

For me, that’s what Romance is all about: love fierce enough to survive danger, and hope strong enough to carry us through the tide.

EMAIL:

summer@summerhunterbooks.com

MAHALO from Oahu!

CLICK HERE

Secrets In The Broth

Wed, 09 Jul 2025 21:34:44 GMT

Secrets In The Broth

Secrets In The Broth

-A Wiki Wiki Romantic Suspense Story-

I walk into Lao Mei’s noodle shop, the bell above the door ringing a soft, familiar chime. The air inside is thick with the scent of simmering broth and fried garlic—an aroma I’ve known for years, though today it feels different, like I’m intruding on a memory I can’t quite touch.

The warm steam from the kitchen hits me first. It wraps around me like a blanket—comforting, yet strangely unsettling. I haven’t been here in so long. My feet feel heavy as they carry me across the worn wooden floor, the creaking boards groaning beneath my weight. The place is almost exactly the same: faded red walls, old photographs telling stories of a Honolulu Chinatown long past.

The restaurant was founded by Lao Mei’s mother many years ago, long before I ever walked through that door. Even now, it feels like a tribute to her—the woman who built this place from scratch. But the air feels colder tonight, despite the heat outside. A silence lingers in the corners, one that never used to be there.

Lao Mei’s voice breaks the stillness—sharp, yet welcoming.
“Ah, you came back,” she says, her eyes flicking up from the pot she’s stirring.

The sight of her—a woman I once knew better than anyone—twists something inside me.

It’s been years since we last spoke, since we broke up with no real explanation. That had been on me. I left, thinking the world was bigger than the narrow alleyways of Chinatown. But now, with the scent of her cooking in my lungs, the memories come rushing back.

“You still making your famous noodles?” I ask, leaning on the counter, my voice trying to sound casual. My heart beats a little faster than it should. I didn’t expect to feel like this.

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she moves with practiced grace, serving a steaming bowl to the customer by the window. I watch her—how she holds herself: strong, composed, but something’s shifted. There’s a guardedness in her movements that wasn’t there before.

The silence stretches. I wonder if she even wants me here. She’s never been good at hiding her feelings, but tonight she’s staring at the food like it’s the only thing that matters.

I sit at the nearest table, my hands resting on the cool, rough wood. The chair creaks as I shift. The gentle clinking of bowls and soft murmur of conversation drift through the room, distant, like I’m listening through fog.

Then she approaches, and her presence pulls me back.

Our eyes meet, and for a breathless moment, I see the past in hers—the late nights, the shared laughter, the love we thought would never fade. But all of it is buried now, deep beneath years of silence.

“You’re here for the noodles?” she asks. Her voice is cooler now, but I know she’s not just talking about food.

I try to smile, but it comes out strained. “I guess I’m here for... us,” I say, the words slipping out too fast. I wish I could take them back. They hang in the air like smoke—thick, suffocating.

She studies me for a long moment, then turns without a word and walks away.

Minutes tick by. The scent of broth grows heavier, mingling with the faint smell of dust clinging to the corners of the room. The silence presses in, too loud, the space between us too wide to cross. I watch steam rising from my bowl, mesmerized by the curling tendrils. I used to love how the steam carried the flavors. Tonight, it feels like it’s hiding something.

The door chimes again.

A man steps inside—one who doesn’t belong here. He’s in a tailored suit, posture stiff and guarded. His gaze sweeps the room like he’s looking for someone. He doesn’t notice me. His eyes land on Lao Mei, and I see the change in her.

She’s still at the stove, her back turned, but I feel it—her body tenses, movements tighter.

The man sits at a far table, eyes lingering on the door before pulling out his phone. His fingers type too fast. He keeps glancing between the door and the counter like he’s waiting for something. Or someone.

And something about him feels wrong.

The tightness starts in my gut, rising like bile. Something is happening here that shouldn't be.

I watch Lao Mei’s hands tremble slightly as she serves another bowl of noodles, and for the first time in years, I wonder what she’s gotten herself into. She’s always been strong, always kept the restaurant going no matter what. But there’s a weight on her now—one I don’t recognize.

