Spring Romance: NINE Happily Ever Afters

by Tessa Bailey

  Who needs lots of sex when you have a boyfriend who is practically a professional cuddler?

  Not that we don’t have sex. I mean, you know. We do. I’ll bet we have as much sex as any other couple. Or most couples.

  I guess.

  Just… I am so fortunate to have a man who appreciates affection.

  I take a sip of my drink. Now we both track Zeke’s ass as he turns to the left at the end of the hallway.

  “You would look great in that uniform,” I tease Jamey.

  He flushes, eyelashes fluttering. “What?” He clears his throat. “Why would you say that?” The judgmental tone is harsh, different from anything I’ve heard from him before.

  I flinch. “I just meant, um… the way you were looking at his uniform, I thought…”

  “You thought what?” He looks wounded.

  Oh, God. I’ve offended him. I have to fix this. “Oh, I just meant, you know, that if you’re thinking about getting a part-time job like Zeke’s, you’d be fabulous here.”

  His eyebrow quirks. “Fabulous? I’m an associate professor of rhetoric and composition at an R-1 institution. I don’t need a part-time job.” His eyes go a bit dull.

  Just then, one of the other master masseurs, Ryan, walks by. He’s coming in to start his shift so he’s fully clothed in faded jeans, flip-flops, and a ragged, tight t-shirt that shows off muscles on top of muscles. Ryan is my best friend here at the O Spa. We started on the same day, two years ago, so we bonded. We’ve been buddies ever since.

  Jamey gives him a nervous glance. I think he’s jealous of Ryan. How sweet is that? Look at the way Jamey combs over Ryan’s muscular body… or maybe he’s thinking about getting a tattoo? Ryan’s arms are sleeved with complex geometric shapes. Jamey’s pupils dilate and it’s so obvious.

  He’s thinking about working here.

  “I’ll see you tonight, beautiful. I’ll bring Thai,” Jamey says, breathless, a genuine smile in his eyes. “Don’t want you slaving over a hot stove when you could be rubbing my feet on the sofa.”

  Ryan gives him a weird frown, eyes doing that wide and narrow combination where you’re not sure what the person is thinking, but it isn’t good. He disappears down the hall to the men’s locker room for staff.

  Jamey kisses me on both cheeks. So European. Then, without even looking at me, he disappears in the same direction as Zeke.

  I love Jamey. Did I say that already?

  * * *

  Ryan

  I fucking hate Jamey.

  I tolerate him because Carrie thinks he hung the moon. When your friend is too clueless to realize she’s dating the wrong guy, there’s only one way to handle it.

  Shut your mouth.

  I scramble out of my street clothes and into my thong, moving quickly. Can’t have waistband lines marking my body. We show up a little early to get in uniform and adjust to the spa’s atmosphere. Women pay us a lot of money to be their oasis.

  No man is an island, but for an hour or two, we can be a peninsula of pleasure.

  “You rocked the Captain America costume yesterday,” Carrie says, her troubled look fading as she turns her attention away from the disappeared Jamey. She happens to stare down the hallway as I walk toward her. Now I’ve got her full attention.

  Which is how I like it.

  “Thanks, but we’re back to the standard uniform. In keeping with our new goal of remaining culturally relevant, the next costume is Dr. Strange.” Her eyes creep over me, my blood’s pace picking up. When Jamey gave me the once-over, it made my stomach clench.

  When Carrie does it, other parts tighten.

  “I wear more than that when I get a Pap smear, Ryan,” she says with a smirk. A vision of Carrie naked, honey-colored hair fanned out behind her and over the edge of an exam table in a doctor’s office with her shapely legs in stirrups flashes through my mind and oh, shit.

  “How’s Jamey doing?” I ask. I don’t give a rat’s ass about him. Talking about anything that will deflate my ever-growing boner is my goal. Think about Donald Trump. Hillary Clinton. Betty White. Jamey.

  Perfect. Deflation sequence activated.

  “Jamey is so sweet!” Carrie gets that weird look again. Her eyes fill with a mild form of panic, which fades quickly, leaving her chewing on a pen cap. “He got us tickets for a holiday concert and just stopped by with my favorite coffee.”

