by Julia Kent
I chuckle, relief mingling with a deep respect for Dave, who’s got me by the balls.
Name a figure.
You first.
No, Dave, you.
You know damn well the first one to give numbers loses, Declan. I don’t like to lose.
Neither do I, Dave.
I want one million dollars a year.
I’m afraid I can’t do that, Dave.
After a very long pause, I get a picture of Robert Downey, Jr., rolling his eyes in a gif, and a text that says, How long have you been waiting to use that line?
Since the day we hired you.
You are a patient man.
I know how to bide my time.
So do I, he responds.
How about this, I text back. When we’re home from this trip, we’ll talk numbers.
How about I tell Shannon you screwed up?
Are you blackmailing me?
I’m leveraging valuable information for the sake of generating an increased return on a deal I’m making.
Didn’t you say your master’s degree was in folklore? Where’d you learn to negotiate like this?
I left the MBA from Wharton off my resume when I applied to Grind It Fresh!
And he follows it up with smiley face. Son of a bitch. I’m being played by a ringer.
A ringer who just saved my ass.
I thought you dropped out?
I did. Went back. Finished after my folklore MA.
Fine, I text back, naming a number.
He comes back five thousand higher.
My original number was lower than I was willing to pay. I look at the gluten-free bakery. Shannon must be wondering where I am. I start walking to the bakery, ready to spill my guts and tell the whole story now. I have to. How else am I going to explain hiring Dave as my new executive assistant?
Deal, I type back.
Shit, he types back. I knew that was too low.
I send a thumbs up. Want to start now? I have a long list of work to do in my planner.
Paper planner?
It’s on my desk.
How twentieth century of you, he writes.
Bring me into the twenty-second century, Dave.
I love a good challenge.
I’m on the other side of the road, about to go in, when I see the text. Good. We’re done. And just like that, I have all the reservations for our trip and a new assistant. Even on vacation I am the master.
For the next forty-eight hours, all I’m going to do is make love with my wife, eat good food, stroll around Portland and the islands, and have sex with my wife. We might even make time for more sex.
And here she is, waiting for me with a nice cup of coffee, ready to–
Huh?
She’s not here.
* * *
Shannon
* * *
“May I help you?”
“I’m looking for crystals and salt.”
“You’ve come to the right place.” The clerk is a warm, affable woman who reminds me of a much calmer version of my mother. This place is a cocoon. The entire store is filled with shelves that are backlit against dark, polished wood. Himalayan salt lamps cast a womb-like glow that instantly makes me think about babies.
My baby.
My someday baby.
Someday ain’t happening today, though. Not after that stunt Declan just pulled. Anger propels me into this oasis of calm. I push it aside and let it simmer in a far corner of my mind. It’s impossible to be mad in this place. Tiny jars of different flavored salts beckon to me, begging for attention. Licorice. Coffee. Celery. Smoked wood. Half the store is for cooking salts, with pink slabs and cookbooks instructing how to cook on heated chunks of...
Salt.
Who knew?
The other half of the store is for beauty and health care. Salt in soaps. Salt in creams. Salt, salt, salt. And then there are all the gemstones and crystals. So many prisms.
Crystals line the windows like wind chimes, every shade of color imaginable honed into elongated diamonds, like the Washington Monument turned upside down in miniature. The effect is startling, making me feel like I’ve walked onto the set of a 1980s kids’ movie, one where the writers are in on some LSD-fueled joke.
“Anything in particular you’re looking for?” the clerk asks me, smiling.
“A reasonable man?”
“I’m so sorry, dear. We don’t sell men here.”
“Oh, I don’t want to buy one. In fact. I’m close to putting mine on eBay.”
She smiles. “Have a fight?”
“Worse. He’s just... oh, never mind. I’m making a fool of myself, blathering on.” I shake my head, chuckling. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
I look around, admiring. “It’s so calming in here. You’ve done a great job.”
“Thank you. I can’t take credit. I just work here. I take it this is your first time?”
“Yes.” My eye catches a large door in the back, a deeper amber glow coming from it. “What’s that?”
“That’s our salt therapy room. It’s new.”
“I read about it on your website!” I marvel.
“It’s designed to help people to relax. It can’t fix your man problem, but it can make it seem less important for an hour or so.”
“Sold! Is it by appointment?”
“It is,” she says carefully, as we cross the threshold into what appears to be a vault. The walls and ceiling are giant blocks of Himalayan sea salt, cut into giant stone-like chunks, a pale glow emanating from behind. Lounge chairs, the kind you find at a pool, are sprinkled throughout the room. Enormous crystals, like stalactites, hang down from the domed ceiling.
“You rest in one of those,” she points. “And then you breathe.”
“Breathe? That’s it? I sit in a chair and breathe?”