The man doesn’t order. Just sits there, fingers tapping the table, exhaling slowly. His presence is like the sun disappearing behind a storm cloud. The atmosphere shifts.

Lao Mei doesn’t look at him, but her movements grow more deliberate, more cautious. She’s bracing herself.

Finally, the man glances her way. I see her face harden—not just avoidance, but fear. She’s waiting. For him? For something else?

I can’t take it anymore. I rise and walk to the counter, each step dragging.

“Who is he?” I ask.

She doesn't respond at first. When she does, her voice is almost drowned in the soft noise of the restaurant.
“It’s not what you think,” she says, wiping the counter for the second time. Her hands still tremble.

“He’s just a customer,” she adds, but her voice catches.

“Just a customer?” I echo. I hear the lie in her voice. “Mei, what’s going on?”

She won’t meet my eyes. For a moment, I wonder if I’m the last person she’d confide in. But then her eyes flick to the man.

“He’s not the only one,” she says softly. “There are things that happen here—things no one talks about. Not even you. This isn’t a place you want to get involved with.”

I lean in, the weight of her words pressing into my chest.
“What are you doing, Mei? What are you mixed up in?”

Her jaw tightens. She shakes her head. “I don’t need anyone’s help. I’ve been doing this on my own. I’m fine.”

But the way she says it makes it clear: she’s anything but fine.

I return to my seat, mind spinning. The man finishes his meal silently, every movement precise. He leaves without a word. But as he passes me, I catch a glimpse of his face—pale, drawn, like someone who's seen too much. He wasn’t here for noodles. He came to settle something.

Lao Mei watches him leave. Only then does she turn to me.

“Is this what you came for?” she asks quietly. “To get involved? To stir up things that should’ve stayed buried?”

I don’t answer right away. Something in her voice, her gaze, clicks into place—like the final piece of a puzzle I didn’t know I was solving.

I’ve already crossed the line.

“I didn’t come to fix things, Mei,” I say, voice thick. “I just came to understand.”

The door chimes again, louder than before.

And I realize: I’m already too deep into the broth of her secrets to pull myself out.

�� THE END ��

Author's note

Secrets in the Broth is a quiet, unsettling kind of love story—told from the POV of a man who walks back into a familiar place only to find the woman he once loved… isn’t quite the same.

The noodles still simmer. The place still smells like memory. But there’s a weight to it now. A silence that wasn’t there before.

This story is about what gets left unsaid. About people who carry things they don’t talk about. About how love can linger, even when trust has faded—and how sometimes, coming back doesn’t mean finding closure. It means opening a door that might’ve been better left shut.

Here in Hawaii, these kinds of places exist. Tucked into backstreets. Run by women with strong hands and tired hearts. And sometimes, if you look closely, the real story isn’t on the menu.

Thanks for reading. Stay a little longer... but don’t ask too many questions.

EMAIL:

summer@summerhunterbooks.com

MAHALO from Oahu!

CLICK HERE

Wipeout and Winks

Wed, 21 May 2025 19:47:17 GMT

Wipeout and Winks

Wipeout and Winks

-A Wiki Wiki Rom-Com Story-

It’s my first morning in Hawaii and I’m already flat on my face.

Literally.

The surfboard pops up like it’s got a vendetta, smacks me in the ribs, and sends me flailing into the Pacific like a flailing spaghetti noodle.

“Dude,” someone says, laughing behind me, “you okay?”

I resurface, spitting out half the Pacific and blinking through salty lashes.

And there she is.

Sun-bleached hair in a messy bun. Bronze skin. Neon-pink rash guard with the words SURF LIKE A GIRL stretched across the front.

She’s on her board like she was born there, grinning down at me. “Not bad for your first try,” she says. “You lasted a solid… four seconds.”

I want to be embarrassed, but she’s laughing in this light, breezy way that makes me laugh too. Even with salt water burning my nose.

“Four seconds is better than I expected,” I admit.

She offers her hand. “I’m Kiana. You must be my 9 a.m.”

“Eli,” I say, taking her hand. Her fingers are small but strong. She pulls me up like it’s nothing. “Nice to meet you, Kiana.”

“Nice to meet you, Eli.” She paddles in front of me like a mermaid, glancing over her shoulder. “I promise you’ll leave this island with at least one good ride.”

