Page 17 of The Billionaire’s Paradise (My Billionaire #4)

“I still don’t understand why we’re not allowed to come,” Mrs. Mulroney huffed, standing on the veranda in a pair of oversized sunglasses and a kaftan that looked like a floral print tent. “I even sanded back my bunyans so I could wear these sandals.”

“This is their first meeting,” Rashida said, not looking up from her phone. “They need space, quiet, and at least one conversation without you asking if they’re planning on teaching the baby Gaelic.”

Angus swung from side to side in his hammock. “I’m fine staying here so long as someone promises to take me shopping for Hawaiian shirts tomorrow.”

“I once owned a Hawaiian shirt made entirely of pineapple rings,” Mr. Banks chimed in. “It didn’t breathe well, but I was very popular with the bees.”

Cal grabbed my hand and started dragging me toward the door. “We’ll be back before sunset.”

“And if Leilani has made any banana bread, we’ll bring some back,” I promised, not sure if that was a thing or if I was just panicking. “Okay. Wish us luck. ”

Mrs. Mulroney crossed herself dramatically. “May the storks be with you!”

Leilani lived with her family on a lush piece of land tucked behind a cluster of kukui trees, where the path from the road narrowed into a shaded driveway lined with plants and wind chimes.

We pulled up in a cheap rental car, having agreed that a limo would make us look like rich, arrogant jerks.

The house itself was a low-slung, weathered beauty—white shutters, slatted windows, a long lanai that wrapped around the front like a welcoming arm. Children’s flip-flops were scattered in a pile near the steps. A sleepy dog lifted its head, then promptly went back to sleep.

Leilani met us at the gate, wearing a soft pink dress and a wide, beaming smile. “Hi,” she said, brushing back a curl. “You made it.”

“Of course,” I said. And then added, “Sorry, I’m very sweaty.”

She laughed. “You’re in Hawaii. It’s expected.”

Cal handed her a small bouquet of white orchids we’d picked up from a roadside flower stall along the way. “Thank you for having us.”

“I’m glad you came,” she said, then turned toward the house. “My family are all very excited to meet you. Which is code for ‘please be brave.’”

I glanced at Cal. “I was brave once. I returned soup at a restaurant.”

He kissed my temple. “You had food poisoning the whole next day.”

“And I’ll get through this too.”

Suddenly a sharp squawk made me and Cal both jump. A rooster strutted out of a patch of hibiscus, puffing up like he owned the deed to the island .

“Is that…?” I pointed.

“Doug,” Leilani sighed. “Yeah, he’s here too.”

The rooster stared us down, let out one defiant bok , then pecked his way back under the foliage.

“Don’t worry, his cluck is worse than his bite.”

“Is that true?”

“Not really,” Leilani smiled uneasily. “I just don’t want to scare you off before you’ve even got through the front door.”

Warily we followed her up to the house.

We stepped up onto the lanai just as a young man’s voice rang out from inside the house—“Is that the future parents? Or the delivery guy with the malasadas?”

“Future parents,” Leilani called back.

“Damn. I was really hoping for donuts.”

And then he appeared. A barefoot, shirtless Hawaiian god in all his sun-kissed glory, wearing nothing but boardshorts and four shell necklaces.

Cal elbowed me and muttered, “If we have a son and that’s in the gene pool, he’s going to have every straight girl and gay guy in Manhattan falling all over him.”

Then the young man opened his mouth. “Sup, dudes! Whoa, your aura’s like a rainbow, bro,” he said, pointing at Cal. Then he turned to me. “And yours is shaped like… a duck. That’s unfortunate.”

“I… thank you?”

“I’m Kimo. Leilani’s cousin, paddleboard instructor, spiritual guide and occasional prophet when the pineapples align.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “I already know we’re going to be best friends.”

“Oh?” I said.

He patted me on the cheek with a hand almost as big as my head. “I’ll even help you with that duck of yours. We’ll have your aura shining like a supernova in no time, bro. ”

From inside the house, another voice called—not loud, just certain. “Let them in, Kimo. And put on a shirt.”

A moment later, a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out onto the lanai. He had salt-and-pepper hair, a calm intensity, and the kind of presence that made me instinctively want to be a better person. He wore a half-buttoned linen shirt and a carved wood pendant around his neck.

He looked at us like he was taking our measurements—slowly, carefully—and I had a sudden urge to hide behind Cal or the nearest palm tree.

“You must be Calvin and Matthew,” he said, shaking our hands in turn. His grip was firm. His expression was unreadable.

Leilani stepped beside him, smiling. “Cal, Matt… this is my dad. Nakoa.”

“Thank you for welcoming us,” Cal said.

Nakoa gave a single nod. “This is not a small thing we are considering here. My daughter is the love of my life. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Cal said quickly. “We understand.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he replied, voice calm as still water. Then—finally—a faint smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. “Come inside. Sit.”

We followed him through the front door and into a wide, open room that smelled of smoked banana leaves and old wood.

The floorboards were smooth and worn, the kind that told stories with every creak.

Framed photos lined the walls—black-and-white portraits dating back generations, sun-faded snapshots, school certificates with curled edges.

Somewhere deeper in the house, a ceiling fan hummed quietly, and from the kitchen drifted the warm, buttery scent of something baking.

