Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
LEXI
Tristan and I are bleary-eyed after an epic night of more sex than I thought humanly possible, but we’re up and heading to the spa at ten to six in the morning.
There’s a comfortable quiet between us as we walk along the dark forest trail, with only shards of metal gray sky visible through the stir of leaves high above.
The salty-sweet scent of the sea combined with the earthy mix of tropical forest permeates the air and will always hold the memory of this moment for me as we steal a kiss along the way.
We offer each other glances that speak more than a thousand words. That was fun… Why haven’t we rolled around in the sheets before? And the one that gives me the most pause: Were we made for each other?
Everything came so easy with him, me most of all. Just thinking of it sends sweet tingles of anticipation rushing down my spine, because we’re not done. We’re still here a while and have basically just started.
“You’re good, angel?” Tristan says as he brushes his elbow against my arm. Our hands are full of his camera equipment and a tripod he whipped out of a crate.
“Yep, you?”
“Very good,” he says with a devilish grin. “So how’re we going to do this shoot?”
I think for a few paces. “I’ve been involved in a few room shoots over the years—you know, getting everything perfect for the photographers and models.
Plus I’ve been on stand-by during shoots to plump that odd pillow and rearrange the grapes on a fruit platter.
” Tristan laughs softly, and I giggle too.
“Sounds rather silly, doesn’t it?” I whisper, not wanting to disrupt the quiet magic of this romantic moment.
“No, sounds like you know how to do this, and the bar is going to be high,” he whispers back.
It’s as if neither of us wants to let anybody know we’re sneaking off to the spa, although people are already up and about and Tristan usually goes for a morning run, which he’ll miss today.
“I hope my photos will be up to scratch.”
“Sure they will. It’s not that hard. We’ll need some product-style photos and some action shots. You know, the usual spa fare.”
“Yes, because I hang out at spas all the time.”
I laugh. The closest Tristan gets to any beauty treatments is a sea-sand scrub. “Let’s see what Deshni and Sarika want. They have an eye for this type of thing and will know what they want highlighted.”
We arrive at the spa to find Roger already there, and it’s clear why: the spa isn’t the way I left it yesterday afternoon.
The furniture and massage beds have been rearranged, and a skylight, which I’d been totally unaware off, is opened in the roof, sending a glow of natural sunlight over the interior.
“This lighting is going to be great once the sun is a bit higher,” Tristan says as he takes a look around the space, smiling at Roger. “Well done, man.”
“This is what Desh wanted.” And anything for my girl goes without saying.
“They had this all on hand?” I ask with a smile, pointing to a display of glass cylinders filled with raw spices the women have put together as props, as well as some dried spices and oils.
Roger looks away. “Don’t tell anybody, but I might have made a trip to Pemba last night.”
Tristan’s eyes grow wide. “For real?”
“Nothing I haven’t done before,” Roger says with a shrug. “I have my contacts.”
“Of course you do,” Tristan says with a knowing smile as we set his equipment on the spa’s counter.
“Where are Deshni and Sarika?” I ask, eager to see what else they’ve come up with since we spoke yesterday afternoon.
“They’re just fixing their saris,” Roger says. He follows this with a hand gesture I loosely translate as I have no words for the beauty you are about to behold.
My breath catches as Deshni, followed by Sarika, come out of the guest washroom a second later.
They’re dressed in traditional Indian saris.
Deshni’s fabric is a honeyed bronze with a gold pattern printed on the hem and throw.
Her hair is woven in a complicated plait and coiled into a knot at the nape of her neck.
Sarika’s sari is a dark green, with a similar gold pattern, and her hair is in an up-do, her face open, her smile warm and kind.
Both women have captured the elegance of their heritage, and somehow also of this Beaumont destination, just by standing there.
“Here we are,” Deshni says, her eyes shy, clearly waiting for our approval.
“You look breathtaking. This is so much more than I expected,” I say, catching a look of pure love and unguarded infatuation from Roger as his gaze runs over Deshni’s face.
“And this opens up so many more photo ideas. I don’t—crap, I don’t know where to start.
Plus I have to be at the morning meeting at seven with Sarika.
Are you going to go dressed like that?” It might give everything away.
“We’re thinking of taking a few photos like this, and then Sarika can be my client,” Deshni says. “We can do some of those before the meeting. So she’ll be back in her uniform by then.”
“Excellent,” Tristan says, taking visual measurement of the spa. “Let’s start at the sala. The sun’s almost up, so if you want soft natural light, now’s the time.”
“Good plan,” I say. “We can do these prop shots later. There’s a lot to work with.”
We grab the props and rush to the sala where we can shoot behind the white muslin curtains that hang around the square, thatched structure.
Clearly Roger or the two women have already been here as well, because the light curtains, which are usually wrapped away at night, billow softly in the early morning ocean breeze, and the massage beds are ready for clients.
Tristan puts his tripod down, and I walk around the sala. “From this side, Tris?” I ask, noting how the gentle sun rays reflect the pink dawn on the white muslin. “Maybe with Sarika and Deshni inside? Pretending to do a treatment?”
He comes up next to me, a camera already in his hands. “That looks good. We’ll need bodies on the massage tables though.”
I look at Roger; Roger looks at me. “That’s us, buddy,” I say with a chuckle.
Roger smirks but is already shaking the sand off his bare feet. I’m in my uniform, but I can cover up, or strip to my bra behind the sheets.
“Take your shirt off,” Deshni says softly as she shows Roger where to lie down.
He complies, and she keeps her eyes downcast, but I spot her sneaky glance and admiration as her eyes trail the ridges of his six-pack.
Roger is built, but I suppose that’s what you get hauling scuba tanks around for guests all day.
Sarika sends me a look, and there’s no disapproval in the pull of her mouth, just a weariness over what stands between two people who are clearly madly in love.
I follow Deshni’s directions, and soon Roger and I are in position, fluffy white towels over our bodies. “Keep it vague, Tris,” I call to our cameraman. He is already snapping photos from outside the sala. “I have no makeup on, so close-ups will be a no-go.”
“You look radiant this morning. You don’t need makeup,” Deshni says.
I bite my lip to hide a smile. I might have a certain glow.
“I’m keeping it vague, angel, and focusing on Deshni and Sarika,” he assures me. “It’s looking good.”
His words melt my heart, and I relax into the bed, Sarika’s oiled hands working my feet.
I know we’re all faking it right now, but it feels so good.
So perfect. I close my eyes, listening to the waves, relishing the soft breeze that steals a touch over my hair as the rhythmic click of Tristan’s camera comes closer and closer.
When I open my eyes, I find him mere feet from me, a soft smile on his face as he looks at the camera’s screen.
“You’re winning?” I ask, conscious of how relaxed I’ve become in minutes, but also knowing I need to be at that morning brief with Sarika.
“Yep. I’ll show you later. I think you two need to go if you want to be on time. I know what you want, and with Deshni and Roger’s help, I’ll take enough photos that some of them are bound to be good enough for your brochure.”
“Thank you.” I reluctantly sit up. “Can we finish this massage some other time?”
Sarika laughs. “Any time. You just let me know when.”