I’m pretty sure I already have one.

Turns out Kiana has the patience of a saint and the sense of humor of a stand-up comic.

By our third wave attempt, I’ve swallowed enough seawater to qualify as a human sponge, and she’s still encouraging me like I’m in the Olympics.

“Remember,” she says, “bend your knees. Low center of gravity. You’re not a giraffe on roller skates.”

“Too late,” I mutter, wobbling upright before immediately wiping out again. She lets out a whoop that echoes across the waves.

I float on my back, catching my breath, watching her silhouette against the morning sun. She’s graceful and wild all at once. Like this beach is her stage and she’s been rehearsing since birth.

“So,” she calls out. “What brings you to O‘ahu? Besides your obvious desire to drown in front of strangers?”

“I’m visiting my cousin,” I say, paddling closer. “He lives in Kailua. Said I needed to loosen up and take a surf lesson.”

“Loose is good,” she says with a wink. “You mainland guys are all stress and spreadsheets.”

“Hey. I haven’t opened a spreadsheet in… three days.”

She gasps. “Tragic. You must be twitching.”

I grin. “A little.”

She smiles again, and this time it softens around the edges. “You’re not so bad, Eli.”

“I’d be better if I stopped belly-flopping.”

“You’d be boring if you stopped belly-flopping.”

After the lesson, we’re sitting on the beach with malasadas from the food truck near the surf shop. Mine’s covered in liliko‘i sugar, and I’ve got powdered sugar all over my shirt. Kiana doesn’t mention it—just flicks a crumb off my cheek like it’s normal to touch a guy’s face after knowing him for an hour and a half.

“Thanks for not giving up on me,” I say.

She shrugs. “You’re a quick learner. And you didn’t cry when you fell, so that’s already better than my last student.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

We both laugh, and the breeze picks up, ruffling her hair across her eyes. She doesn’t brush it away. Just lets it fly.

“So what do you do, back home?” she asks, licking sugar off her thumb.

“Software developer.”

“Whoa. Big brain stuff.”

“Not really. I mostly just fix broken buttons and yell at error codes.”

“That still sounds smarter than my job.”

“I watched you do a handstand on a moving surfboard, Kiana. You’re basically an Avenger.”

That makes her laugh again, and this time she tips her head back like she means it. I can’t stop looking at her. She’s sunshine wrapped in skin.

Somehow, “see you around” turns into seeing her every day for the rest of the week.

She teaches me to surf—like really surf—and I help her fix the clunky reservation system at the shop in exchange. We eat poke bowls on the curb, sneak into a local music fest, and once, she drags me up a ridge trail to watch the sunrise, even though I complain the entire way.

I fall for her in the kind of way that doesn’t feel like falling. More like floating. Like being carried by a wave that knows exactly where it’s going.

On my last day, we’re back where it all started—on the beach, surfboards beside us, ocean shimmering like a promise.

“I wish I wasn’t leaving,” I say.

She doesn’t look at me, just digs her toes into the sand. “I know.”

“Would it be insane if I came back next month?”

Her eyes lift. “You mean… for vacation?”

“No. For you.”

Her breath catches.

“I can work remotely,” I say. “All I need is my laptop and decent Wi-Fi. I want to be here. With you. If you want that, too.”

She smiles, and it’s different this time—like sunrise after a storm. “Only if you promise to keep wiping out.”

I reach for her hand, the same way I did that first day in the water. “Deal.”

�� THE END ��

Author's note

Wipeout and Winks is a sweet, funny short story told from Eli’s POV—a tourist who takes a surf lesson and falls for the local girl who teaches him.

And honestly? That kind of story happens all the time here in Hawaii. Maybe it’s the warm people. Maybe it’s the island magic. Either way… love has a way of sneaking up on you here.

A Lei for Yesterday

Sun, 27 Apr 2025 16:33:36 GMT

A Lei for Yesterday

A Lei for Yesterday

The scent of fresh plumeria clings to the air like a secret. Kapiʻolani Park is alive with color. Lei Day drums beat softly in the distance, and children dart past my mat with sticky fingers and shaved ice smiles. It’s the kind of day my mother loved—one where tradition breathes and blossoms speak.

