Chapter 13
13
Preston
“ W ait, what?” I demand.
Natalie looks around at the empty room. For a second she looked as shell-shocked as I feel, then she lifts a shoulder and drops it.
“I guess this is Sonya’s way to introduce us to the spa,” she says. “Like the way Rachel demo’d the Wedding Night Launch for us.”
“Like, we’re supposed to…” I gesture at the tables. At us. “Get a couples massage?”
She seems to have completely recovered from the surprise. “I mean, you don’t have to. You shouldn’t if it makes you uncomfortable. But I don’t want to be rude. If she set this up for us, I’m going to do it.”
“I’m not getting couples massages with a woman I?—”
I don’t finish the sentence. I’m not even sure how I was planning to finish the sentence.
The amusement on Natalie’s face hardens. “A woman you what? Hate?”
Startled, I stare at her. “I don’t hate you.”
Her eyebrows go up. “Coulda fooled me. You tried to fire me. You scowl and roll your eyes and glare. You flat-out told me my ideas suck. If you don’t hate me, you probably should find a better way of showing it.”
“I don’t hate you,” I repeat. I’m disturbed by the idea that she would think that—but yeah, I can see how she might. I sigh. “I owe you an apology. For trying to fire you.”
She snorts. “Uh, yeah.”
“You didn’t deserve that. There’s no excuse.”
“But you’re going to tell me yours anyway?” It’s her teasing voice again, and it’s like fingertips over sensitive skin, raising goose bumps. I want to say, Keep doing that. Just like that . Or maybe even, More. Harder .
Instead, I answer the question. “I’m trying to get a deal inked at work, and it’s a tricky one. Tense.”
I’m not sure why I’m telling her any of this, but something about being alone in this quiet space has loosened tight knots in my throat and chest.
“That sucks,” she says, and when I risk a glance at her, her expression is softer than I was expecting. “Is it a big deal? Like, important?” Her eyes rake over my face, curious.
“Yeah,” I admit. “Maybe the most important thing I’ve ever done. The higher up you get in investment banking, the fewer career paths are open, and at the level I’m at, only a few people get to be managing director. I’m up for it, and so’s another guy at work. Basically, which of us gets it comes down to which of us inks a deal first, and—well, the clock’s ticking.”
Her expression gets even softer. “And you’re stuck here. With the will thing.”
“And I’m stuck here,” I agree.
She bites her lip, looking thoughtful. “That kind of sucks. And—” She hesitates. “Makes you make a lot more sense. Why you wouldn’t want to work with me—because you think I’ll slow you down. Why you’re so brusque. Focused,” she says. “Obsessed with efficiency.”
They’re not soft words. Or kind words. But they’re not “grumpy asshole,” either.
I guess neither of us hates the other.
There’s a knock at the door.
Natalie starts, like she’s forgotten where we are. “We need a couple more minutes,” she calls.
“No rush,” Brianna calls back.
Natalie looks at me. “Turn around,” she orders. And she starts to lift her shirt.
Instinctively I turn—not because I don’t want to see, but because I do, and I’m afraid of what will happen if I let myself.
I can hear fabric swishing over skin. The sound of clothes dropping onto the floor. The shhh as she settles herself against the table and as she pulls the top sheet over herself.
It’s been a long time since I had a massage. I would like one.
I sigh. “Don’t look,” I say.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Hott.” She snickers. “God, that last name. The jokes write themselves.”
“And there’s not a new one under the sun,” I say, laying my suit jacket over the chair. Stepping out of my shoes, pushing off my socks. Unbuckling my belt and slipping it out of the loops. My pants zipper sounds ridiculously loud in the quiet room.
I lie down on the table, wondering how I’m going to survive knowing that someone is touching Natalie’s bare skin.
There’s a quiet knock and Brianna and Amelia reenter, bustling around, adjusting the bolsters under our feet, the sheets over our backs, the headrests. They murmur quietly to each other. I hear the snick of the massage lotion pump and the squelch of the lotion on hands.
In a moment, I will hear the sound of that lotion brushing over Natalie’s naked body in long, smooth strokes. The quiet hitch of pleasure in her breathing.
Something short-circuits in my brain.
I can’t do this.
There’s another knock at the door.
“Massage in progress,” Brianna says over my back, in a low, unflustered voice.
The door opens a crack. “It’s urgent,” a voice says.
I recognize it as the receptionist’s.
“Hang on a moment,” Brianna says. “I’m so sorry.”
There’s a flurry of whispering at the door and then a flurry of murmuring between Brianna and Amelia, and then:
“Um, so this is awkward,” Brianna says out loud. “You’re not Ann Arnward and Paul Stevens.”
Oh no.
“No,” I say, resigning myself to the next round of humiliation. “We’re Preston Hott and Natalie Archer. We’re here to get a tour of the spa and meet with Sonya about partnering to bring some of your services to the resort as activities. Including couples massages.”
“So, um, the thing is,” Brianna says, “this appointment was for Ann and Paul. And they’ve just showed up. There was a bit of confusion. Some communication…errors. We thought you were them.”
Natalie starts giggling. “Oh my God,” she says. “That’s—I can’t even?—”
“I’m so sorry,” Brianna says. “I thought you two were?—”
“No, I’m so sorry!” Natalie says. “I thought Sonya told you to demo the couples massage for us!”
The massage therapists are laughing, too. Natalie has propped herself up on the bed to talk to Brianna, and I am definitely not looking at her bare arms and the topmost smooth, gorgeous curve of her tits.
And I’m struck again by how nothing fazes her. By how she’s here, laughing through this mortifying moment…and how it doesn’t feel quite as awful, because she thinks it’s funny.
“We’ll get dressed now,” I tell Brianna and Amelia.
“You’re good sports,” Brianna says, patting me on the back. Then they slip out the door and close it behind them.
In the silence, Natalie giggles again. “Oh, my God ,” she says.
“I’ll change first,” I tell her.
It feels, somehow, safest, and right about now, it occurs to me that things might be a lot easier if I did hate her.