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her palms in defeat. “I will help.”
    “Good. I’ll be at your bungalow in two hours. Make sure your hairstylist is there, and pull out some of your cute dresses. I’m running low.”
    Svetlana cocked her head. “Size six?”
    “Four!” Dylan slammed the bamboo door behind her and hurried to the poolside café.
    This LG Chocolate blackmailing was making her hungry.
    KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB
SVETLANA’S BUNGALOW
    Tuesday, June 30
    8 P.M.
    “Love it!” Dylan burped.
    She had spent the last four hours in Svetlana’s bungalow, staring at her reflection while Ingrid, Svetlana’s busty personal stylist, wove extensions in her hair before perma-straightening it with chemicals that smelled like cabbage. When Ingrid left to ice her aching wrists, Dylan admire-stroked her twelve-inch, serpentine side-braid, wondering if J.T. would notice her striking resemblance to the Little Mermaid.
    “Ariellllll,” Dylan burped again.
    Boris opened his haunting blue eyes, yawned, then curled back into his sleep-ball on the dirty-clothes pile in the middle of the room.
    “Why must you belch words like a man?” Svetlana hit pause on the remote and sat up on her white (of course!) satin–covered bed. An image of herself midserve was frozen on the giant flat screen across from her.
    Dylan considered answering but decided not to bother. How could she explain humor to a girl who chased balls across hot clay courts for
fun
? Instead, she crossed “Get hair like Svetlana” off her list and moved on.
    “Now show me how to get that ah-dorable braid-swing you get when you’re hitting a ball.” Dylan grabbed Svetlana’s boar-bristle paddle brush off the mirrored vanity. She swung her arm back, then whacked it through the humid air.
    But her new braid hung limp. Nothing could swing in this heat. “Any chance of putting the AC on in here?”
    “Nyet.”
Svetlana stood up and padded across the moist marble floor to jack up the thermostat even more. “Humidity keeps muscles limber. Get used to it. If you want to be world-class athlete, you have to suffer.”
    Dylan thumb-typed “extreme heat” into her LG as Svetlana looked on.
    The mere sight of the device clearly put Svetlana on edge. She crossed the room and climbed the two limestone steps that led to the frosted glass spa-Jacuzzi nestled in the corner by the French doors. The glass doors opened to a lush garden, which was now drenched in the light of the pink Hawaiian sunset. Standing next to the tub, Svetlana powered on the jets, which burst to life with a frothing grumble.
    “Where is my Epsom salt? WHO TOOK MY EPSOM SALT?” Her callused heel smashed up against the off button. The tub water rippled before going flat.
    “Tem-puur.” Dylan waved her phone at Svetlana from across the room. “Anyway, forget the bath—we still have wardrobe and tennis lingo and diet to cover before bed.”
    Svetlana spun around and hurried through the open French doors behind her. “Ugh!” She grabbed a handful of pink plumeria blossoms off a budding tree and crushed them between her fists. Mangled petals slipped through her quaking fingers as she paced the patio, mumbling in Russian.
    “Hey, Svet,” Dylan called from the safety of a white satin ottoman at the foot of the bed, “did you say your designer was in the suite next door?”
    “I have idea.” Svetlana turned, her rehearsed media smile hard at work. “Why don’t we just go out to court and volley?”
    Dylan grinned. It was nice to see her embracing their partnership. “Is there a mirror out there?”
    “Nyet.”
Svetlana unzipped her white Nike warm-up jacket and fanned her reddening cheeks.
    “Well, how am I going to see how I look swinging and playing if I don’t have a mirror?”
    “Dee-lann, this is silly waste of time.” Svetlana marched over to the ottoman and peered down at Dylan’s newly straightened hair.
    “No, it’s not.” Dylan stood. “I saw the way J.T. looked at you. I want
that
.” Her voice