I thread golden ‘ilima blossoms onto a string, one by one. She always said lei-making is sacred. That the mana of the maker lives inside the lei.

If that’s true, then this lei holds a storm.

People called her “Aunty Lu” across the island, even when she wasn't related to them. She protected things—land, memory, culture. She wasn’t loud about it. She just... did. Until someone made sure she couldn’t anymore.

A house fire, they said. Faulty wiring. Nothing suspicious. But they didn't know her. And they didn't know about the file hidden in the back of the bookshelf. Or the man in the photo I found—smiling beside her, expensive sunglasses hiding everything his eyes might've said. Gerald Manua, according to the faded name scribbled on the back. They certainly didn't know about Kai either. The man who was my mother's right hand, who vanished like morning mist after her funeral, taking with him whatever secrets they'd shared.

"Yellow 'ilima," a voice says behind me, low, familiar.

My fingers freeze mid-thread, heart stuttering against my ribs. The plumeria blossom I was holding drops to the mat. I don't need to turn to know who stands there—the voice that's haunted my dreams for months.

He steps into view, slow and tentative, like he’s not sure I’ll let him stay. I see him from the corner of my eye first—tall, sunburnt, lean in the way of someone who moves fast and sleeps light. His hair's a little longer, jaw sharper with tiredness. But it's him. Kai Kealoha.

“You disappeared,” I say without looking up from the lei. “Not even a text after the funeral.”

“I couldn’t.”

“You worked for her. You owed her. You owed me.”

He kneels beside the mat. “I owed her more than you know.”

I finally look at him. “Then why did you run?”

“Because someone was watching. The night she died, your mom gave me a name. She said if anything happened to her, I needed to disappear and prove it wasn’t an accident.”

My hands stop moving.

“Gerald Manua,” he says, pulling out a folded photo. The same one I found, but his copy is marked up in pen—circles, arrows, dates. “Your mom was digging into illegal land transfers. Manua’s company has ties to quiet buyouts—pressuring old families to sign their land away. She had proof.”

I stare at the picture. “And you have it now?”

“Not all. But enough to get followed. Enough to stay gone.”

“You should’ve told me.”

“I wanted to. But if they knew you were close to me—”

“They already burned down my life, Kai.”

He lowers his voice. “You’re the last piece of her legacy. They don’t want you digging.”

Too late.

I finish the lei and tie it off. The string is tight, the knot steady.

“She taught me to finish what I start,” I say, rising. “Even when it hurts.”

We walk to the banyan tree she used to call her quiet place. It’s old and wide, the kind of tree that keeps secrets. I place the lei around a low branch and whisper, “This one’s for you, Mom.”

The breeze shifts. Music rises again in the distance. “May Day is Lei Day in Hawaiʻi…” floats through the air like a memory.

Kai stands beside me, silent.

“She didn’t leave me anything,” I say. “No note. No goodbye. Just this fight.”

“You were always going to find the truth,” he says. “She knew that.”

“I don’t know if I can trust you.”

“I’m not asking you to.” He hands me a thumb drive. “I’m giving you everything I have. And then I’m gone again. Unless you need me.”

I tuck the drive into my bag without breaking eye contact.

“You still working alone?” I ask.

“Not by choice.”

I nod. “Then maybe it’s time that changes.”

He doesn’t answer. He just gives me a look that’s more sorrow than smile, and walks back into the crowd like a ghost.

I turn back to the tree. The lei sways gently in the wind, bright and golden in the shade.

Mom used to say grief doesn’t fade. It becomes part of the thread.

So I thread it. And I keep going.

Because I know now.

She didn’t just die.

She was silenced.

And I’m not done speaking for her.

The End

Author’s Note
Did you know May 1st is Lei Day in Hawai‘i? ��
It’s a beautiful local tradition that started in 1928 to honor the art of lei-making and the spirit of aloha. Every island has its own flower and color, and there’s music, dancing, and lei contests from keiki to kūpuna.

This story, A Lei for Yesterday, was inspired by that tradition—and by the strength of those who fight quietly to protect what they love. I hope it brought you a little beauty, heart, and suspense.