  “Nice. But every guy should do that for the person they’re dating.”

  “Really?” She looks so surprised. I hate that she looks so surprised.

  “It’s pretty basic Dating 101 stuff, Carrie.”

  “Like you know anything about dating,” she lobs back at me. “You haven’t had a girlfriend since I met you.” She walks into her cubicle and nods for me to follow.

  My heart just got decimated by a SCUD missile. I can’t look at her. I follow, then pick up one of the metal balls on her Newton’s Cradle and let it clack against the others. The force shoves the ball on the other end to strike out in an arc.

  “Well, you know…”

  She snorts. “Yeah, I know. Why settle for one woman when you can have a taste of so many?”

  I’m not sure when she got the idea that I’m some kind of playboy Casanova manwhore. That’s Zeke. But no matter what I tell her, she doesn’t believe me.

  “Right.” Our eyes meet and I can’t breathe. You spend years pretending and hiding your feelings and when those little slivers, fractions of time that don’t show up on a clock, protrude through your facade, you take them as they are.

  Real, raw, and so hard.

  But so good.

  Her expression is serious. The world telescopes. Maybe now is the time. I swallow, my throat dry, and open my mouth as she keeps the gaze.

  And then—smack!

  A loud crack of a palm against ass cheek ruins the moment.

  “You been upping the protein and dropping the carbs?” Zeke asks, butting in. He appraises me like I’m running for Mr. Universe, running his hand up and down my torso, counting my eight-pack. He mouths the numbers.

  “You’re more cut than usual,” he adds. A smirk tickles his cocky English face as he widens his eyes, then gives Carrie a meaningful look. “What do you think, Carrie? Ryan’s looking damn good.” He turns me like I’m a piece of meat being inspected.

  I fucking hate Zeke, too.

  But Carrie, in that moment, does what people pleasers do. She follows his order, her inventory of my body starting with my feet. I can feel her attention, like a lingering touch, a visual caress that makes the hair on my body start to rally. Not quite gooseflesh, but damn close.

  She passes up over my calves, across the knees, hesitating on my thighs, which are tight as I remind myself to unlock my knees. I have to control my breathing. Zeke crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the doorjamb. He’s wearing the same damn shoestring costume I’m wearing as we start our shift, so it’s not like I’m special here at the O Spa.

  Carrie, though, makes me feel damn special as her look moves on to my package. I’m frantically trying to think about anything but how erotic this is.

  Aside from Zeke, of course.

  And then Carrie walks toward me.

  Think about dead bodies. Rotting carcasses. Dead possum by the side of the road. Jabba the Hut having sex. Jamey having sex—wait, no, because then I have to think about Carrie having sex with that asshole, and I’ll get an angry boner.

  Which is worse than a regular boner.

  “ZEKE!” Henry Holliday, our master massage therapist and unofficial leader of all the male attendants here at O, calls for him. Peeling off, Zeke leaves me alone with Carrie, whose eyes have narrowed, head tilted, that long hair brushing her shoulder right in that spot I’ve fantasized about kissing a thousand times before.

  “You look good, Ryan,” she says to my abs as Zeke walks away.

  “Thank you. It’s that all-coconut-oil diet,” I joke.

  She won’t make eye contact, but her chest rises and fall
s a little faster, a light pink dotting the creamy flesh her open shirt displays. Her eyes dart around the hallway, trying desperately to look at anything but me.

  Any other woman and I’d go in for the kill. I’d assume she’s aroused and this is the perfect time to make a move. But if I’m wrong…

  I freeze, my body ninety-five percent naked and my heart one hundred percent on the line.

  She finally gives me a fuzzy smile, like she’s trying to pack a thousand emotions underneath the one casual, bland grin that covers everything.

  “You’ll make a great Dr. Strange.” And then she turns away and hurries off with a hand wave.

  I slump against the wall and slowly bang the back of my head against it, like a heartbeat.

  * * *

  Thank you for reading OUR OPTIONS HAVE CHANGED. You can read more in the Thank You For Holding series right now.

