Haole Wood Read Online Free PDF

of Front Street. Lahaina, which literally means “merciless sun” is the tourist mecca of Maui. Over two hundred years ago it was the surfing paradise for Hawaiian royalty and served as the royal seat of the first king, Kamehameha I. In the 1800s, during the peak of the whaling trade, sailors must have thought they died and went to heaven when they entered the beautiful harbor. I loved to imagine myself living back then until I remembered there were no TVs, iPads, air conditioners or margaritas.
    Tourists spilled onto the sidewalks. Hand-holding couples, laughing with the certainty that they would never become the heavier, faded version of love wearing the same clothes from when they first met, passed by harried parents who were trying to bargain with their overtired, over-indulged kids.
    “You can have an ice cream cone after we eat, Isabella,” a mom tried to coo to her pre-teen, who was standing with her tiny arms folded over her tiny color-coordinated pink and hot pink vacation outfit.
    “Let’s just get her the frickin’ cone,” the sunburned husband said.
    I stepped into the street to go around them all, feeling like I didn’t fit in anywhere, not half of an us or even part of an ours. I headed into the Coconut Shack, which was a small, bamboo-themed bar, crammed with locals and tourists alike.
    Sweet fruity drinks usually made me woozy, but then again, uncertainty being my middle name, I always tried to go with the house specials . . . I ordered a mai tai. The pretty pink umbrella went well with my dress, I thought, as I took a big gulp of the orange sunshine before me, then placed the little parasol behind my ear. Thank goodness I kept Artie’s cab number.
    I was sitting at the edge of the bar on a high stool, serene for once being alone in a bar. Knowing that I’d never see any of these people again helped me not be self-conscious.
    More and more locals trickled in as the evening wore on. I hiccuped but didn’t feel buzzed at all. It was time for a shot of tequila. Just as I covered the webbing at the base of my finger and thumb with salt and went to lick it off, a dark, wavy-haired head swooped in, licked my hand before I could get to it and tossed back his own shot. I turned to look at him as he bit into a wedge of lime.
    “Are you kidding me? How dare you? I’m telling the bartender.”
    “Hot and salty, just like I like it,” said the handsome Hawaiian guy with the tongue.
    “Thanks.” I couldn’t believe it, but I actually thanked him. Why are those pan-Asians so suave and debonair? They look like they come complete with a super secret sex manual that they’ve memorized.
    He smiled, his teeth marching a friendly path across his smooth brown face. He reached across the bar for the salt shaker, licked his own hand, sprinkled salt on it and presented it to me, palm side down.
    “Ancient Hawaiian custom,” he told me.
    “I am not going to lick your hand,” I told him. The next thing you know my tongue was sliding along his thumb and I swigged back my own shot. He patted my back as the force of the tequila hit my tonsils. He signaled the bartender and slid a glass of water in front of me.
    “Mahalo,” I said, feeling the pink paper parasol twirling in my hair. I took a sip of water as Mr. Hawaiian Tropic sat down onto the barstool next to me.
    I sniffed a cool citrus scent wafting off his crisp white untucked shirt that set off the color of his skin. I adore stocky guys. I fluffed my hair and thought how funny it would be if I ended up marrying a Hawaiian. Halmoni would be so happy.
    “Would that make our kids three-quarters Hawaiian?” I wondered.
    “Would what?” his deep voice asked me as his full carved lips that looked like they belonged on some fertility god totem pole, smiled.
    “Nothing.” I drank some more water. Guys have no idea how fast a woman’s fantasies can walk them down the aisle, produce offspring and manufacture arguments. Poor things.
    “Where are you from?” he