Mahalo for reading.
Love, Summer

Silence of The Darkest Night

Tue, 18 Mar 2025 20:26:38 GMT

Wiki*Wiki (Quick) Romantic Suspense

I clutch the mysterious note in my pocket, the paper now soft from my constant touch, as I weave through the vibrant crowds at Waikiki Beach for the Nagaoka Fireworks display. The Hawaiian humidity embraces me like a warm, persistent memory, wrapping around my skin in that peculiar way that makes everything feel more significant, more alive. Yet beneath this warmth, an undeniable chill courses through me—a premonition that after five years of emptiness, tonight will change everything.

Meet me where we first met. When the red chrysanthemum blooms in the sky. I know what really happened that night.

The unsigned message appeared under my apartment door this morning. After five years of questions and whispers following David's disappearance just days before our wedding, this is the first real lead I've had.

"Excuse me," I murmur, squeezing past a family spreading blankets on the sand. My eyes scan the shoreline, searching for the specific curved palm tree where David and I first kissed during the inaugural Nagaoka Fireworks show in 2012. Back then, we were just two college students—me studying marine biology, him pursuing photography—brought together by a chance encounter and the magic of explosions painting the Hawaiian sky.

"You won't find answers in the crowd, Maya," a familiar voice calls, somehow finding me despite the symphony of beachgoers around us.

I turn to face Kai Nakayama, the detective who investigated David's disappearance and who, over the past year, has become my unexpected anchor in a sea of uncertainty. His usually playful eyes now hold a depth of concern that makes my heart flutter with conflicting emotions—gratitude for his care and frustration at his timing. His broad shoulders, relaxed in his favorite blue aloha shirt on our casual evenings together, now carry the unmistakable tension of a protector sensing danger.

"You followed me?" I frown. "I told you I was just meeting friends."

"And I told you that the Chen case was being reopened," Kai replies quietly. "Anonymous tips, mysterious meetings—you're playing a dangerous game."

The loudspeakers crackle as the announcer welcomes the crowd to the annual display. I glance at my watch. Twenty minutes until the red chrysanthemum, if the show follows the same sequence as previous years.

"I need to know what happened to him, Kai." My voice catches. "Five years of not knowing if he's alive or dead... wouldn't you take the risk?"

Before Kai can answer, my phone vibrates. An unknown number with a text message: Change of plans. The old fishing pier. Come alone or I'll disappear like he did.

I look up to find Kai watching me intently. "Tell me you're not going to meet whoever that is," he says, nodding at my phone.

"I have to," I whisper. "But you don't."

The hurt that flashes across his face makes my stomach twist. After months of slowly breaking down the walls I'd built after David's disappearance, of movie nights and long walks on the beach, of Kai's patient understanding when I couldn't bring myself to fully commit—I'm choosing a ghost over him.

"I'm a police officer, Maya. I can't let you walk into what's obviously a trap." His hand moves slightly toward his concealed service weapon. "Let me call for backup."

"By the time they arrive, whoever sent this will be gone." I step closer, lowering my voice. "Fifteen minutes, Kai. Give me fifteen minutes before you follow. Please."

The first fireworks bloom overhead, their brilliant colors reflecting in Kai's eyes as they illuminate the countless faces turned skyward. Each burst sends vibrations through the air that I feel deep in my chest, like the rhythm of a question finally demanding an answer. Blue and gold light dances across Kai's features, highlighting the battle between duty and personal feelings playing across his expression. The crowd around us sighs in collective wonder, their joy a stark counterpoint to the tension binding us together in our private drama.

"Ten minutes," he concedes. "And I'm bringing Officer Kealoha with me."

I nod and slip into the crowd before I can change my mind. The fishing pier stretches before me in solitary stillness, forgotten by the crowds drawn to the dazzling spectacle in the sky. Each step on the weathered boards awakens memories of happier times—of David's hand in mine, of dreams we'd spun together beneath similar starlit skies. The gentle lapping of waves against the wooden pillars creates a rhythm like an old lullaby, almost soothing despite the nervous anticipation building inside me. Around me, palm trees sway with languid grace against the twilight canvas, their fronds whispering secrets that seem to follow my every step.

