Count Your Lucky Stars (Written in the Stars, #3)(51)

“Mm.” Olivia sped up, passing a minivan going ten below the speed limit.

“Let’s see . . . award-winning spa . . . steam room, sauna, soaking pools are available by appointment,” Margot read from the site. “Fitness massage, tranquility massage, hot stone massage . . .”

That all sounded fantastic, but Olivia had too much to do to simply send the next two days relaxing in a spa. She needed to follow up with the vendors, make sure the final payments had been received by the suppliers, and deliver the final head count to the caterer for the rehearsal dinner and the reception. All of which she could do from the lodge, but she’d packed her laptop and double-checked the resort had reliable Wi-Fi for a reason.

“Hey.” Margot waved her fingers, frowning softly. “Where’d you go?”

“Sorry.” Olivia smiled and shook her head. “I’m just thinking about everything I still have to do with vendors and suppliers and . . . I don’t know. I—maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to come. There’s just so much and—”

“Hey, whoa.” Margot swiveled in her seat the best she could with the seat belt strapped across her body. “Brendon and Annie invited you.”

“Right, and relaxing right now should be their number one priority,” Olivia said, eyes flitting between the road and her rearview mirror as she changed lanes. “My priority is making sure their wedding goes off without a hitch.”

“And you totally will,” Margot said. “But I’m pretty sure you can squeeze in a massage, too.”

Olivia hummed under her breath and rolled out her shoulders. “A massage does sound nice.”

Margot looked over at her and smiled. “If you needed a massage, you could’ve just asked.” Her brows wiggled. “I’m good with my hands.”

Olivia’s face heated at the memory of Margot using her hands to edge Olivia for what felt like an hour, driving her to the point of babbling and begging until finally Margot had wrung four orgasms from Olivia before relenting, leaving her a puddle of goo.

“That you are,” Olivia agreed, voice a touch breathless.

Margot’s smirked and turned her attention back to her screen.

Olivia reached for her bottle of water, suddenly parched. She flipped the rubbery straw up on her CamelBak and took a long drink, eyes flitting away from the road briefly to return the bottle to the cup holder.

On the center console, Margot’s hand rested, slightly cupped, fingers curled toward her palm, facing up. Olivia had a sudden, jarring flashback to seventh grade, when she’d gone out on her first date to the movies with Michael Louis, a boy who’d had a sweet smile and an unfortunate floppy bowl cut that made him look like a cute mushroom, or Jim Halpert circa season one of The Office. They’d gone to see some cheesy action movie and sat dead center in the theater. He’d rested his hand on the armrest and stared, not at the screen, but at Olivia, until she’d gotten the hint and slipped her hand into his, his palm damp and warm and oddly sticky.

It wasn’t a question that Margot was good with her hands or that she had clever, talented fingers that could drive Olivia to new heights of pleasure. It was a question of whether Olivia could hold Margot’s hand.

Was that . . . something they did now? If Olivia slipped her hand inside Margot’s, would she be pushing her luck?

Olivia held her breath, hand hovering above the cup holder, and—

A horn blared from the next lane over, the one Olivia had accidentally floated into. She gripped the wheel with both hands, careful not to overcorrect, and kept her eyes locked on the road, willing away her flush when Margot studied her from the passenger seat.

“They offer facials, too,” Margot added.

Olivia bit the inside of her cheek. “That’s nice.”

A heavy electronic dance beat filled the car, and Margot groaned, chuckling at the same time.

Olivia only let go of the wheel for a brief second to crank up the volume until the bass thumped, shaking her seat. “Come on. You know you love this song.”

“No.” Margot shouted over the music. “I don’t. And I still don’t understand how you thought they were saying like a cheese stick.”

“Excuse me for not knowing what a G6 was when I was seventeen.”

“How does cheese stick make even a modicum of sense? I think you need to get your ears checked.” Margot turned the volume down until they could speak without shouting. “Maybe if you didn’t listen to your music this loud, you wouldn’t be constantly hearing the lyrics wrong.”

“Constantly?” Olivia scoffed.

Margot spared her a quick glance, brows flicking upward. “You thought Madonna said like a virgin, touched for the thirty-first time.” Margot snickered. “How the fuck does that even work?”

“Shut up.” Olivia flicked her turn signal, taking the next exit. “I was nine when I thought that! I didn’t even know what that song meant.”

“Mm-hmm, sure.”

“I mean it, I didn’t—”

The song cut off abruptly and a soft chime came from the speakers, her phone connected to the speakers via Bluetooth.

Olivia glanced at the display screen. Dad was calling.

She glanced briefly over at Margot. “Do you mind if I take this? I’ll be quick.”

Ever since his heart attack, she made a point of answering when Dad called. Not that she hadn’t before, but . . . she didn’t want to risk sending him to voicemail if he needed her. Especially since she was usually the one reaching out, the one calling and checking in.