One To Watch(63)

“You haven’t figured things out yet.”

“That’s not how they’d put it.”

“How would they put it?”

He shifted in his seat. “That I’m unmotivated, that I’d rather live off their money than make my own way in the world, that I don’t take myself seriously.”

“Is that how you see yourself?”

“Everything seemed so easy for my sisters. Ivy League for both of them, now Jessica’s a doctor like my mom and Zoe is an engineer. They knew what they wanted, and then they did it. I think I could do the second part no problem—I just haven’t figured out the first.”

“What about teaching? Did you like that?”

“I loved it. But for the rest of my life? I want to do more things, see more things. I can’t imagine myself in a classroom for the next forty years.”

Bea pushed a carrot back and forth through a pile of couscous. “Do you think this show was maybe a way for you to put off that decision? Just … I don’t know. Fill time?”

Sam sighed. “Partly, yeah. Things can get tense around the house—going off to be on TV seemed like a much more fun alternative.”

“And are you having fun?”

“Come on.” He lowered his voice. “You know I am.”

“What—um …” Bea wasn’t sure how to ask the question. “Is it just fun, though?”

“Are you asking if I see this as fun or something more?”

Bea flushed, a little embarrassed. “I guess I am.”

“Bea”—he took her hand—“I am really into you. Like—really. Really, really. Okay?”

Bea knew all the reallys were intended to reassure her, but they had the opposite effect—she suddenly felt more nervous than she had before.

“What about you?” Sam nudged. “Where do you think we stand?”

Bea ducked her head, her voice small. “I know you make me smile. And that I want to spend more time with you.”

“If that’s the case,” he smiled slyly, “you’re in luck.”

He took an envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her.

“What’s this?” Bea turned over the blank envelope in her hands, suspicious.

“It’s an invitation to a luxury hammam. I’m supposed to ask if you want to go there after dinner; apparently they have a private treatment all set up for us.”

“What kind of treatment?” Bea asked, leaning closer. Under the table, Sam’s knee touched hers.

“I don’t know exactly. But I’m told it involves a series of pools, hot water, different oils and scrubs.” He pressed his leg against hers, and Bea felt the flush from their dance creeping back into her system.

“I know you said you didn’t like wearing a bathing suit on that yacht,” he added, “but since this would be just the two of us … and since you did deprive me the last time …”

Bea nodded. “Yes. Let’s go.”

The entry to the hammam was hidden in a maze of winding alleys deep in the Marrakesh medina. The reception room felt much like a traditional spa with its bleached wood floors and shelves of products you could take home to attempt to re-create your time here, desert-salt scrub and orange-blossom shampoo. But once Bea and Sam had checked in, changed into the bathing suits Alison had surreptitiously provided to the producers, and covered up in thin cloth robes, they descended a stone staircase and emerged into what felt like another universe.

The hammam was absolutely cavernous, with smooth gray floors and soaring arched ceilings inlaid with swirls of blue and purple tiles arranged in intricate mosaics. Carved lanterns lined the room’s perimeter, surrounding a placid blue pool that was bathed in a thousand points of light. This was the communal bathing area; two of the hammam’s workers—a stocky man and a slight woman—led Bea and Sam to a private room for their traditional hammam treatment.

“It is more intimate this way,” said the woman, who introduced herself as Rehana.

“Nothing’s intimate with these guys around.” Bea gestured to the cameras, but Rehana’s manner was immovably calm.

“You’ll see, you’ll be very relaxed,” she assured Bea with a smile.

The treatment room was warm and cavelike, lit only with candles, made entirely of the same gray material as the floors in the communal room, with a low, curved ceiling and a steaming tub of water that ran the entire length of the wall opposite the door.

“Your robe?” Rehana held out her hand. Sam handed his robe to his helper, Issam, without hesitation, giving Bea her first glimpse of the rippling muscles that had so far been hidden by his clothes. She felt herself flush red—Sam’s face creased with concern.

“We don’t have to do this. We can just go back to the riad, have a drink by the fire.”

“No.” Bea swallowed hard. “I want to.”

She handed her robe to Rehana, revealing the swimsuit Alison had sent over: a black Cynthia Rowley one-piece with a notched neckline that dipped low between Bea’s breasts, tied together with a little bow. She kept her gaze trained on Sam’s face, waiting for his expression to betray some hint of disgust. But his pupils dilated as his eyes traveled down her body, and he clenched the towel he was holding.