From Maybe to Baby: The San Francisco Aftershocks, a Hockey Romance

Love? I've always likened it to free airport WiFi—best in brief bursts and mostly unsatisfying. And definitely not involving anyone's mini-me's. That is, until Jonas waltzes into my no-kid zone. This single father of two isn't just a hockey god in dad jeans—he's a full-blown heart-stealer with a grin potent enough to make a devout singleton like me question every life choice.

Jonas redefines casual charm with his hot-dad swagger, effortlessly flipping my no-kids policy upside down. Each of his disarmingly seductive smiles suggests he excels at activities far from any playground antics. As he shifts seamlessly from daddy duty to sending smoldering glances my way, it's clear—his smiles promise nights that deliver more than mere room service.

Suddenly, swapping my solo layovers for a life seasoned with chicken fingers and tater tots doesn’t seem so terrifying. Maybe, just maybe, it's time to rethink my flight plan.

ALEXA

Not gonna lie—slipping into blissful sleep during a five-hundred-dollar massage is the height of luxury for a girl like me. Even better, drooling on overpriced bamboo sheets while someone turns my muscles into butter is exactly the kind of experience the three-hundred-thousand-and-growing followers of Minty Fresh Adventures want to hear about.
Writing in my head since I am currently paralyzed with pleasure…
The swanky Aura Spa at Serenity Bali promises enlightenment through their signature massage. What they actually deliver is better, if that’s possible—ninety minutes of guilt-free nirvana for the price of a car payment. Pro tip… skip the pre-treatment meditation session—fifteen minutes of a stranger chanting about your chakras isn't nearly as transformative as the brochure makes it sound. Unless that’s your thing, in which case, go for it.
My phone buzzes. Again. For the fifth time. In ten minutes.
Yes, I am working. Yes, I am technically “on the clock.” Yes, I am getting this massage “on the house,” or free, as most people would say. But damn, can’t I have a few minutes of peace to enjoy the over-the-top benefits of being the brain behind the Minty Fresh travel blog?
"Miss Minty?” My massage therapist's hands pause between my shoulder blades, exactly where the tension from my last deadline—no, the last ten years of my life—lives. "Your phone, Miss Minty. Miss Minty? Alexa?” she says as if I might have expired with pleasure.
If only.
The woman, whose name tag says "Made"—pronounced MAH-day, as she patiently explained—sighs in the way people do when they're mentally calculating if their work is worth a pain-in-the ass client.
Like me.
I continue writing in my head.
While the resort presents itself as a sanctuary of silence, the true tranquility comes from its strictly enforced adults-only policy. No sticky fingers, no random screaming, and absolutely no Baby Shark on repeat at the infinity pool. At Serenity Bali, paradise isn't found in overpriced meditation cushions, not for me anyway. For most, myself included, it's the blessed absence of children.
My phone vibrates for the sixth time. Yes, I should have turned the damn thing completely off, but it doesn’t really matter because I’m not moving from this massage table unless the place is burning down and I have no choice but to get off my ass.
"Perhaps you would like to—" Made starts to say.
"If that's Ryan, tell him I've taken a vow of silence," I mumble about my persistent editor, just as the phone vibrates again. "Even better, tell him I've been eaten by a temple monkey. He'd totally buy that—I sent him that viral video of a monkey stealing a bag of sticky rice from a street vendor."
Made's hands hover over me as if I offended her by joking about temple monkeys. "The spirits suggest—" she starts to say.
"The spirits need to have a word with my editor about boundaries." I crack one eye open. "But fine. Could you hand me my phone, please? It's probably nothing more than another scolding for using too many commas."
Made brings my phone and turns away for privacy.
Classy. I’m giving this place a killer write-up.
I reluctantly push up on one elbow to see I’ve not only missed calls but also texts that escalate from mildly annoying to bordering on unhinged.
Answer your damn phone
This is actually important
ALEXA I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU'RE IGNORING ME TO POST ANOTHER SUNSET PIC
I text back one-handed, trying not to abandon my happy place.