She nods. “Salt therapy. We grind the salt to a fine powder and use an air system to push it into the air. The crystals are protective. This room is designed to make you relax. To let down your guard. To tell you it’s time to rest. It’s quite soothing, and has more and more medical research to support it for certain health conditions, like respiratory issues. ”
“I’m not here for that. It’s just so... serene. Do I need to have a medical condition? Does having a fight with a stubborn husband count as a diagnosis?”
“If it did, we’d all need treatment,” she says with a conspirator’s smirk.
I can already tell I’m not walking out of this store empty-handed, the products in the other room too enticing not to buy. But this–this is an experience. One I pointed out to Declan last week, back when this trip was going to be a fun frolic away from the stress of running an emerging company together.
When I was naïve and thought he respected my opinion in the business.
“Can I do a session now?” I ask.
She clasps my hand. “I do have an opening.”
“Excellent!”
Two minutes later, I’ve had a glass of water to hydrate, I’ve turned off my phone, I’m in the chair, reclined all the way back, and I am determined to spend the next sixty minutes not thinking about Declan.
And... go.
* * *
First thought: Hah! this will teach him.
Second thought: Stop thinking about Declan.
Third thought: Bet he’s still on the phone, arguing about milk.
Fourth thought: Stop thinking about Declan.
Fifth thought: He’s going to worry about me.
Sixth thought: He deserves to worry about me.
Seventh thought: Stop thinking about Declan.
* * *
Damn. This isn’t working.
I’m either being incredibly enlightened or exceptionally petty. Sometimes the difference between the two seems so slim.
I open my eyes and breathe in, the air seeming lighter somehow. As I inhale, I do a yoga belly breath until the bottoms of my ribs ache with the expansion. Mom says a small ache is good, but a big ache
is a spasm, and spasms are our muscles’ way of telling us we’re trying too hard. Belly breaths are about feeding the soul, the spine, the heart. They’re meant to stretch you.
Not hurt you.
Just like the people you love.
For a few seconds, I drift. It’s fleeting enough to make me teeter when my mind’s chatter comes back into consciousness, the dramatic sound of all that inner talking making me lose balance. I catch myself, finding my center of gravity just as I take a deep breath and the door opens slowly.
To reveal Declan standing there, looking around the room with raised eyebrows and a relieved expression.
“You’re here.”
“How’d you find me?” So much for an hour of serenity and bliss.
“I guessed. When you weren’t at the gluten-free bakery, I realized you were angry.”
“Took you that long?”
“I was distracted.”
“No...”
“Shannon.”
“Do you mind? I’m paying by the minute for my salt therapy. This is supposed to be relaxing. You are the opposite of relaxing.” I sit up. “Hold on. She let you in here?”
“Yes.”
“She wasn’t supposed to.”
“I bribed her.”
“With what?”
“I ordered one of everything they have in stock and had it shipped home.”
“You what?”
“I figured you’d want to shop.”
“Like a normal human! Where I browse and consider and decide for myself!”
“You can do that at home.”
“If this is your idea of a fun, romantic weekend away, you’re really screwing the pooch, Declan.”
“That’s... not on my agenda at all, Shannon.” He gives me a funny look. “What does that mean?”
“It means you’re messing this all up. Making mistake after mistake after mistake.”
He seems even more relieved. “Oh. Whew. I wasn’t sure what that was a metaphor, uh, for.”
“Are we going to go over points of the English language, Declan, or–”
“I am sorry.”
I blink. “For?”
“Everything.”
“That’s really vague.”
“For not telling you what really happened in the car. There is no milk supply issue.”
“I guessed.”
“You guess a lot.”
“I’m really intuitive. It’s a curse.”
“I think it’s a skill.”
“You were apologizing. Continue.”
The long, slow inhale Declan takes is marked by his look of astonishment. “Before I do that, I have to ask: what’s in the air?”
“Salt.”
“I gathered that. It’s very refreshing. May I?” He gestures to the lounge chair next to me.
“Sure.”
I know what’s coming next. He’ll take my hand. He’ll rub his thumb on the soft webbing of mine.
The bastard.
He’ll work his Declan magic and be all earnest and open and I’ll melt and cave and then we’ll have mind-blowing sex and cuddle afterward.
Wait. What was my point?
“I’m sorry,” he says.
Oh. Right. I’m still mad at him.
“I was using an online artificial intelligence program to schedule this entire trip.”
Back up. Wasn’t expecting that.
“And,” he continues, squeezing my hand, “it scheduled this entire trip. Top-of-the-line hotel, five star restaurants, special rides, you name it.”
“But...” I say, waiting for it.
“In Portland, Oregon.”
I snort. Then I cough. Then I burn. You ever snort salt air? Ouch.
“Oh, Declan,” I say, eyes watering from the raw pain. “You didn’t.”
“I didn’t. AlcheMyAssistant did.”
“Alchemy?”
“It’s a start-up. Stupid names go hand in hand with startups. It’s a text-based assistant.”
“You tried to replace Grace with a company you text to get all that work done for you?”
“Don’t ask. Don’t judge. Just listen.”
