By the time we pass the windmill farms that mark the desert near Palm Springs, we’ve played classic rock, classic country, and a varied selection from current artists. We’ve danced—as much as you can in a limo—and sung and have basically turned the limo into party central. We’ve laughed so hard we’ve almost cried, and I think it’s the best time Jamie and I have had together since we skipped out of Friday classes our freshman year and drove from Austin to New Orleans.
I am so going to show Damien my gratitude when I see him.
Finally, Edward exits the 10 for a smaller highway, then a regular street, then a caliche road. I’m beginning to think that our destination must be a campsite when I see the sunset glowing against the white stucco of a low building nestled near the foothills of the rising mountains. We pass through a security gate, and I realize that what I thought was one building is a collection of several smaller ones, all surrounded by palm trees reaching up to brush the sky.
Jamie and I are pressed to the windows now, and she sees the sign first. “Holy shit,” she says. “We’re at the Desert Ranch Spa.”
“Seriously?” I don’t know why I sound so surprised. The Desert Ranch Spa may be one of those insanely expensive resorts where celebrities go for a little alone time, but it’s not like Damien can’t afford it.
“Are we staying the night?” Jamie asks. “Or maybe we’re just here for dinner? God, I hope we’re staying the night. I’ve never stayed in a place like this.”
The limo winds its way to the front entrance, and I gulp down the rest of my wine and slide toward the door, so that I’m ready to go the moment Edward opens it. When he does, there’s a woman beside him in pencil-thin trousers and a silk tank top. “Ms. Fairchild, Ms. Archer. Welcome to Desert Ranch,” she says, with an accent I recognize only as Eastern European. “I’m Helena. Come. I’ll take you to your bungalow.”
Bun-ga-low, Jamie mouths with eyes wide. We follow her down a landscaped path, me doing my Worldly Nikki routine—why, of course I get out of limos and go to expensive desert resorts all the time—and Jamie practically bouncing. “For the record,” she says as Helena opens the door and we get a glimpse of the inside of the bungalow, “I am totally in love with your boyfriend.”
Boyfriend. I grin. I like the sound of that.
The bungalow is small but exceptionally well-appointed, with two bedrooms, a kitchenette, a living room with a comfy couch and chairs, and a fireplace. But the best part is the back porch, which looks out on the mountains without any sign of the resort. “You will have dinner in your room, yes? And then tomorrow we begin at eight.”
I almost hesitate to ask, but I break down. “Begin what?”
Helena smiles. “Everything.”
We’re awakened by gentle alarm clocks at seven-thirty, and it’s surprisingly easy to wake up despite having stayed up late sipping wine and talking after the most amazing dinner of Chilean sea bass and some type of risotto. We mainline coffee, sip orange juice, and put on the spa robes that we’ve been told to wear today.
When our liaisons, Becky and Dana, arrive at our doorstep, we’re eager to see what’s in store for us. As it turns out, Helena wasn’t exaggerating. We start with dips in the mineral waters, then move inside for facials and waxing and—because Becky whispers to me that Mr. Stark requested it—I even submit to a little more intimate wax. Not Brazilian, because ouch, but by the time I leave the waxing room, I have a neat landing strip that looks more professional than the shaving and Nair job I’ve managed all these years. My legs are smooth, my brows are fabulously shaped, and we move on to our choice of mud baths or seaweed wraps.