There were woven mats on the floor, books stacked sideways on low tables, and a cluster of carved turtles gathered on a shelf like they were in the middle of a very slow conversation.

The air felt lived -in and loved. It felt as though it was welcoming me to stay… yet I wasn’t sure if we even belonged.

He gestured us toward a couple of low sofas in the center of the room. I sat a little too quickly. Cal followed with more grace, naturally, setting himself down next to me.

Leilani brought out cold hibiscus tea and joined us. “My grandmother will be out in a minute.”

“Oh, we’d love to meet her,” I said.

“Would you now?” came a voice from behind us, weathered yet strong.

Cal and I stood to see a woman in her late seventies, perhaps early eighties, step into the room.

She was barefoot, wearing a loose cotton dress and a hibiscus flower tucked behind one ear.

Her skin was warm bronze and softly wrinkled, her dark hair streaked with silver and pulled into a long braid.

She moved like the wind knew her name.

Her eyes were impossibly bright.

She looked at us for all of one second before saying, “You brought flowers, but no donuts. We have a garden full of flowers. Yet no donut tree.”

“I—sorry. I didn’t—”

Leilani rolled her eyes. “Don’t apologize. She’s just teasing. Cal, Matt… this is my grandmother, Tutu Makani.” She turned to the old woman and said, “Tutu, please tell them you’re just teasing while I go get some refreshments for our guests.”

“Of course I’m teasing,” she said, with a smile that crinkled all the right places. With a wave of her hands she said to me and Cal, “Sit. And scooch over, the both of you. I want to sit between you and hold your hands.”

“Hold our hands?” I asked.

“So I can get to know you a little better. Don’t worry, I’m not about to ask you to the prom just yet.”

We did as we were told and Leilani’s grandmother eased herself down between us. She took our hands, her palms warm and etched with wrinkles.

For a moment she sat in silence, before turning to me and saying, “You’re the worrier, but your fear is not as strong as your love. You will make a wonderful father.”

I almost cried—again—before she squeezed Cal’s hand and said, “And you, you’re the warrior. You have great power. But do you have the courage to do what’s right?”

Cal and I looked at each other, confused, before he said, “I… I hope so. I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“You will. In time.”

She released our hands gently, then patted her knees and sighed like she’d just read three chapters of our souls. She folded her hands in her lap and looked between us, calm and steady.

“Family is not a hobby,” she said. “It’s a promise. You love, you show up, and you keep showing up. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

She looked at me, then at Cal. “If you’re here to start a family… then lay each stone like you plan to walk it every day.”

Leilani appeared in the doorway holding a small tray of sliced mango and what looked suspiciously like banana bread. “Tutu, stop scaring them.”

“I’m not scaring them,” Makani replied, reaching for a slice of mango. “I’m testing their spiritual fortitude. And their manners. We’re yet to see if they pass.”

“You’re not the one conducting the interview,” Leilani said, setting the tray down on the table.

“I conduct everything,” Makani said. “I’m old. That’s the rule.”

She looked at Cal again. “You love this one?” she asked, jerking a thumb in my direction.

Cal smiled. “Yes. Very much.”

“Good. He’ll need you.”

Then she turned to me. “And you. You think too much. ”

“Also true.”

“But your heart is already halfway to the baby. That’s what matters.”

At that moment Kimo wandered in, now looking even hotter in a grass skirt and seashell armbands around his biceps. “Hey, anyone wanna do an ocean blessing later? I’ve got seaweed and some volcanic quartz I charged under a rainbow.”

“You’re wearing that? Again?” Leilani asked.

“It gets me tips if a tourist happens to walk by. So… you coming?”

“No,” Leilani and her father Nakoa said in perfect unison.

Makani didn’t even look up. “Use the good seaweed this time, Kimo. Last time it smelled like something a blowfish threw up.”

“Will do, Tutu,” Kimo beamed, giving an excited thumbs-up and backing out of the room like he was planning something sacred and absolutely chaotic.

We stayed for hours. There was laughter, more tea, and a steady warmth that settled into my chest like something old and good. At one point, the conversation grew quiet, and Nakoa turned to Cal with the kind of stillness that made everyone else fall silent too.

“What kind of father do you hope to be?” he asked—not confrontational, just open, man to man, heart to heart.

Cal didn’t rush to answer. He looked down for a moment, then over at me.

“We want to raise a child who knows they’re safe,” he said. “Loved. Seen. We want them to feel free to become exactly who they are, and know we’ll never stop showing up for them.”

Nakoa studied him, then gave a single, thoughtful nod. “That’s the only kind of father worth being.”

When it was finally time to leave, Makani stood and kissed me on the cheek. “Babies born of great love always find their way. Whether by blood, or by spirit. You just have to be ready.”

When we left the house, we stepped out into the late afternoon sun, dazed, glowing, and slightly sticky from mango juice and prophecy.

Cal reached for my hand.

I didn’t say a word.

But in that moment, I knew it.

This was the start of everything.

We stood there for a moment before getting into the car, just holding hands and looking out at the distant sea.

Then suddenly Doug crowed.

Loud. From up on the roof.

I jumped. “Jesus!”

The rooster glared at us from a sun-warmed gutter, let out one more honk of judgment, then casually began cleaning his wing like he’d achieved his goal of scaring the crap out of us.

“That bird,” I muttered. “He’s not here for ambiance. He’s here for blood.