Chapter 12
12
Natalie
A few days after dinner at my parents’, I stand outside Hott Spot Spa and Salon and watch Preston amble toward me from the parking lot, the picture of casual male ease.
As he approaches, I take a moment to admire him again. How many summer suits does this guy own ? Probably a lot, given that he works in finance in New York City. This one’s camel-colored slub linen, and I want to touch it. You know, nothing inappropriate. A stroke over that right pec. Dusting away an invisible speck.
I sigh. Out loud.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, fine.”
“Sonya meeting us?” he asks. Sonya is his brother Quinn’s wife. Supposedly, they met because of some other wacky clause in Fox Hott’s will.
“She said she might be a little late and that anyone could start us off with the tour and then she’d jump in to chat about programming possibilities.”
As we reach the door, he steps ahead of me to open the door and holds it wide for me. I have to admit, as old-timey as the gesture is, I like it. I also like the whiff I catch of extremely expensive aftershave and, yeah, plain old Old Spice deodorant. Maybe I won’t palm the suit. Maybe I’ll nuzzle it instead, take a nice, deep breath. From briefly wearing his jacket over my shoulders, I know how good his scent is when concentrated.
Because sniffing my accidental coworker is an awesome idea.
The lobby of Hott Spot has the luxury-spa feel down to an art—big, airy, and decorated in neutral tones, with elegant but spare furnishings. Shelves line the walls, full of hair and body care products, but also bright-colored soaps, scarves, sponges, and other gifts. The space smells like flowers and baked goods, and soothing music pipes through carefully hidden speakers.
There are two women in the lobby. One, gray-haired and probably fifty-ish, sits behind the reception desk. The other is my height, weight, and—I’d guess—age, wearing a cute jumpsuit in a vivid floral. She’s leaning on the desk in the manner of salon staffers everywhere whose clients are running late.
“Oh, here you are!” she says. “Come on back with me.”
We’re not late, of course, because we’re following Preston’s early-is-on-time rules. So I don’t know why she sounds faintly aggravated with us, but I don’t argue.
“I’m Brianna,” she says as she leads us into a small treatment room. “And this is Amelia.” She gestures to another woman, standing against a wall—tall, dark-haired, and smiling—who waves at us. “Anything we need to know before we get started?”
I’m startled that there are two of them—it seems like overkill for a spa tour—but I appreciate that Sonya’s giving us the five-star treatment. “I don’t think so?” I say. “Sonya said you’d get us started and then she’d take over.”
“Oh, so you have an appointment with her afterward?”
I nod.
“Excellent,” she says. “Then we should probably get started so we stay on track. You can keep your underwear on or take it off—and we’re going to start with both of you face down on the tables, so slide in under the covers. I’ll put you here”—she gestures at Preston—“and you here.”
And then she and Amelia exit the room, leaving Preston and me open-mouthed and speechless.