*Unless someone died or my book deal finally came through, I'm busy aligning my chakras. Very spiritual stuff. Can't talk. #blessed
I knew that would set him off. Sometimes I just can’t help myself. 
Naturally, his response is immediate:
*Your chakras can wait. This is career-changing.
Well, shit. 
I look around the spa, wondering if the resort is pulling the plug on me. Sending me home. I wonder what I did? Order one too many cocktails at the club last night?
"Take five minutes?" I smile apologetically at Made, who's far too professional to roll her eyes but I can see definitely wants to. 
I wrap myself in a robe that probably costs more than what most people spend on clothing in a year, and step onto a private terrace. The infinity pool stretches out below me, appearing to spill directly into the Indian Ocean, while palm trees frame the view like nature's own Instagram filter. 
I hit Ryan's number, already mourning my interrupted massage. 
"This better be good,” I sigh when he picks up. “I'm missing the massage of a lifetime, and my shoulders still have PTSD from that economy flight to Singapore last month, Ryan."
He ignores my snark like he always does. "How's adult-only paradise?" he asks, suspiciously chipper. In five years of working together, I've learned that he only sounds chipper when he's about to ruin my life.
"Why?”
"Well—"
"Ryan." I grip the terrace railing, watching a honeymooning couple take selfies by the pool. They're doing that annoying thing where they pretend to laugh candidly while perfectly positioned for optimal lighting. Gag. "Why do I feel like I'm about to hate whatever comes next?"
"Because you're paranoid and cynical?"
"It's not paranoia if you actually are out to get me. Which I know you are. Spill."
He clears his throat. "How do you feel about expanding your brand?"
Oh.
He had me at brand. Sort of.
"I've already expanded, Ryan. Last year, I added luxury spas to my adventure travel niche. And look at me now, suffering through another massage for our readers. I'm practically a martyr to the cause. That’s what I call a brand extension.”
"Right, well, think... bigger. Or actually, smaller. Much smaller. Like, chicken-nugget-sized smaller."
"Um, what? Chicken nuggets? You want me to do a story on McDonald’s? No thank you. In fact, if you insist, I'm hanging up and blaming it on bad WiFi."
"Don't you hang up, Alexa—"
"Oh no... kssshhhh... can't hear you Ryan... kssshhhh... I’m losing my signal, you know how cell coverage is in this part of the world..."
"ALEXA."
Crap. That’s his ‘warning tone.’ I drop the act. 
"Fine. But I'm billing you for the rest of my massage. And my therapy bills after whatever you're about to tell me."
“You’re not paying for the massage, Alexa. Remember, it’s free?”
“On the house is how I prefer to say it.”
“Whatever.” He continues talking, and as he does, I watch my carefully curated life begin to disintegrate around me. 
Somehow, I know this is my last moment of true peace for a while. I should have ordered two massages.
* * *
Three hours and two emergency cocktails later, I'm stalking the infinity pool like a location scout, cell phone in hand, desperate to shake off my conversation with Ryan. The sun hits the water at the perfect angle, turning it to glittering sapphires. My coconut mojito sits on the edge of it, umbrella positioned just so, condensation artfully dripping down the glass. It's the kind of shot that built my following—aspirational enough to make corporate drones dream of quitting their jobs, but luxurious enough for them to realize they need to keep working in order to afford stuff this like this.
I snap thirty identical photos before finding The One. Perfect lighting, perfect composition, perfect illusion, like I just happened to be lounging here looking fabulous instead of working three different angles until I was satisfied. The reality of being a travel influencer is way less glamorous than my Insta suggests, but nobody follows Minty Fresh Adventures for reality.
I give my followers one of the momentary distractions they come to me for:
Finding my peace in Bali, where the only sound is the ocean. Sometimes peace comes with a view... and a drink umbrella. #MintyfreshAdventures #LuxuryTravel #UnderForty #NoKidsAllowed
I'm debating whether that last hashtag is too aggressive when my notifications start rolling in:
OMG dream life.
