Chapter 7
Eve
When we pull into the spa’s gravel car park, the building glows like a lantern against the hillside, all glass and warm light.
Inside, a woman in her fifties greets us with a practised smile. “You must be Aaron,” she says, shaking his hand. “And you’re Eve? I’m Petra.”
She’s efficient but friendly, leading us through the quiet corridors that smell faintly of eucalyptus and chlorine. “You’ve got two hours’ private access to the pool area,” she says. “I’ve left the sauna on too, in case you fancy it.”
Aaron glances at me as Petra looks expectantly in our direction. “What do you think?”
“Oh, I’m fine with just the pool,” I say quickly. “And maybe the hot tub.”
Petra smiles knowingly. “That’s what most people say. It’s through here. You’ll find the changing rooms on either side. I’ll leave you to it.”
She disappears down the hall, her shoes clicking softly on the tiles.
Aaron turns to me, his expression unreadable but amused. “Two hours of peace. That might be the best deal I’ve ever been part of.”
I smile awkwardly, unsure what to do with my hands.
He gives me a wink before heading into the men’s changing room. “See you on the other side.”
I watch the door swing shut behind him, heart doing that ridiculous fluttery thing I wish it wouldn’t. Then I slip into the women’s changing room.
The space is silent, echoing faintly. I hang up my coat, take off my jeans and jumper, and pull the white bathrobe around me. The swimsuit underneath suddenly feels very small and very daring even if it is a one-piece.
When I step through the door that leads directly to the pool area, the warmth hits me first—soft, damp air scented faintly with lavender. The water ripples lazily under low lights, the surface glinting gold.
Aaron isn’t here yet.
Relief rushes through me.
Without giving myself time to hesitate, I hurry across the tiles to the far end, where the large hot tub waits beneath a wall of windows. I drop my bathrobe on a nearby chair, the air cool against my skin, and slip quickly into the steaming water.
The heat wraps around me instantly, and I let out a quiet breath.
The room is still, the only sound the gentle rush of the water jets. For the first time all day, I feel my shoulders unclench.
Maybe it’s not so bad, this whole trying-new-things business—at least until Aaron walks in and I remember how to be self-conscious again.
I tilt my head back against the edge of the tub, letting the warmth do its work. The soft hiss of the bubbles and the dim light make everything feel a little unreal, like I’ve wandered into someone else’s life for the evening.
The door clicks open behind me, and footsteps sound against the tiles. I glance over, and whatever calm I’d managed evaporates.
Aaron hasn’t bothered with a bathrobe. He’s wearing black baggy trunks that hang low on his hips, skin still damp from the shower.
He’s toned, but not the sort of exaggerated muscular that looks exhausting—just solid, strong in a way that feels entirely practical.
Dark hair trails over his skin, tapering down towards his stomach before disappearing into his shorts.
He looks… very at ease. Unfairly so.
He steps closer, water lapping softly against the edge of the hot tub as he tests it with one foot. “How’s the water?”
“Wet,” I say automatically.
The word hangs in the steamy air for half a second before my brain catches up. “I mean… warm. Obviously it’s wet. That’s… that’s how water works.”
I can feel my cheeks heat faster than the bubbles.
Aaron’s expression doesn’t shift into laughter, though. Instead, there’s that faint, familiar glint in his eyes, amusement tempered with kindness. “Good to know,” he says, stepping fully in. “Would’ve been a shock otherwise.”
I let out a breath that might be a laugh, sinking lower into the water to hide the fact that my face now matches the colour of the warning sign on the wall.
He settles opposite me, stretching his arms along the edge of the tub, as if nothing in the world could possibly ruffle him.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting here having a minor existential crisis over the word wet.
“So,” he says, voice low, unhurried. “Do you usually spend your Sunday nights in hot tubs with strange men?”
“Only the ones who promise there’ll be no witnesses,” I reply before my brain can stop me.
His grin spreads, slow and entirely too pleased. “Good answer. You’re adapting quickly.”
I shake my head, trying to look unimpressed and failing. “I’m not sure that’s something to be proud of.”
“Sure it is,” he says. “You’ve gone from ‘I hate crowds’ to ‘I’ll sit in a giant bath with a bloke I barely know’ in less than twenty-four hours. That’s solid progress.”
