CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE #2
Tentatively, I wade over to take my place in front of Grant. He carefully draws my hair aside, settling it over my shoulder, and breathes into his hands to warm them up—as if we haven’t all been sitting in hundred-degree water.
He starts out simply, with a karate-chopping motion that has the added bonus of splashing Martin every few seconds.
I can see him flinching in my periphery, and I have to close my eyes to keep from laughing.
Without a visual, there’s nothing but the sensation to focus on.
And even though it’s not much more than short bursts of pressure over my upper back and shoulders, it feels good. He was right. I was tense.
It’s when he switches to kneading, though, that I discover just how talented he is. His thumbs make slow circles at the nape of my neck, his fingers working over my shoulders. Every bit of stress in my muscles is melting away at the urging of his touch—gentle yet insistent, and absolutely sublime.
He wasn’t kidding. He does give a great massage. And it makes me wonder what else he wasn’t kidding about.
Savor the moment, he said. Did he mean that?
Is that how it would be if we were really together—slow and indulgent, gradually building to more?
I can imagine it. More than that—I can feel it, right now, in the languid way his hands are moving over my back, slipping under the band of my bikini top, fingertips grazing my ribs.
Only if this were real, he wouldn’t stop there.
He’d pull me closer against him and I’d feel his chest at my back, his lips light on my neck, his fingers traveling forward … steady, unhurried, reverent.
But then again, there’s also that passion I’ve seen sparks of in him when stakes are high.
Would he lead with that? Would he leave restraint at the door, giving in to hunger and heat?
I can envision that too—how easy it would be to let the embers between us erupt into a wild blaze.
All we’d have to do is stop fighting it.
And it would be like a storm breaking, all racing pulses and ravenous kisses and …
His hands go still on my back, and only then do I become aware of the sound that has just escaped my lips. There was a definite sigh. It might even have been his name.
I turn my head to gauge if he heard me, to walk it back if I need to.
But the look in his eyes gives me pause.
They’re locked on mine in a heavy, heated way that makes me think I may not have been alone in the fantasy.
They drop lower. There’s a catch in my breath.
If I moved just an inch closer, my nose would brush his.
I know we said no kissing, but come on. How much harm could it do—just once, to play the part, to take the edge off?
I lean in to close the distance between us, and his arms wind around my torso, pulling me closer. His breath whispers across my bottom lip. And then his mouth is—
“STOP!”
Oh my God. Martin. Right. I jerk back, muscles tensed, to see him flushing an angry purple. Is this it—mission accomplished? Or did he hear me say Grant’s name? Does he know this is a setup?
“You’re a lovely couple,” he says, his eyes squeezed shut. “It’s been very nice chatting and I wish you only the best. But I am not going to shag you!”
The silence that ensues might as well be a record scratch.
“Sorry?” Grant chokes.
“Ohhh,” I say, realization dawning. “So you’re not here to—”
“No!” Martin cries, surging to his feet. “I’m here for some peace and quiet and to think about my writing. That’s all I wanted. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will go do that somewhere else. Good night.”
He splashes out of the tub and bundles himself angrily in a towel. And as he speedwalks off into the night, I swear I hear him grumble about how this “always happens.”
Grant and I turn back to each other, slack-jawed and speechless. And then all of a sudden, we’re in hysterics. It’s the kind of stomach-aching, tear-streaked laughter that feels like an earthquake, like we might break the hot tub.
Grant covers his face with his hands, his shoulders convulsing. “All this time,” he ekes out, “he thought we were hitting on him?”
“I think I’m having an out-of-body experience,” I croak.
We replay every interaction, losing more control of ourselves with each one. Toasting to Martin on the patio. Aggressively brunching with him. Wedging him in a reluctant hot tub sandwich. “It totally seemed like we were trying to bang him,” I gasp.
“God,” Grant says, wiping his eyes. When the hilarity burns off like fog in the sun, he looks at me with a pinched brow. “Do you think it’s someone else here? It’s only couples and they all seemed pretty normal to me, but … could we have been wrong?”
I shake my head. Contrary to my outburst earlier, even I have to admit that the other couples strike me as genuine. Well, mostly genuine.
“The Fiorellos are the only ones I’d call abnormal, but I’ve seen their follower count. They’d never risk their sponsorships with something as controversial as a killing spree.”