How do I get your job??
That view. 😍
And my personal favorite: 
Must be nice not having any responsibilities.
Asshole.
If they only knew how I spend more time answering emails than taking sunset photos. Or that my "dream life" involves spreadsheets, analytics, and constant negotiation with brands who think exposure should pay my rent. But that's not what sells the fantasy.
"Beautiful shot."
I lower my phone to find Jamie, the Australian surf instructor I met at last night’s dinner, demonstrating exactly why the resort hired him. Sun-bleached hair, perfect tan, and abs that deserve their own Instagram account. He's been circling my orbit for twenty-four hours, playing the same game I am—flirting just enough to make good content without creating actual complications.
"The angle's all wrong," I lie, because flirting is more fun with a little challenge, and because I can already see the engagement numbers if I feature him in my stories. My followers love hot man chest even more than infinity pools and fancy drinks.
He moves closer, all coconut sunscreen and expert charm. "May I help?"
It's a line. I know it's a line. He probably uses it on every female guest who passes through. But it's my last day in paradise before my descent into the hell of what will be my next assignment, and he's exactly what my ‘personal brand’ needs.
"I suppose I could use a male model in the shot." I tilt my head, channeling my best unimpressed-influencer vibe. "For scale."
His laugh is as practiced as my indifference. Perfect. Nothing ruins a good flirtation like authenticity.
Two hours later, I've got three hundred new followers, a slightly sunburned nose, and the satisfaction of a connection that I will never see again, except in pictures. Surfer dude was fun, photogenic, and exactly what I promise my followers—adventure without attachment, romance without responsibility, and absolutely no chance of having to learn anyone's coffee order.
"You should come back for the advanced surfing season," he says as I pack up my various electronic crap—three cameras, two phones, and a laptop that costs more than some people's monthly rent.
"Can't. Headed to hell tomorrow." The words taste bitter, like the resort's twenty-two-dollar green juice that made me gag.
"Seriously? You? The Alexa Minty, of Minty Fresh Adventures?”
“Can you believe it?” I try not to choke on my words. “I’m off to cover a family-friendly vacation destination.”
My first time uttering the words. They are as horrifying spoken out loud as they are swirling around my brain.
Shock washes over surfer dude’s face, and I realize I’ve met a kindred spirit. But it quickly morphs into a giant grin, and I hate him. 
 “You, at a family resort?" He laughs like I would joke about such a thing. "What happened to 'adventure without ankle-biters'?" He snorts and he’s suddenly very unattractive.
At least he’s been reading my blog.
"Believe me, I'm processing the trauma." I slide my sunglasses on, both as a shield and because I know they photograph well. "But don't worry—I'm sure I'll find plenty to be snarky about. My followers love a good rant."
Trying to be optimistic.
"Don't let the kid crowd corrupt you." He winks. "Your 'no baby pics' policy is half your charm."
And there we have it.
He's right, and that's exactly what terrifies me. Five years of carefully curated child-free content, of building a following that comes to me specifically for adult adventures and zero stroller recommendations. Five years of positioning myself as the child free influencer, and now...
My phone pings. This time it's from a luxury resort in Fiji, offering a comped stay in exchange for coverage. The kind of opportunity I usually jump into with two feet, the kind that anyone would snatch up. The kind that might not come around much longer if I start posting about juice boxes and stroller-friendly hiking trails.
I bid good-bye to surfer dude and return to my suite where I'm mourning my future when my mom pings me with a video call. Her name, Trina Greenwald, appears on my screen with her chosen contact photo—her passport filled with stamps, positioned artfully next to a glass of French wine. Like mother, like daughter.
"How's paradise, honey?" She's in her Paris studio, paint splattered across her overalls in a way that isn't intentional but is Instagram-worthy anyway. She's been there six months this time—her longest stay anywhere since the divorce, when she changed her name from Minty back to Greenwald. 
Among the many things we have in common is an inability to stay anywhere long enough to put down roots.
"Mom. Paradise is about to become Purgatory. Ryan's sending me to Hawaii..."
