Undeniable Love

Two Opposite Goals. One Attraction...A challenge that changes everything.

Hawaiian playboy Kamp Mahona has one objective—to remain single. A feat that has been easily attainable for twenty-four years. At least it was until Alika Halona entered his life sporting those perfect curves that accentuated her hot little body.

He wants one night with her. A taste to get his fill.

She’s looking for a long-term commitment.

Their goals are completely opposite, but Kamp’s determined and knows he needs to up his game. Alika’s stubborn and knows she needs to stay away. 

Kamp thinks this is a game he can win. Alika thinks she’s strong enough to play. What they don’t see is the bigger challenge lurking in the distance. One that can’t be ignored. Because if Kamp doesn’t face it, his objective to remain single may be permanent. 

“Undeniable Love” delves into their intense tug-of-war between desire and caution, ultimately leading them to confront a challenge that might reshape their beliefs about love. This passionate novella from Kimberly Readnour promises a steamy dance of emotions and choices.

Alika

The dismal gray clouds blanket the sky, snuffing away any light the moon offers. The luminescence from the designer boutique windows fades away, further showcasing the darkness as each store’s lights click off one by one at the closing hour. Heavy dampness fills the air, and I hope the impending storm holds off until after I leave in an hour. The road home is treacherous enough on a clear night, let alone one blanketed by rain. I pull my gaze from the outside and focus on the elderly couple sitting at my station.

“We’ll take two Chicken Marsalas,” the gentleman says.  

“Excellent choice.” I smile and collect the menus. “I’ll place your order and be right back to refill your drinks.”

Turning toward the kitchen, I suppress my groan. I’m working the A-section tonight, which means having to walk past the bar. On an average night, I wouldn’t care, but for the last three evenings, the obnoxious Haole has become a permanent fixture. I should tell the bartender to collect rent from the cocky bastard. My leniency for him has run its course. When he’s not hitting on some poor, undeserving soul, he singles me out. With a deep breath, I summon my inner strength and march forward.

“What time are you getting off work, sugar?” the obnoxious asshole asks, grabbing my elbow.

I cringe and withdraw my arm from his clutches. With no other choice, I turn toward him. His smug stare as he collectively checks me out for the millionth time brings forth bile. I swallow it down along with the smartass reply begging to be said. Mr. Asshole always wears the same style of outfit every night—crisp khaki pants and a polo style shirt. He reeks of money, so I’m sure he’s used to getting his way, but that doesn’t faze me at all. No way would I succumb to him. I’m not succumbing to anyone.

“You know I don’t disclose that information.”

As I continue toward the kitchen, I can hear his rebuttal in the background. God, I’m sick of these types of men. Every night I work, there’s some guy who sees me as a conquest. They come here often and think they can score with a local. Or score, period. As if us girls’ only goal in life is to be rocked by their world. Puh-leeze. As his stare burns into my backside, I become attentive to my walk. If I were the least bit interested, I’d give a slight shake to my hips, but there’s no way this guy is deserving of any encouraging signals. I reserve those for the guys who make the cut.

When I first started this job—a secondary position to fill in the gaps my stylist job leaves—I didn’t mind the flirting. Now, I loathe it. Once I realized that I was a means to satisfy their immediate urge, I avoided those types of men altogether. I’m holding out for something more substantial. But the waiting has been crucial. I’m not sure I’ll ever find anyone with ethical values.

Placing the ticket on the counter, I yell, “Two Chicken Marsalas,” then grab the iced tea and water pitchers. I make my way back to the elderly couple’s table with a determination not to be sidetracked by the asshole.

It never fails, though. I always fall for the wrong guy—even the local ones. Prime example, the hot-as-sin guy from last night. With his killer looks and the cheesiest pick-up lines I’ve ever heard, he’s precisely the type of guy I need to stay away from. What did I do instead? I flirted shamelessly with him. What’s wrong with me? He reeked with “I’m a player” vibes.

To my defense, his cheesy lines were rather cute. Kind of like a Chinese Crested dog, so ugly, it’s cute. And it doesn’t help that I’m horny as hell. Like I said, finding a guy with morals is rough. It’s not like it matters, anyway. Mr. Player left with his friends without the slightest hint of a hook-up. Exactly, the way I want it, I remind myself.

“Your order will be right up,” I say, topping off their glasses.

“Thank you, honey.” The lady reaches across and pats her husband’s hand with the slightest of ease. “We’re celebrating our fortieth anniversary.”

“That’s wonderful. Congratulations.” My smile is warm. Even though there’s a weekly, if not daily, anniversary being celebrated, the appreciation in their gazes never gets old. And the apparent love between them causes a lump to form in my throat. That’s the kind of love I want—someone who respects me instead of categorizing me into a number.

I clear my throat and shuffle to the next table.

“Anything else I can get you?” I ask.

“I think we’re ready for the check.”  

“I’ll be right back with it.” I sneak a peek at the bar and give myself a mental fist bump. Mr. Asshole’s shoulder slumps forward as he engages in a deep conversation with another guy. I scurry past him to the kitchen and replace the pitchers. While tallying up my second table’s total, Careen slides next to me.

“You have a one-top on table three. Sorry. I know it’s your early night, but he requested that booth.”

“That’s okay. I’ll let Marla know she’ll have to finish.” I doubt she’ll complain since I’m doing her a big favor. The bind Avery put her in by calling in sick had her frazzled and left little choice to call me. But Marla knows tomorrow’s my early day at the salon and with my hour drive back home, leaving late isn’t an option.

“Table one, orders up,” the cook calls out.

I glance at the counter and place table two’s bill in my pocket before grabbing the platter of food. As I make my way to the dining room, Mr. Asshole leers my way. I ignore him and concentrate on balancing the tray of food.

“Enjoy your meal,” I tell the couple after serving their plates. In a fluid movement, I slip the tray underneath my arm and slide table two’s bill face down in front of them. “I can take this whenever you’re ready.”  

I smile at their nod and waste no time stepping toward my new customer. While grabbing my waiter pad and pen, I glance up and come to a halt, my smile faltering as my gaze locks with Hot-As-Sin’s dark brown eyes.

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