  The Initiation

  Nikki Sloane

  Chapter One

  Rain streaked across the window, blurring the view of the landscape out the back seat of the car as it hurried my sister Emily and me past the front gate. The drive leading up to the Hale estate was long, straight, and lined with tall, manicured hedges. It was a tunnel of green. The only escape was the impressive fountain at the end where the driveway circled, and the historic stone mansion loomed beyond.

  I clutched the book in my lap tighter, my fingers tensing on the edges of the hardcover, making the dust jacket crinkle against the skirt of my dress. The sound drew my sister’s attention, and she shot me one of her famous disapproving looks. It was the same one my father had wilted under earlier this evening when he’d suggested Emily find something more appropriate to wear.

  Her cocktail dress was as black as the limo we were traveling in. The fabric plunged deep down her chest, flaunting her impressive cleavage. The flouncy skirt was cut short in the front, teasing well above her knees, and hemmed longer in the back. It showed off her legs and the precariously tall heels she wore. Her lips were stained a vivid red. She had blue undertones in her pale skin, so it looked terrific on her.

  In theory, that same lip color would work on me. My sister was only fifteen months older than I was, and although we weren’t twins, people often asked if we were. Except we were easier to tell apart these days. On a whim, I’d dyed my hair an unnatural shade of deep green during spring break. It had faded since the last time I’d had it colored, but the hue was still there.

  As I’d discovered with the hair color, I could pull off bold colors like Emily. We had the same sable hair and crystal blue eyes, but in stark contrast to her, tonight I wore a white dress with lace cap sleeves. It was fitting. I was the weird, virginal loner, and she was the confident, sexy bombshell.

  We looked nothing alike on the inside.

  She was friendly, quick-witted, and a pleaser. She had a knack for putting people at ease.

  I had the ability to make everyone uncomfortable with my awkward bluntness but had learned not to care what others thought. My sister was the darling of the social scene, and she was destined to be the queen of Cape Hill—one of the wealthiest villages in Massachusetts. It had bay views, sprawling estates, and private golf courses, and each year the housing market climbed closer to matching the Hamptons.

  My destiny, however, was to be left alone. I could do whatever I wanted, which suited me just fine. I’d never have to fulfill obligations or handle the family duties. I’d been given my mother’s maiden name as my first name to appease my rich grandparents. That was the only responsibility I had to carry.

  “Marist.” Emily placed her hand on my wrist and eyed the new Greek mythology book in my lap. “If that doesn’t fit in your purse, don’t take it inside. You can’t show up to a party with a book to read—and definitely not to Royce’s party.”

  Because Royce Hale was a modern-day Gatsby. He’d thrown ragers nearly every weekend when he’d been in high school. I was several years behind him, but they’d still talked about it at our elite prep school, long after he’d gone off to Harvard.

  I stared at Emily as the car promenaded around the fountain. When it pulled to a stop, my sister’s dangling earrings swayed and glinted in the fading sunlight.

  “It fits in my purse,” I said softly. “Don’t worry.”

  Even though I didn’t give a shit what people thought of me, this was a huge night for my sister. I wasn’t about to screw it up for her. I was fiercely protective of her, and she was my best friend.

  The door on Emily’s side opened and a man stood at the ready, an oversized black umbrella in one hand, and his other extended to help her out. “Good evening,” he said.

  As she took his hand, I shoved the book into my bag. I watched the pair of them as he ushered her up the stone steps, sheltered under the umbrella so her hair and makeup wouldn’t be ruined by the drizzle.

  I was out of the car before she’d gone inside, and when the man turned and saw me walking toward the house in the rain, he sprinted in a panic, rushing to get me safely under his protection. It was ridiculous. Besides the fact it was basically misting, no one really cared how I looked—most of all me. I was only here for my sister’s benefit. The invitation had been for both Northcott sisters, and it would have been rude for me to decline.

  Besides, part of me was curious. I’d been to the Hale’s house many times over the years, but never for one of Royce’s parties.

  The usher’s voice boomed when I stepped through the front door. “Miss Marist Northcott.”