"Poor baby. What a tragedy," she interrupts, rolling her eyes while dabbing a color only she would call ochre onto what looks like a sunset. Or maybe it's a giraffe. Her art is very... interpretative.
"…to write about family resorts."
Her paintbrush freezes mid-stroke. She turns back to the phone screen, as stricken as I hoped she would be. "Oh, honey," she says like somebody died.
"Two weeks of sticky fingers and screaming tiny humans, Mom. I am freaking the fuck out."
She winces at my use of the F-bomb, more out of maternal obligation than really being offended by it. "Well, at least it's temporary." She wipes her hands on her overalls. "Unlike marriage."
I watch her add another splash of color to her maybe-sunset-maybe-giraffe, wondering if this is the moment she'll launch into her favorite cautionary tale. Three... two... one...
"Did I ever tell you about the day I realized I had to leave your father?"
Bingo.
“Mom, can I first tell you how I landed in this situation?”
* * *
"Let me get this straight." I pace my ridiculously luxurious terrace. Bali colada, cocktail number three, provides zero clarity to the situation, but it has given me the liquid courage to think I can change my boss’s mind. "You want me, Ryan—the woman who once wrote a viral article titled 'Why Your Disney Vacation is Ruining My Luxury Resort Stay'—to write about family-friendly destinations?"
"Think of it as a growth opportunity," he says, with all the smug authority of someone whose biggest daily challenge is deciding which coffee shop to work from. "Your trademark humor, but family-friendly."
"That's an oxymoron. Like, it’s not possible. Not at all."
"Alexa, I know what an oxymoron is, and this is not it. This is marketing genius. Look, your numbers are great with the child-free crowd, but—"
"But nothing. I've spent five years building this brand. Five years of carefully curated content. Do you know how many sponsored posts I've turned down because they included family-friendly amenities?"
"Thirty-seven. I counted them, Alexa. That's part of the problem." 
I stop pacing. "Since when is having standards a problem, Ryan?"
"Since our demographic research showed that sixty percent of your followers are actually parents who live vicariously through your posts. They love your lifestyle but can't actually do it. Now imagine if we gave them content they could actually use."
"They can use my content. After their kids turn eighteen."
"Alexa." Here comes his scolding tone. "Your whole brand is about challenging comfort zones. Pushing boundaries."
"Yes, by jumping out of planes and eating questionable street food in Bangkok. Not by reviewing the child menu at theme parks."
"Think bigger." I hear him leaning forward at his desk, sipping that nasty mushroom coffee he swears by. "What if, instead of just showing people how to travel without kids, you showed them how to travel better with them? I can see it like this—'Yes, this resort has a kids' club, but the margaritas are strong enough to make you forget that.'"
"You've been workshopping that line, haven't you?" I sighed.
"All morning. But Alexa, think about it. Every other family travel blogger is all sunshine and rainbows, posting posed photos of their color-coordinated families on beach swings. You could be different. Real. The voice for parents who miss adult conversations and uninterrupted spa days."
"But I'm not a parent."
"Exactly. You're the outsider's perspective. The aunt who shows up, sugars up the kids, and judges everyone's life choices. Parents will Eat. It. Up."
I sink into a lounge chair. "I have a contract, you know. My niche is specifically—"
"Clause Twelve."
"What?"
"Check Clause Twelve of your contract."
I grab my laptop, pulling up the document I probably should have read more carefully five years ago when I was too excited about free luxury hotel stays to care about fine print. There it is, in legal language that basically translates to "we own your soul":
Content creator agrees to produce material in accordance with publisher's strategic direction, including adaptation to market trends and demographic demands as determined by publisher.
"I hate you."
"No, you don't. You hate that I'm right about this being good for your career."
"Same thing." I drain my cocktail. "How long do I have?"
"First piece runs in October."
"What? That's... that's two months."
"Which is why you're starting research now. Check your email. I've booked you into the Hale Olu’olu Resort in Hawaii. Two weeks of family-friendly fun."