“I’m not sure my therapist would approve of the method,” I mutter, trying to suppress a smile.
He gestures towards me, eyes still warm with amusement. “But she’d approve of the results, wouldn’t she?”
I open my mouth to argue and then stop, because he’s not wrong.
The silence stretches, but it’s light now, teasing rather than tense. He shifts slightly, elbows still propped on the edge of the tub. “Alright, Eve Crawford,” he says finally, “how about a game?”
“Oh no,” I say immediately. “That tone sounds dangerous.”
He chuckles. “Nothing terrible. Truth or dare.”
I blink at him. “What are we, twelve?”
“Thirteen, maybe. But I promise to keep it civil.”
“I don’t think I believe you.”
He leans forward slightly, not too close, just enough that the words feel private. “You have full veto power. If I ask anything you don’t like, you can skip it. No pressure, no consequences.”
I bite back a laugh, shaking my head. “You really don’t give up, do you?”
“Not when I’m winning,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“And what exactly are you winning?”
He holds my gaze for a moment, eyes glinting under the soft light. “Conversation.”
It shouldn’t feel like flirting. It’s just a word, a game, a smile. But somehow my pulse has other ideas.
“Fine,” I say, hoping he can’t tell. “One round.”
He settles back, looking satisfied. “Good. I’ll go easy on you.”
“I’m sure you will,” I reply dryly, even as the corners of my mouth betray me with a smile.
He studies me with that glint in his eye that suggests he’s up to something. “Right, first question. Truth or dare?”
“Truth,” I say immediately.
He chuckles. “Predictable. Alright then—how old are you?”
I arch an eyebrow. “That’s your question? You could’ve asked anything.”
“I like to start with the basics.”
“Forty-three.”
He looks faintly surprised. “Really?”
I tilt my head. “Why? You thought I was older?”
“No,” he says quickly, hands raised in surrender. “You just don’t look it.”
I narrow my eyes. “Flattery already.”
“Flattery’s strategy,” he says, smiling. “Your turn.”
“Truth or dare?”
“Truth,” he says, still looking far too comfortable.
“How old are you?”
He grins. “Forty-two.”
“So I’m older.”
“Barely. Call it a tie.”
I smile, because how can I not? The water bubbles quietly between us.
“Truth or dare?” he asks.
I think for a second, then say, “Truth.”
He pretends to sigh. “You’re playing it safe.”
“Obviously.”
“Fine. What’s your worst habit?”
“Overthinking,” I admit. “Yours?”
“You can’t hijack the question,” he says, smirking.
“Fine,” I say, crossing my arms lightly over my chest. “Truth or dare?”
He leans forward a little, drops his voice as if about to commit to something scandalous. “Dare.”
I blink. “Oh. You’re serious.”
“Always.”
I try to think of something harmless, something I won’t regret asking. “Alright. I dare you to… put your head under the water for ten seconds.”
He stares at me. “That’s the best you’ve got?”
“It’s a classic,” I say primly.
He laughs, shakes his head, and sinks beneath the surface without another word. Bubbles rise where he disappears. I count silently, biting my lip to stop from smiling.
When he surfaces again, water streaming down his face, he pushes his hair back and grins. “Satisfied?”
“Thoroughly.”
He wipes the water from his face, still grinning. “Nice swimsuit,” he says casually.
I blink, caught off guard, and then the realisation hits me—he must have had his eyes open under the water.
Heat floods my cheeks before I can stop it. I look away quickly, pretending to be fascinated by the pattern of bubbles on the surface.
“Good. My turn.” He leans back against the edge again, eyes glinting. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth,” I say quickly.
He laughs. “You really don’t trust me with dares, do you?”
“I don’t trust anyone with dares.”
“Fair. Then tell me…” He pauses, pretending to think. “When was the last time you did something just because you wanted to, not because you thought you should?”
The question catches me off guard. My first instinct is to deflect, but his tone isn’t teasing anymore—just gentle, curious.
I stare into the water for a moment. “Honestly? I don’t remember.”
He nods slowly, as if that doesn’t surprise him. “Then I’m glad you said yes to this.”
That warmth in his voice again—not pushy, not smug, just simple and kind—leaves me with nowhere to hide. I manage a small smile and say, “You’re infuriatingly good at this game.”