  It stunned me motionless. Had he legitimately announced me? Like this was some social ball from the 1800s? I waited for a chaperone to appear and pair me up for a stilted dance with a suitor, but thankfully no one came.

  There were a few people milling about in the foyer, but no one I recognized. Conversations and laughter buzzed from the next room over, echoing in the large entrance. I faced the grand staircase that split halfway up, running away from the enormous painting of the Hale family centered over the landing. I stifled the urge to slink up the staircase and away from the horror of having to mingle.

  Emily was just inside the front sitting room. She snatched two glasses of a bubbly drink from a waiter’s tray as he passed by and then held one out without even turning to glance over her shoulder at me. I took the glass and slipped by her side.

  I was only twenty, but no one cared whether it was legal. We’d all been drinking since high school.

  “Christ, I think half the company’s kids are here,” she muttered beneath her glass the moment before she took a sip.

  I surveyed the crowd and came to the same conclusion.

  Hale Banking and Holding Company had started out as a simple bank, but over the last one hundred and fifty years had grown into so much more. Now the eighth largest bank in the world, they had financial and wealth management, commercial banking, and were pressing deeper into the global markets.

  At the helm of HBHC sat Macalister Hale.

  He controlled an enormous empire and was barely fifty years old.

  I’d only spoken directly to him once. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and handsome, but also the kind of man who made you feel like a nuisance. Like you had no business being near him and using up any of the air in the room to breathe because that was his air. It, along with everything else, belonged to him.

  Mr. Hale didn’t appear to be around. It was unlikely, anyway. This was Royce’s party to celebrate his graduation from Harvard Business School. His father had better things to do than hang out with college kids on a rainy Saturday night.

  Conversations bounced off the dark paneled walls, high ceilings, and hardwood floor; the sound was too loud to be soaked up by the Persian rugs and expensive couches. I lingered at Emily’s side as a shadow while she mingled. She made effortless small talk with a dozen people I recognized from school or our father’s job.

  We believed Charles Northcott, our father, was on the cusp of making the board of directors at HBHC now that Mr. Steinway had retired. Twenty percent o
f our sleepy Cape Hill town was a company employee.

  I didn’t miss the way my sister’s gaze subtly darted around the room, searching for—but not finding—the man of the hour. Royce would emerge later when all pretenses of this civilized soiree were dropped. Eventually, people would indulge in the hard liquor and the best drugs their overpriced dealer could procure for them. Then the party would officially start, and Royce would make his appearance.

  Emily latched a hand on my elbow and pulled me close, bringing her lips right by my ear. “Where the fuck is he? I’m dying here.”

  “You want me to go look for him?” Oh, God, please say no.

  “No,” she sighed.

  Relief swept through me. I made other people uncomfortable, and yet Royce Hale? He seemed to be the only one able to do it to me. His piercing blue eyes were always hungry and relentless. Like his father, he dominated all the air in the room.

  I didn’t envy Emily’s situation. Our mother had been best friends with Mrs. Hale, and before she had passed away, they’d always joked that their children would marry. Even after her death, our parents had remained friends—if you could call it that—with the Hale family.

  Arranged marriages didn’t typically exist in our tightly woven circle, but there was an unspoken understanding between our families. Perhaps it was to honor his late wife’s wish, but Macalister Hale had decided long ago it would be advantageous for Royce and Emily to partner. They were a good match in every area. Wealth, intelligence, looks. Together, Royce and Emily would be the unstoppable power couple, and now that he’d finished school, it was time for him to make his move.

  It should be easy. Royce had essentially been granted first right of refusal over my sister.

  The situation was sort of fucked up, but Emily didn’t protest. In fact, she didn’t seem to mind at all. She liked the idea of dating him.

  The thought made me uneasy. Like an itch that wouldn’t go away no matter how much you scratched.

  I hovered beside my sister for an eternity, wearing a perpetually amused expression on my face to mask that I was dying of boredom on the inside. I didn’t care Rachel Sanderson was going to do a semester abroad in Spain, or Eric Hineman had a venture capitalist interested in investing in his dumb start-up idea. I did my time beside Emily until she finally gave a slight nod. It was her signal I was about to be released.