How can I make him understand the words "family-friendly fun" are a death sentence? A slow, torturous death sentence?
Does he have any idea what he’s doing to me?
"I don't suppose I could outsource this to someone who actually likes children? Someone who doesn’t use the Instagram tag #ChildFreeByChoice?"
"You have over a thousand posts with that hashtag.”
"My point exactly," I say.
"Stop avoiding the inevitable, Alexa. It's unprofessional."
I stare at the infinity pool, where the same honeymooning couple is taking their hundredth "candid" photo. "What about my followers? They come to me specifically for child-free content."
"They come to you for your voice. Your honesty. Your ability to find humor in any situation." He pauses. "Also, the publisher thinks your 'no kids' stance is limiting our advertising potential."
And… there we have it.
"I see. Follow the money."
"Always do, Alexa. Look, it's two weeks. Write in your usual voice, just aim it at kid-friendly spots. Best case? We tap into a whole new market. Worst case? You get a couple weeks in Hawaii on someone else’s dime."
"While surrounded by tiny humans with sticky fingers who make scary noises and vomit a lot."
"Consider it research for your brand expansion."
"I haven't agreed to expand anything."
"Check your email. Flight's tomorrow."
"I really hate you."
"Your flight's business class."
"...I hate you slightly less."
"That's the spirit. Oh, and Alexa?"
"What?"
"Try not to traumatize any children. The resort's legal team is already nervous about hosting you."
I end the call and slump against the railing. Maybe it won’t be too bad. I can see it now:
1. Top 10 Resort Activities That Won't Make You Want to Day Drink (Much)
2. A Child-Free Traveler's Guide to Surviving Family Vacation Season
3. How to Find Adult Time at a Family Resort (Without Getting Arrested)
4. Theme Parks: A Survival Guide for the Eternally Single
"God help me," I announce to the empty terrace. I look over the edge of my balcony and try to figure out whether, if I jump, I could get out of this bind. Or, just end up dead.
Either way, I’d be off the hook.
My phone pings again, with a text from Ryan: 
*Remember, no day drinking on assignment. Save it for the resort's Karaoke Night.
Yeah, right.
* * *
Thirteen hours later, I'm on a flight trying not to murder the guy in seat 3B. He's got that look—the one every single woman over thirty recognizes. The I'm going to save you from your sad, childless existence look. Complete with a fresh tan line from a recently removed wedding ring.
"So, you travel a lot?" He's been trying to engage me for twenty minutes, but I’ve successfully fended him off by wearing my headphones and closing my eyes, as if I were meditating or listening to something important. 
That only works for so long. Ask me how I know.
"You on the road for work or... running from something?" he asks, trying again.
I don't look his way. "Running from murder charges. But those typically clear up after a few months."
He laughs like I'm joking. 
"I travel for work too," he continues, undeterred. "Just finalized my divorce, actually. Really makes you think about what matters, you know? Family, settling down..."
"Uh-huh." I logon to the plane’s wifi and scroll through the notifications on my phone. 
@KidFreeKaren: Love your anti-breeder content. Never change.
 Well, that follower's in for a disappointment.
"My ex never wanted to settle down. Always chasing the next adventure." He sighs dramatically. "Some women just don't understand how lucky they are to have a good man."
I should warn him. I really should. I am never in the mood for bullshit like this, but at the moment, I’m inches from a homicidal rage he really shouldn’t push me closer to.
He jiggles the ice cubes in his empty airline cup. "You remind me of her, actually. All that solo travel..." He gestures at my phone, where I'm trying to write the world's most passive-aggressive out-of-office reply to Ryan. "But you'll understand when you have kids."
And there it is. The universal battle cry of the condescending parent. I lower my phone to my lap with more force than necessary.
"Actually—" I start, ready to launch into my carefully crafted response to uninvited life advice, but his words trigger a memory so vivid it stops me cold.
Mom, standing in our kitchen, hands shaking as she holds a PTA schedule. "You'll understand when you have kids," Dad says to me, not looking up from his newspaper. "Being a parent means sacrifices." 