“Years of practice,” he says, smiling back.
I roll my eyes and splash a bit of water in his direction. “Truth or dare?”
He grins. “Dare.”
I pause, considering. “I dare you to stop being so smug.”
He chuckles. “Impossible.”
And somehow, that makes me laugh harder than anything else has all day.
We keep playing, trading questions that start out easy—favourite film, worst holiday, the most ridiculous thing we’ve ever bought. It’s light, harmless, safe. Each round feels a little easier than the last.
Then he asks again, voice low and steady. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth,” I say, because I can’t bring myself to risk anything else.
He hesitates, watching me with that gentle, unreadable expression of his. “Do you ever feel lonely being on your own?”
The question lands like a stone dropped into still water. I blink, caught off guard. “That’s… direct.”
“Sorry,” he says softly. “Too much?”
“No,” I say after a moment. “Just… honest.”
He nods, waiting, not pushing. And before I can stop myself, the words start coming.
“Yes. I do. All the time.”
I force myself to lock eyes with him. For some reason I want him to know that for once I am not hiding. “I tell myself I like the quiet. That I chose it. But most days it just feels like the world’s moved on and forgotten to take me with it.”
He doesn’t speak. His silence feels safe, like space rather than absence.
“I’ve always been awkward,” I admit quietly. “The less I spend time around people, the harder it gets. You lose the rhythm of it—knowing when to speak, when to laugh. It’s like watching everyone else speak a language you used to be fluent in.”
The water hums softly between us.
“It started at university,” I say. “I was the serious one. The one who didn’t drink or party or hook up with half the student union. They called me a goody two-shoes. So I tried to prove them wrong.”
I swallow hard. “There was a guy. I thought he liked me. He didn’t. He just… wanted a story to tell.”
My throat tightens, but I can’t seem to stop. “It was my first time. It hurt. He laughed. Told people I was pathetic. After that, I decided I’d rather be invisible than be humiliated again.”
Aaron’s still silent, his expression unreadable but not cold. Just present.
“So I threw everything into work,” I continue, my voice quieter now. “It’s easier to study language patterns than people. Words don’t stare at you or lie to your face. They just are.”
I take a deep breath and whisper, “I didn’t just withdraw from the worId. I haven’t been with another man either.” I feel vulnerable and raw and I wait for him to laugh but the laugh doesn’t come.
I finally meet his eyes. “That probably sounds ridiculous.”
“No. Not at all,” he says, his voice low and certain.
That calm sincerity undoes me more than sympathy ever could. I let out a shaky laugh. “I can’t believe I just said all that. I’ve never even told my therapist half of it.”
“Then maybe your therapist asks the wrong questions,” he says gently.
I cover my face with both hands. “I’ve just unloaded twenty years of baggage on a man I barely know.”
He waits a beat, then says, “On someone who wanted to know. And who’s not going anywhere.”
When I lower my hands, his gaze is steady, unflinching. There’s no pity there—only warmth, quiet and unassuming.
And that’s what undoes me a little. Not the question, not the memory, but the simple fact that he listened without attempting to fix it.
I take a slow breath, trying to pull myself back together. The steam from the water makes everything hazy, soft. I’m about to ask him truth or dare again, to move things along, to undo what I’ve just confessed, when another thought slips out before I can catch it.
“It sometimes scares me,” I say quietly, staring at the ripples between us, “to wake up in my forties and realise I’m not the priority in anyone’s life.”
The words hang there, raw and awkward. I try to laugh it off, but it comes out brittle. “That sounds awful, doesn’t it? Completely self-absorbed.”
Aaron doesn’t say anything, and I can’t bear to look at him.
“I mean—” I fumble for words, “What a thing to say. As if pain only matters if someone else feels it. Look at me, I should leave some gaping hole in someone’s life if I die. How narcissistic is that?”
My voice breaks, smaller now. “But…”
I stop myself. There’s more I could say, but I’m afraid of what it might sound like if I do.
I take a deep breath and force a smile, trying to steady my tone. “Right. Truth or dare?”
He doesn’t answer straight away. The bubbles fizz softly between us, filling the silence. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet.
“Truth,” he says.
And for a moment, I almost wish he’d chosen dare.