Chapter 44
Ava
Some call this spa a pathway to inner peace.
Me? I call it a horny grief retreat.
I’m submerged up to my shoulders in an outdoor mineral lagoon beneath a black silk sky while snow drifts lazily through the rising steam, dissolving the second it touches the water.
The entire place feels unreal.
Ancient. Romantic. Stupidly beautiful.
Which would all be great if my body wasn’t silently chanting Harrison in unholy prayer.
Cold air whips against my face while heat sinks deep into my bones. Which is why, as much as I’m ready to leave and go back to my room, the thought of climbing out of the water sounds like a genuinely terrible idea.
It suddenly makes perfect sense why absurdly plush robes are stationed every few feet.
Survival equipment for freezing rich people.
“Beer? Or champagne?” a staff member asks softly as she passes with a silver tray.
Harrison suddenly flashes through my mind so vividly it almost hurts.
Stealing a champagne flute from the tray and tipping a teasing line of bubbles against my neck just to hear me squeal.
His tongue chasing after it a second later.
His laugh warm against my skin while we become so shamelessly wrapped up in each other the other guests quietly start migrating to different pools.
“No thank you,” I say politely.
The woman disappears into the steam while I sink deeper into the mineral water and stare out across the spa.
Lava rock.
Flickering lanterns.
Heated stone paths vanishing into clouds of steam while low music drifts somewhere in the distance.
It feels ancient.
And romantic.
Which means, naturally, all I can think about is Harrison.
Big mistake.
Because now, all I want is massive shoulders, warm hands, and my stupid lumberjack close while steam curls around us both.
Ugh. I’ve got to get out of here.
The second I stand, freezing air attacks every inch of wet skin hard enough to rip a gasp straight out of me.
“F-f-fudgecicles,” I hiss, instantly hopscotching barefoot across the heated stones toward the nearest robe station like a freezing wet hobbit.
Shivering violently, I yank one of the thick white robes around myself and practically melt as warmth starts sinking back into my body.
The receptionist behind the towel counter watches me with open amusement.
“First Icelandic winter spa?” she asks.
I tighten the robe around myself, teeth chattering. “Is it that obvious?”
She laughs softly. “You should’ve accepted the champagne.”
With Harrison currently living rent-free in my pornographic champagne fantasy?
Then I’d just be doubly doomed.
Cold and horny.
“No, thank you,” I say quickly. “I think I’ve suffered enough for one evening.”
That gets another laugh out of her.
“I’m Elín. Please let me know if there’s anything else I can get for you?” she asks.
And before I can talk myself out of it, curiosity kills again.
“Actually…” I step closer to the counter. “Do you happen to know who reserved my spa package?”
She winces apologetically. “I’m so sorry. Our booking system has been glitching all day.”
Of course it has.
She nods. “Very charming. American. Deep voice.”
My heart stumbles.
Sounds like my lumberjack on all counts.
“And a little… flirtatious.”
Excuse me?
My smile flatlines as I repeat the word slowly. “Flirtatious?”
She laughs softly. “He asked for my direct number. Said he wanted to get in touch with me later.”
She winks.
I suddenly hate her on principle.
Wait a minute.
This can’t be right.
Either my husband has suddenly developed a thing for Icelandic spa receptionists or, maybe…
It was Chase.
Charming. American. Deep voice. And flirtatious?
Chase to a tee.
“Thank you,” I say slowly, still confused.
She smiles and plucks a champagne flute from a passing tray. “One for the walk back?”
I take it. “Why not?”
I sip slowly and head toward the elevators, still trying to wrap my head around it.
Part of me can’t quite shake the feeling that it was Harrison.
She was wrong.
It was him.
Crazy, flirtatious Harrison.
Okay, fine. Even thinking that sounds weird.
Still…
Some embarrassingly hopeful part of me keeps wanting it to be him.
Like maybe he misses me as badly as I miss him.
Even though the man hasn’t called, texted, or sent so much as a carrier pigeon?
I get to my room and collapse onto the bed.
Chase Cartwright.
Could I theoretically acknowledge that he’s attractive?
Fine.
Objectively, yes.
He’s an up-and-coming movie star and an international underwear model, for Christ’s sake.
I tap my fingernails lightly against the champagne flute.
Would I ever want something more?
With Mr. Pasta Slurp for the Camera?
Today’s spaghetti kink puts him one step closer to launching a shameless OnlyFans empire and buying himself a private island where he can charge admission to his legions of fans.
And. It’s. Chase.
Like weirdly attractive to everyone but me because he’s I-love-you-like-a-brother Chase.
Also because I once walked in on two women eating sushi off his half-naked body.
Raw sushi.
On. His. Skin.
What is wrong with people?
Bleh.
Polite pass.
I lean on one elbow and finish off the champagne.
Why would Chase buy me a luxury spa package?
It makes absolutely no sense.
I mean, yes, we’re friends.
Close friends.
But not secretly-send-me-to-a-luxury-spa package kind of friend.
I set down my glass and blow out a long breath.
I really thought it was Harrison.
I curl deeper into the couch beside the fire as thoughts of him drift in and out of my head.
His laugh.
His arms.
His stupid beautiful face.
His ridiculous chest and abs.
Dammit.
I’m cold…
tipsy…
and in desperate need of my husband’s face between my thighs.
Where’s a vajayjay jackhammer when you need one?