Chapter 6 Pressure Points #2
"The bridesmaids are dragging me shopping after this," she says. "Natalie wants to look at jewelry. I tried to get out of it, but Barbie gave me the look."
"The look?"
"You know. The 'you're my plus-one and you will participate' look." She takes a breath. "But after shopping, there's... something else."
"Something else?"
"Couples massage. Two o'clock. At the spa." Her cheeks flush deeper.
"I just found out this morning. Apparently, Natalie scheduled it weeks ago—hourly slots for the bridal party. Two by two."
My stomach drops. "First time I heard of it. Two by two, huh?"
"Natalie and Blake were supposed to have the first slot. Then the bridesmaids are paired with groomsmen for the rest of the afternoon."
She's talking faster now, nervous. "But here's the thing—Natalie and all the bridesmaids have a final fitting at two. The seamstresses are delivering the dresses, and apparently it's this whole production with alterations and..."
"So you were roped in to go in Natalie’s stead?"
"Yes. Scarlett arranged it so I'd be paired with..." She hesitates. "One of the groomsmen. Because the resort booked everything in pairs and apparently someone has to use the slot."
Every muscle in my body locks up.
"Scarlett arranged it?"
"Yeah." Jane's eyes narrow. "Which feels deliberate. Like she's trying to—I don't know. Create a situation? Maybe she's jealous about Blake's attention. Or trying to cause a scandal. Or—"
"She's testing you." The realization hits cold and clear. "Seeing if you'll take the bait."
"That's what Barbie thinks too." Jane grabs a spoon. "She said it could work in our favor. Use Scarlett's jealousy against her. If she's this threatened, she might slip up."
The logic is sound. The execution is going to kill me.
"So you need a groomsman to fill the slot," I say slowly.
"I was going to cancel. Make an excuse. But then Sloane pointed out that if I cancel, Scarlett wins.
She gets to report back to Blake that I bailed, and it makes me look.
.." Jane trails off. "Anyway. I'm going.
I just thought you should know. In case it's weird. With the whole fake girlfriend thing."
She thinks I should know because of optics.
Because of our cover.
Not because lying half-naked from each other might destroy what's left of my self-control.
"I'll go with you," I hear myself say.
Her eyes widen. "What?"
"I'll be your groomsman." The words come out rougher than intended.
"I'm already your fake boyfriend. Might as well commit to the role now, instead of just in front of my family."
"West, you don't have to—"
"Yes, I do." My jaw tightens. "Because if I don't, someone else will. And I'm not letting Blake conveniently need a massage at the same time."
Understanding flashes across her face.
"You think he'd—"
"I think Blake does whatever Blake wants." My voice drops. "And I'm not giving him the opportunity."
For a second, she just stares at me. Then: "Okay.
"Okay?"
"Yes." She nods, something like relief flooding her expression.
"Two o'clock. Spa pavilion."
"I'll be there."
"It's just a massage," she says, like she's trying to convince herself.
"Professional. Therapeutic. People get couples massages all the time."
"All the time," I agree. "It'll be fine."
"Totally."
We're both lying.
Someone clears their throat behind us—another guest waiting for coffee. We step aside automatically, the spell breaking.
Jane clutches her cup like a lifeline. "I should get back. The girls are waiting."
"Jane." She stops. Looks back. I should say something reassuring. Something professional. What comes out is: "Be careful shopping. Stay with the group."
Her brow furrows. "It's a jewelry store, not a combat zone."
"I know. Just..." I run a hand through my hair. "Stay with the group."
For a second, I think she's going to argue. Instead, she nods slowly. "Okay."
"Okay."
"West?"
"Yeah?"
"Last night..." She trails off, biting her lip. "It's my fir... never mind. I'll stay with the group."
She walks away before I can respond. I stand there holding a creamer I don't need.
It’s my fir…
Son of a—
I've been so deep in my own head that I forgot… forgot what last night actually was for her.
The creamer slips from my fingers. I catch it before it hits the counter.
I force myself to move. Return to my table. Eat food I don't taste.
Across the pavilion, Jane laughs at something Sloane says. The sound carries over the ambient noise, bright and genuine.
I want to keep that sound.
I want to be the reason for it.
I want a lot of things I have no right to want.
The wedding is in five days. Whatever happens between now and then—the proof, the plan, the fifty thousand, all of it—ends with it. She goes back to Boston. I go back to New York.
But now, I’m just thinking about the massage in four hours.
I'm going to lie on a massage table next to her and pretend my hands don't ache to touch her.
I'm going to fail spectacularly. But I'll be there. Because walking away isn't an option. Even if staying destroys me.