Did he just use my line that I use on him all the time?
I sigh. “Gotcha. So that’s what you were dealing with in the car?”
“I couldn’t find the hotel or the restaurants, so I ended up calling them and...” He kisses the back of my hand. “None of that matters.”
“Do we have a hotel?”
“We do now. Dave fixed it.”
“Dave? Dave who?”
“Dave. From Grind It Fresh!”
“Dave Amari? The barista?”
“Yes. But not anymore.”
“He doesn’t work for us anymore?”
“No, no, he does. I just hired him to be my new executive assistant.”
“Dec, you’re not making any sense.”
“Dave turns out to be a whiz, intuitive and fast, at helping me with the kinds of executive planning and coordinating issues I need in order to be effective.”
“You mean he saved your ass.”
“That’s another way to put it.”
“So you hired him? Full-time?”
“Yes.”
“We’re going to need a new barista.”
“I texted HR. They’re on it.”
“So... everything’s fixed?”
“I don’t know.” He gives me a sideways look. “Is it?”
“Did you really buy one of everything out there in the store to be shipped home?”
“Yes.”
“You are unpredictable, Mr. McCormick.”
“Says the woman who disappeared on me. I was really worried,” he says, squeezing my hand, pulling it up to his mouth again. This time, he doesn’t kiss my hand.
He licks it.
“Dec!” I hiss, not wanting to let go of my earlier anger and hurt. It’s clinging to me, unfinished, still righteous.
“You are salty.”
“No kidding.”
“I mean literally.” His tongue probes between my fingers, making me wet, breath hitching as he does this impossibly twisty thing that makes me clear my throat and try to reclaim my hand.
But I can’t.
“Please,” I moan.
“Please what?”
“Please don’t make me orgasm in the middle of a salt vault.”
“Is that an option?”
“You keep doing that and I won’t be able to help myself.”
“You cannot say that to me and expect me to stand down. I accept the challenge.” He leans over and licks my earlobe in that just-right way that he knows will tip me over.
“What? No! That wasn’t a challenge! Not one bit.” I bite my lower lip as his tongue continues, the familiar wellspring of arousal concentrating between my legs, all of my nerve endings rushing like a spring melt, tributaries swelling, gravity pulling the force of nature to one point of concentration. I can’t help myself now, Declan’s deft touch finding an accidental erogenous zone on me as he stands, moving over me, his body on top, knee opening my legs until his thigh is against the part of me that needs to be touched most.
“I can’t!” I beg. “This room is supposed to be relaxing!”
“So relax,” he urges, his hushed, hot breath against my ear the final push, my body bucking against him, teeth sinking into the fabric of his jacket.
I come hard and fast against him, laughing at the end, incredulous as I grind and take, needing the release more than I knew, more than I could ever have dreamed.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me, here. Now.”
“Thank you for letting me.” Our eyes meet. He’s so damned pleased with himself.
“That was unpredictable.”
“Funny. You just used that word to describe me. Maybe life has become too staid.”
“Our life is hardly boring.”
“No. It’s not. But there’s always room to learn more about ourselves. And each other.�
��
“I just learned never to let you kiss my hand in public.”
“And I just learned the opposite.” His wink is charming as he settles back into his chair.
“That’s it?” I pant, incredulous. “You’re leaving me like this?”
“You want more?” He goes for my hand. I snatch it back.
“No! I mean, not here.” I look at the ceiling and take a deep breath. “I have no idea how I’m going to look that nice woman in the eye when our time is up.”
Rumbles of self-satisfied laughter pour out of him. “You are hilarious.”
“I am? Because I have some common decency?”
“Because you care what other people think.”
“What do you care about?”
“I care that I just found yet another way to give you pleasure, Shannon.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“You’re a pervert.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s not a compliment!” But I’m laughing. “I married a pervert.”
“No. You married a man who likes to make his woman come. That’s not a pervert. That’s–”
“A god,” I joke. It’s a partial joke. Sometimes he’s so powerful, it kind of scares me.
In all the good ways.
He puffs up. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
I breathe into my hand, the slick between my legs making me blush with memory, body loose and voice low, sensual. “How about we cut this session short and go to our hotel? How far is it?”
“A few blocks. I already parked there. Checked in.” He reaches into his breast coat pocket and flashes two keycards.
“You’re reinforcing those god credentials.”
“Told you.”
I stand, my inner thighs still shaking, and hold out my hand. “Let’s go to the room.”
“You sure?”
“More than sure.”
As we rush out of the store, I wave and avoid eye contact, Declan laughing as we climb the stairs and race around the corner. He guides me to a beautiful old brick building, the trees and bushes around it lined with soft white Christmas lights, the grand foyer giving a feel of another time.
Normally, I’d gawk.
Right now, all I want to look at is Declan’s naked body.
By the time we’re at the door of a suite and he’s keying us in, my arms are around his waist and I’m undoing his belt.