"I've sacrificed enough." Her voice is quiet, but it carries weight I wouldn't understand until years later. "I gave up Paris for PTA meetings. Art galleries for bake sales. My dreams for your version of normal."
"Kids need stability," he argues.
"Kids need a mother who isn't dying inside."
I was twelve when she left. Watching from the stairs as she packed her easels instead of photo albums, her paints instead of family memories. Dad called it selfish. She called it survival.
Two weeks later, she sent her first postcard. Paris, just like she'd always dreamed. Then Rome. Barcelona. Each one signed the same way—Choose adventure. Love, Mom.
"Hello? Anyone home?" 3B waves his hand in front of my face, snapping me back to present.
"Sorry, just remembering where I buried the last guy who gave me unsolicited life advice." I smile sweetly. "Quick question—do you have any next of kin who might come looking for you?"
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Good. He’s not a total idiot.
My phone buzzes with text from the very woman I was just thinking about. Thank God for onboard WIFI access.
Mom:
How's the escape from paradise going?
Currently sitting next to a divorced dad who thinks I need saving from my child-free lifestyle. Want to share some wisdom about the joys of traditional family values?
Tell him I left a miserable marriage and now I date gorgeous Italian men who don't know my real age.
Pretty sure that'll just reinforce his 'women these days' attitude.
His loss. You packed for kid-mageddon yet?
If by 'packed' you mean 'considered faking my own death,' then yes. I’m on the plane there right now.
It's two weeks, baby. Not a life sentence.
That's what you said about marriage, if I remember correctly.
And I was right. It wasn't a life sentence—it was a choice. Honey, you know I support your choices, right? The travel, the freedom, all of it. I'm your biggest fan.
But?
But don't let fear of becoming me—the old me, the suburban mom me—stop you from experiencing things. I didn't regret the family part. I regretted losing myself to it.
I'm not afraid. I just know what I want.
Funny thing about knowing what you want—it can change. One day you're a happily married suburbanite who drinks box wine and votes on bake sale prices, the next you're selling art in Paris and dating a man who owns his own vineyard.
Please tell me Gerard finally proposed.
Oh God no. I'm seeing Philippe now. Gerard got clingy—wanted me to meet his children. 
Like mother, like daughter.
Point is, sometimes the best stories come from the places we least want to go. Just... keep an open mind?
My mind is as open as it's going to get while maintaining my brand integrity.
Honey, you're about to review kiddie pools and volcano-themed hotels. I think brand integrity is already out the window.
In 3B, Divorced Dad is pretending not to be reading over my shoulder. Amateur hour.
Gotta go, Mom. My seatmate is either flexing or having a seizure, and I should probably figure out which before we land.
Have fun in paradise. Try not to traumatize too many small children.
No promises. Love you.
Love you too. 
As soon as I’m done with Mom, 3B jumps into the aisle, managing to drop the bag he’s wrestling out of the overhead bin, nearly taking out a flight attendant. As she helps him recover both the bag and his dignity, I catch her sympathetic glance in my direction.
"Two more hours," she whispers as she leans into my row. "Want me to spill a drink on him? Accidentally, of course."
I slide her my card. "Follow @MintyfreshAdventures and we'll call it even," I say.
Sometimes the best travel content comes from spite. And speaking of content, I open Instagram to update my story:
Pro travel tip: Never trust a man who removes his wedding ring for a business trip. But DO trust a flight attendant who offers to spill drinks on him. #SingleLifeLessons #DontNeedSaving #ChillingWhileChild-Free
Only two more hours until I have to start being family-friendly. Problem is, I’m not sure I know how.
* * *
The universe, I decide as my cab pulls up to the Hale Olu’olu Resort & Spa, has a twisted sense of humor. 
"Welcome to paradise." A bellman bounds—literally bounds—toward my cab with the enthusiasm of someone who's either new to customer service or heavily medicated. His name tag reads 'Kai' and features a sparkly dolphin sticker. Because of course it does.
