The Hot One(17)

The woman nods happily. “Would you like to change into a robe? We have a relaxation zone in the back. You can wait there and have a mug of tea or some cucumber water.”

I hold my hands out wide. “How can you go wrong with cucumber water?”

“You just can’t. It’s the best. I’ll have Felipe take you back,” she says, and a few seconds later a slim young guy with kind brown eyes and fully inked arms strides into the reception area.

“Welcome to Nirvana,” he tells me, then holds open a wooden door, and I follow him into the rest of the spa.

That’s another detail. Knowing the terrain. Mapping out a strategy.

I called earlier in the week and asked a few casual questions about the whole massage protocol here so I could plan properly. The woman on the phone walked me through the details, and that’s what I need to navigate next as Felipe escorts me to the robe portion of the plan.

“So glad to have you here today, Mr. Pollock,” Felipe says. I canvas the hallway while we walk. A heavy man walks ahead of us, and a lady with purple hair darts into the women’s room. There’s no sign of Delaney popping out early from her current appointment, and I’m glad of that.

When we enter a locker room that’s more like a quiet sanctuary, Felipe hands me a white robe, pats a locker, and gives me a key for it.

“These robes are amazing. So soft and comfy,” he says, like he’s cooing at the clothing item.

Well, then. “You don’t say? I probably won’t want to take it off now.”

He smiles and laughs, then tells me he’ll be back shortly to “fetch” me and take me to the Rainfall Room. He points a finger at me and adopts a playful grin. “With your robe on, Mr. Pollock.”

“Ten-four. I just need to hit the little boys’ room first,” I say, since that’ll buy some time.

Now it’s time for the loophole. Because once he leaves, I’ve got my window.

He exits, and I briefly stare at the robe in my hands. I don’t really see the point of one. A robe to me represents a lack of commitment—you’re either naked, or you’re dressed, plain and simple.

I set the material on the bench, and now I’m ready for the detour.

I push open the door, poke my head into the hall, and scan up and down. Coast is clear. I step into the hall, find the Rainfall Room, and hope.

This is the part that could trip me up. I’m assuming she won’t be using the same room for her client before me, but that was a detail I couldn’t procure. So, I’m winging it.

My shoulders tense as I turn the knob, and I breathe a sigh of relief that the room is empty. I wouldn’t want to walk in on someone else’s rubdown.

With a soft whoosh, I push the door so it’s barely ajar. I toe off my shoes, pull off my socks, and then I unknot my tie.

I work open the top buttons on my shirt when I hear the footsteps. A flurry of nerves spreads inside me. Partly because I hope to hell Felipe’s not coming in here, hunting me down like the Robe Police.

Mostly, though, I’m nervous because I’m flying blind from here on out.

I’ve no clue how Delaney is going to respond. But the woman made the path to forgiveness crystal clear. Say you’re sorry. Make it believable. Mean it.

The evidence from our calls in the past week points to our rekindled chemistry—so I need to lean on that for my apology.

I slide another button out of its hole.

A soft rap sounds on the door, then someone pushes it open wider, and soft feet pad into the tiled room.

“Hi Mr. Pollock, so glad you—”

“I’m sorry,” I say, meeting her brown-eyed gaze. She frowns.

I slide open another button. “I’m sorry for the calloused way I ended things.” I reach the hem of my shirt. “I’m sorry for the juggling comment. That was cold and cruel.”

Her lips purse, like she’s trying to ask a question. As I move to the tie and unknot it fully, leaving it undone around my neck, I keep up the words—I’ve always loved words, and shaping them into just the right argument to make a point. Now, I need all the letters of the alphabet to let this woman know I want her to look beyond the idiot I was eight years ago. She prizes honesty, so I give her more of the bare truth. “I was a stupid, twenty-two-year-old cocky, conceited jerk.”

She blinks as I pull my shirt from the waistband of my slacks. “What on earth are you doing here?” She waves wildly at my unbuttoned shirt, like I’m a brainteaser about two trains in opposite directions entering a one-way tunnel at twelve o’clock.

“I’m your ten a.m. massage, and I’m here to say I’m sorry.”

“You booked a massage?” she asks, like that statement makes the train puzzler even more confusing.

I nod. “I sure did. A massage and an apology for the way I cut you out of my life.”

She runs a hand through her hair, still processing the riddle of me. And, for the record, two trains can enter that one-way tunnel without colliding—one goes in at noon, the other at midnight.

She parks her hands on her hips. “You know, Tyler. That really hurt,” she says, and I can hear the pain in her voice. The sound of it hooks into my heart.

I nod. “I understand why it would, and it was something I thought I had to do. But I can see now that I could have handled it a lot differently. In so many ways.” I hope she can hear the honesty in my voice as I pull the loose tie from around my neck. Her eyes follow my every move, drifting down to the green silk in my hands. She nibbles her lip, a tell if I ever saw one. “Your favorite color. I wore it for you,” I say, trying to get our flirt on again.