Iarrive at the spa pavilion at 1:55 PM with a plan.
Relaxation. That's the assignment. One hour, side by side, hands off, mouths shut. We let the therapists do their work, we don't do anything stupid, and we walk out looking like a normal couple enjoying a normal couples' activity at a normal destination wedding.
I've done harder things than this. I've played through broken fingers. I've taken hits that split my eyebrow open and kept skating. I can handle lying on a table for sixty minutes.
Game day energy. That's the frame. I used to do this before every playoff run—compartmentalize, lock the noise out, focus on what's in front of me. The massage is the play. Jane is the play. We execute and we move on.
The space is all white stone and flowing water. Soft music plays from hidden speakers. The air smells like eucalyptus and expensive relaxation.
I actually am looking forward to seeing her.
"Mr. Prescott!" A woman in spa whites greets me with a serene smile. "Your partner hasn't arrived yet. Would you like to wait in the relaxation lounge?"
"I'll wait here."
She nods and glides away.
I check my phone: 2:03 PM.
Jane's late.
We should use the time after to go over the plan for tonight. There's a rehearsal dinner and we still haven't locked down how close Jane needs to get to Blake without drawing Scarlett's attention. I pull up my notes—
"Sorry! Sorry, I'm here!"
Jane bursts through the entrance like she's running from something, shopping bags swinging, hair escaping its knot, cheeks flushed from the heat.
She's smiling. A little breathless, a little sheepish, and completely unaware of how bea—
Focus.
"Traffic?" I ask.
"Barbie found a shoe store." She drops the bags, breathing hard. "I tried to leave. She blocked the door. It was a whole thing." She looks me up and down—shirtless already because I gave up on the robe three minutes ago—and her flush deepens. "You're actually here."
"I said I would be."
"I know, but I thought maybe you'd... I don't know. Fake an emergency."
"Considered it." The honesty slips out before I can stop it. "But then I remembered Scarlett probably has spies watching to see if we bail."
"Right. Scarlett." Jane twists her hands together. "So we're really doing this."
"We're really doing this. One hour."
"In and out," she mumbles, then her eyes go wide. "I did not mean that the way it—"
"I know."
"Okay. Good. Let's just—" She gestures at the entrance. "Go be relaxed."
The spa attendant returns, smile perfectly serene. "Wonderful! You're both here. If you'll follow me, we have a beautiful couples suite prepared."
She leads us down a hallway lined with flickering candles and into a room designed to facilitate romance.
Dim lighting. Soft music. Two massage tables side by side.
Very close together.
Jane eyes them. "Well. That's cozy."
"Same as a king bed," I say.
"Yep." She nods once, like she's cataloguing a tactical detail. "Yep, it is."
Neither of us moves.
"We're professionals," Jane says.
"Absolutely."
"We can handle this."
"No question."
"I'm going to turn around now," she announces. "So you can... undress.”
"Good plan."
She spins to face the wall. I hear her take a breath—quick, sharp, not the slow exhale of someone who's calm.
I strip to my boxers, climb onto the table, and pull the sheet to my waist.
“Clear,” I say. My voice comes out rougher than I intended.
She turns back. Sees me shirtless and freezes for a full beat too long. I watch her eyes travel the width of my shoulders before she catches herself and snaps her gaze to the ceiling like it personally offended her.
“Right. My turn. Look away, West. Look away.” I hear her fumbling with buttons. “Just give me a second to—oh, come on.”
Fabric rustles. Something thumps softly against the floor.
“Stupid—”
“Need help?” I ask, neutral. Professional. Heroically restrained.
“No!” she blurts. “I’ve got it. I am a grown woman who can undress herself. I’ve been doing it for years. Decades, even—” She pauses. “Well. Not decades. That makes me sound ancient, but—”
There’s a sharp pop.
“Ha!” she says triumphantly. “There. See!”
I start to shift—on command, pure reflex, nothing more—adjusting my shoulder on the table.
“No, no, no,” she says quickly. “Sorry! Do not turn around. Nothing to see here. Situation fully under control.”
“Okay, okay, I’m not looking. Understood. Holding position. Standing down.” I stare fixedly at the ceiling.
“Good. Excellent. Keep doing that.” More rustling. “Because this is all very dignified and normal and—okay. Okay.”
The table creaks as she climbs up.
“I’m… situated,” she announces. “Everyone’s decent. Crisis averted.”
“Glad to hear it,” I say.
Silence settles.
Then, quieter: “You can breathe again now.”
I let out a slow exhale I didn’t realize I was holding.
I risk a glance.