“Plus, that’s them over there.” He points down the hill, where the unmistakable silhouettes of Heather and Nicholas are arguing about the placement of their ring light for a nighttime photo shoot.
An owl hoots somewhere in the moonlit distance. The mingled sounds of jazz piano and laughter float softly from inside. Grant lifts his wrist to check his watch, and I suppress a grin. Of course he would wear his watch in the hot tub.
“I think it’s possible that no one’s going to try to kill us tonight,” he says.
I hoist myself up to reach for my robe, and pull my phone from its pocket. “Looks like you might be right,” I say, showing Grant the text we’ve just received from Lissa.
omg, slayer post was deleted! guess this one’s cancelled. oh well, enjoy the room! ;) x
Grant deflates with relief, and I decide I’ll deal with Lissa and her loaded winking later. For now, priorities: I have an unexpected night off. At a luxurious countryside inn. With the room and all its amenities being charged to a credit card that isn’t mine.
I chuck my phone back in my robe and face Grant.
“You want to go raid the minibar?”
His head drops back with a sigh. “Please yes.”
· · ·
THE MINIBAR IN our room is incredibly well stocked with everything from tiny wine bottles to nips of vodka and scotch.
Or it was, before it met us.
We’ve each showered and changed, and I’m toweling off my hair when Grant meets me outside the bathroom with his hands behind his back.
“Pick one,” he says, and I point to his left arm. He presents a tiny bottle of vodka. He must see in my face that it’s not my favorite, because he instantly hands me the whiskey instead.
“To having a murder-free night,” says Grant, lifting his bottle.
“To not having an orgy with Martin,” I say, clinking mine against his.
He nods. “Our loss, I’m sure.” We down our drinks, and Grant clears his throat.
“About the hot tub,” he says.
“All good,” I hurry to say, the whiskey burning down my throat. I reach for another. “Our acting is getting better. We fooled Martin, anyway.”
He nods, giving me that look that makes me think if I try hard enough, I can see the thoughts at work behind his eyes. “Yeah,” he finally says. “A solid performance all around.”
There’s a beat of quiet that feels just a little too charged. Maybe it’s the eye contact. Maybe it’s the memory of his hands on me.
Finally, I say, “How do you feel about drinking games?”
He smiles. “I feel great about them.”
We start with Never Have I Ever, then move on to something like beer pong, although it’s really just each of us trying to throw a pillow mint into the other’s cup of wine. We both win. Or we both lose, I can’t be sure.
From there, the definition of drinking game gets looser and looser.
Wine Sort-Of-Pong turns into Tipsy Charades turns into Drunk Movie Reenactments.
Grant memorized The Princess Bride’s “mawwiage” speech long ago.
I grace him with a performance of “Love Is a Battlefield” à la 13 Going on 30, jumping up on the bed to re-create Jennifer Garner’s kicky little dance complete with ponytail and makeshift scarf.
We let the eighties classics playlist run out on Grant’s phone, jumping and dancing and air guitar–ing around the room until we collapse on the floor, our backs against the foot of the bed.
I revel in the easy silence, thoughts bobbing around in the lazy river of my mind.
“I’m sorry I told you to go fuck yourself before,” I say.
Grant turns to me, still catching his breath. “You actually said Fuck you.”
“Well, I was probably thinking Go fuck yourself.”
“Fair enough. I’m sorry I told you to grow up.”
After a minute, I say, “I don’t think I’m better than anyone. I don’t hate the people here.”
“I know you don’t,” he says. “You just hate romance.”
I huff out a sharp laugh. “I don’t hate romance. Didn’t you know how this all started? I wished for a romance book.” I snicker again at the memory. What a sweet little naive dumb baby I was back then, two weeks ago.
But Grant isn’t laughing. He’s looking at me curiously, which reminds me that no, he didn’t know, because I was specifically trying not to tell him. Oh well. Too late now.
“You wanted to be in a romance novel?” He studies my face, like he’s reconfiguring his mental image of me. “So, Anna Matthews wasn’t an accident. You wished for one of her books on purpose.”
I flop back against the bed. “I love her romance novels. You always know it’s going to be okay.
Love is right around the corner and it’s going to work out and it’s going to be adorable.
I thought I could get in, get a happy little romance story with Jack, get out.
Easy-peasy. Out of my system. And what did I get?
Almost stabbed.” I laugh bitterly. “Some book boyfriend.”