“So, what did you get up to last night all on your lonesome?” Maggie says teasingly as we fill our breakfast plates from a buffet that’s more extravagant than I’ve seen at some Hollywood after-parties. “Find yourself a cabana boy so you wouldn’t be too lonely?”
I am not looking at Will. I am definitely not at all aware of the guy I nearly let all up over my lonesome yesterday night, standing ten feet away by one of the tables with a cup of coffee and a considering look he keeps casting my way.
“Nah,” I say. “I grabbed a drink at the hotel bar and turned in early.” It’s totally true if you don’t count lies by omission.
“I’m so sorry we took off without you,” Brooke says at my other side.
We head back to the table—I scoot a little ahead so I can direct us to one at the opposite side of the room from Will. “Really,” I say for the thousandth time, “it’s okay. You had no idea how long I was going to be wrapped up. I’m sorry I had to duck away. Today I’m all yours. What’s the score on wedding prep? Where do you need me?”
If I’m assembling centerpieces or judging bridal hairstyles, I won’t have room to be thinking about . . . things I really shouldn’t be thinking about. I flew all the way down here for Brooke. Now I’ve got to actually be here for her.
“Actually,” Brooke says, “I don’t think there’s much left to do, at least not the sort of thing where extra hands help. The resort is taking care of a lot.”
It figures my plans would be foiled by Will again, if in a roundabout way. “There’s really no way I can pitch in? I’d love to, honestly.”
She shakes her head. “I’m not even really pitching in today. I promised my parents I’d make it a family day, so they’ve got some whole thing planned for us”—she lifts her chin toward Maggie and Lulu, who’s just plunked into the seat beside her sister—“and the other cousins and grandparents and everyone. Which is good, because the last thing you need is to be doing more work. I wanted you to get here right from the start so you had the time to relax!”
Correction: The last thing I need is more time to sit around and stew over my near-mistake last night. But then Lulu chirps up, “You should totally check out the spa! I heard it’s, like, the best in the country.”
I wouldn’t normally be inclined to trust Lulu’s advice, but that piece sounds reasonably solid. Having my body worked over by strangers will at least be distracting. Maybe it’ll even release some of this tension I’ve apparently got all pent up.
Before I invite Will to do it . . .
“The spa sounds great!” I blurt. “I’ll do it.”
After breakfast—and maybe checking my email and voicemail and drafting a contract or two—I head on over for that relaxation I’ve been promising myself. The spa buildings are along a wooden walkway from the main hotel: a domed stucco building in pale peach that jives remarkably well with the lush vegetation all around it. I walk past the glass doors into a reception room painted in the same pale pastels. Harp music laced with the rustling of leaves in a breeze winds through the room. Okay, this isn’t my usual style, but it’s got that Zen I’ve been hunting for.
“Walters,” I say to the woman at the front desk, and she directs me down the hall with a beaming smile. I’m so pleased with myself that I’m getting this unwinding thing down that I make it halfway down before I realize I can’t remember whether she said five doors on the left or on the right.
Eenie, meenie, miney, moe . . . I choose left. The handle turns, so I march right in—and find myself face to, well, back with one of the most sculpted backs I’ve seen outside of a Sports Illustrated shoot, laid out on a cushioned massage table.
Oops.
And also, hello.
I pause in the doorway, drinking in the sight of him. All the unmentionables—which given the looks of the rest of the guy, are probably very mentionable—are hidden under a folded sheet, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t plenty to admire. Like the tattoo on the guy’s left shoulder blade: a very distinctive black-and-red compass rose.
Will’s tattoo.
Will’s voice, comes, slightly muffled from his position face-down on the massage table.
“I’ve been waiting all week for this. Pretty sure my knots have knots. Just give it to me, no holding back.”
I should whip back out of the room, yank the door shut behind me, and pretend this never happened. But instead my mind jumps back to last night. To Will’s playful chiding about my weakling status. I glance down at my arms—which are toned if not buff, thank you very much—and a little voice I probably shouldn’t listen to says, Why not?
I march over to the massage table and grab the bottle of oil. I’m not completely unfamiliar with how this goes. I slap my hands together, lean over that sculpted back—God damn, when does he find the time to hit the gym enough to maintain a body like this?—and dig the heels of my hands in on either side of his spine.
He wants it hard? I can give it to him hard. I’ve only got, ooh, six years of bitterness and resentment stored up in here.
“You can dig deeper than that,” Will chuckles as I press down. His skin is smooth and warm—and tight, yes, those solid muscles are very, very tight—and I feel my body warming with it.
Not good enough? Fine. I jam my thumbs into those hollows above his pelvic bone where I always carry half my stress, with as much force as I can. How’s that for digging deep?
Will lets out a low, satisfied groan, and my stomach does a flip.
Down, girl. Focus on mashing those thumbs all the way up his back and not on the noises he’s making as if I’m screwing him here on the table. I’m doing this to make a point, not to . . . to . . . Why am I doing this again?
Because he’s a jerk and a jackass and he deserves to be pummeled . . . even if from the sounds of things there’s nothing he’d enjoy more.
“That’s great,” Will says, “but I want you to get in there even deeper. Just get up there and walk all over me, all right?”
Up there. I glance up and note the bar stretched across the ceiling. An invitation to literally stomp all over the guy who bruised my heart? Who can turn that down?
I kick off my sandals, scramble onto the stool, and balance myself on the edge of the table, grasping the bar. Looking down at Will’s prone body, I wonder for a moment if I could actually hurt the guy. Then I notice the rippling muscles, and take it back. Besides, when did anything I do ever hurt him the way he hurt me?
I place my foot down, and then the other, so I’m standing on his body. I take a few experimental steps, digging my heels into his back before a shriek from the doorway stops me dead.