"Hello?" I call, my voice barely audible over the distant booms and the waves lapping against the pier posts. "I'm here."

"So you actually came alone, Maya. Brave... or foolish."

I whirl around to face a figure emerging from the shadows. The breath catches in my throat.

"Leilani? David's sister?" I stumble back a step. "You sent the note? But why all the secrecy? You could have just called me."

Leilani looks different from the grieving sister I remember—harder somehow, her eyes cold beneath the intermittent flash of distant fireworks.

"Because what I have to tell you can't be said over the phone." She reaches into her bag. "David knew something he shouldn't have. About our family business. About shipments coming in that weren't just imported crafts and art."

My mind races. The Chen Gallery, owned by David and Leilani's parents, is one of the most respected Asian art importers in Hawaii. "What are you saying?"

"He was going to tell you everything," Leilani continues, her hand still in her bag. "Then go to the police. I tried to reason with him, but he was stubborn."

The pieces click together with sickening clarity. "It was you," I whisper. "You're the reason he disappeared."

In the distance, magnificent red sparks cascade across the night sky—the chrysanthemum pattern unfurling like a flower of fire blooming just for us. I can hear the appreciative murmurs from the faraway crowd, their joy a poignant contrast to this moment of truth unfolding in isolation. The crimson light reflects in the gentle waves below, creating the illusion that both sky and sea are aflame with the same passionate intensity that once burned between David and me, and now flickers uncertainly between Kai and me—a reminder that beauty and pain often illuminate each other.

"I didn't mean for it to happen," Leilani says, her voice suddenly vulnerable. "It was an accident. He fell... we argued on our family's boat, and he fell."

My eyes fill with tears. "Where? Where is he?"

"That's why I contacted you. There's a dive site off Kāneʻohe Bay. I can take you there." Leilani finally withdraws her hand from her bag, holding out a piece of paper. "These are the coordinates. But the police can never know it was me."

The vibration of my phone in my pocket startles us both. Kai's text: Coming now. Stay safe.

I look from the coordinates to Leilani's face, torn between justice for David and closure for myself. "Did you ever consider that not knowing was worse than anything else you could have done to me?"

Before Leilani can answer, footsteps pound on the wooden planks of the pier. Kai appears, flashlight in one hand, weapon ready in the other. Officer Kealoha flanks him, moving to block the exit.

"Maya, step away from her," Kai orders, his voice steady despite the concern in his eyes.

The grand finale of the fireworks erupts across the horizon—a symphony of light and sound that mirrors the chaos in my heart. Each brilliant burst illuminates us in waves of color, painting our faces with ever-changing emotions that words could never capture. In this kaleidoscope of revelation, Leilani lunges forward with desperation gleaming in her eyes, her fingers digging into my arm with a strength born of fear.

"I can't go to prison," she whispers, her voice breaking with the weight of five years of guarded secrets, her face a portrait of regret and terror bathed in the pulsing light from above.

What happens next seems to unfold in slow motion. Leilani pulling me toward the edge of the pier. Kai shouting. The paper with the coordinates fluttering into the dark water. The sensation of falling.

Then strong arms around my waist, pulling me back from the brink as Leilani disappears over the edge with a splash.

Pressed against Kai's chest, I watch as Officer Kealoha radios for a water rescue team. The last of the fireworks fade, leaving only stars in the Hawaiian sky and the sound of water lapping against the pier.

"I've got you," Kai whispers against my hair, his voice a warm current against the cool night air. His arms encircle me with a strength that asks for nothing yet promises everything.

For the first time in five years of holding myself together through sheer will, I allow my carefully constructed walls to crumble completely. My body melts against his, accepting the comfort I've denied myself for so long. As police boats glide through the darkened water toward us and the precious coordinates to David's resting place dissolve into the endless Pacific, I make my choice—not simply between loving the dead or the living, but between clinging to the certainty of grief or embracing the beautiful risk of joy. Above us, the final sparks of the fireworks fade into memory, but something new ignites within me—a realization that even after the darkest night, we can still find the courage to reach for light.

Author's Note: The Nagaoka Fireworks display in Hawaii represents not just cultural connection but also rebirth and transformation—themes reflected in Maya's journey from loss to healing in this story.