The resort's entrance is a masterclass in sensory overload. A massive sign proclaims Where Family Dreams Come True in a font that can only be described as aggressively whimsical. Palm trees are lit with twinkling lights despite it being broad daylight. And then there’s the water feature, a lumpy faux volcano, which might actually be cool if it weren't surrounded by plastic animals wearing leis.
"First time at Hale Olu’olu?" Kai asks, reaching for my luggage. My expensive, definitely-not-meant-for-sticky-fingers luggage.
"Is it that obvious?"
"Well, most guests don't wear shoes like yours here." He eyes my open-toe stilettos with a mix of admiration and concern. "And you might want to duck."
"Duck? Why would I need to—"
SPLAT.
Something wet and rubbery smacks the side of my head and explodes. I reach up slowly, dramatically, like a villain in a B-movie, and peel off... a water balloon.
"TOMMY." A woman in a “Boy Mom” T-shirt rushes over, horror written all over her spray-tanned face. "We throw at TARGETS, not PEOPLE. Now apologize to the nice lady."
I turn, water dripping, to find a kid staring at me with a mixture of terror and... is that triumph? 
"So sorry." Boy Mom chirps, grabbing her tiny terrorist's arm. "He's usually much better at following rules."
"Five cupcakes says he's not," I mutter.
I'm contemplating how many martinis it'll take to survive two weeks of this when I hear the fatal words, "My ICE CREAM..."
Time slows, like in those nature documentaries where they show a predator about to take down its prey. I turn to watch in horror as a small girl's shave ice—electric blue, a color definitely not found in nature—slips from its cone, performing a graceful arc through the air, before landing...
Right on my shoes.
The girl's face crumples. Oh God. Please don't—
She wails. A sound that could shatter glass, attracting every parent within a fifty-foot radius. They all turn to stare at me, clearly expecting some sort of adult intervention.
"Just two weeks," I mutter, watching blue syrup seep between my toes. "What's the worst that could happen?"
The universe, never one to resist a challenge, immediately answers. A small redheaded boy races past, arms windmilling, screaming, "The volcano's gonna 'rupt."
I look across the lobby and outside to a massive pool complex dominated by another fake volcano that, according to the activity schedule Kai hands me, “erupts" every hour with a family-friendly display of water and light effects.
The speeding redhead crashes directly into a man entering the lobby. A very tall man. Who's also very good-looking, holding the hands of two equally good-looking children.
He steadies the boy with the practiced ease of someone used to tiny humans launching themselves into his orbit, then looks up.
Blue eyes meet mine.
Oh no. No, no, no.
Because suddenly "the worst that could happen" is six-feet-something of pure muscle wearing board shorts and a San Francisco Aftershocks cap, looking like every romance novel cover model who ever existed. Only better. Because he's real, and he's got a five o'clock shadow that probably violates several resort policies about appropriate levels of attractiveness.
And he's heading straight for the check-in desk. With two kids. Two very small, very energetic, definitely sticky-fingered kids.
"Miss Minty?" the bellman’s voice sounds far away. "Would you like to check in now?"
"I'd like to check out, actually," I mutter, still staring at Romance Novel Dad, who's trying to prevent one of his charges from rearranging the lobby's pineapple display. "Of life, if possible."
"The bar opens in ten minutes," he offers helpfully.
"Make it five and I'll mention you in my article."
He checks his dolphin-decorated watch. "I can have the bartender make you one in seven?"
"Close enough." I straighten my shoulders, fling my wet hair back over my shoulder, shake as much of the blue shave ice off my foot as I can, and smile at the check-in clerk Kai hands me off to. Romance Novel Dad has joined me, only a couple feet away, patiently waiting his turn. This time, he smiles.
Oh God.
Because suddenly two weeks feels like forever and not nearly long enough, all at the same time.
"Welcome, Miss Minty, to Hale Olu’olu where family dreams come true," the desk clerk says as she taps her keyboard. 
I suppress the urge to tell her to go to hell, and hand her my American Express.
* * *