“You have fifteen minutes before your first treatment in the mud room,” she tells me. “Once you’ve changed, take a seat in the tea lounge. Someone will escort you between each session.”
Gavin’s signed me up for the royal treatment—a mud wrap followed by a full-body scrub, then a ninety-minute massage, facial, mani/pedi and salon appointment.
I may never leave.
Then again, the spa folks have no idea what they’re up against. Other than a couple of massages, I’ve never done the spa thing. I get my hair cut at a place that charges twenty bucks. I’ve never even had a pedicure.
Will that be weird? I vow to go with the flow. Try new things.
I sip green tea in the lounge with a half-dozen “no talking” signs and more than a dozen women ignoring them. Even though everyone’s in identical robes and slippers, no jewelry and little makeup, gossip indicates the social status pecking order.
I eavesdrop, catching snippets about whether that bitch had more work done. One of the women catches my eye. “Do you have something to add to our conversation, or are you just along for the ride?”
I shake my head, trying to get off the hook with an apologetic smile.
“Then perhaps you should relax a bit further away,” another woman says, inclining her head toward an empty bench at the opposite side of the lounge.
Ouch. But I’m not about to lose a stupid spa turf war.
I stand, stretching to my full height, and lean in to their cluster with a whisper. “Ladies, you might want to keep your voices down. You don’t know who I am. But I know exactly who you are.”
I drift away, letting them chew on the possibilities of my threat. Now that I’ve seen behind the curtain of so many of New York’s elite, they no longer scare me. Everyone has secrets that could undermine their reputations.
The rude women are still staring at me when a tiny woman beckons me to follow her to a treatment room swirling with new age music, low light, and the scent of lavender. She tells me to start face down—naked!—on the vinyl-covered table and then she steps out of the room.
I hang my robe on a peg and arrange myself on the table under a thin sheet. I wiggle, adjusting my boobs so they’re not smashed beneath me. I wiggle some more, fidgeting to find the right way to position my legs as she reenters the room.
“You need a bolster.” She slips a half-cylinder pillow under my feet to elevate them. Instantly, the pressure on my lower back is gone. “I’m Iris. Is this your first time?”
I confess my spa-virgin status to Iris as she coats my body in thick, gooey mud. The fat paintbrush tickles as she applies the mud, explaining that it will “draw out impurities.”
My mind’s in the gutter with that comment and I snort. It’ll take a lot more than a mud wrap to relieve me of the impure thoughts I’ve been having about Gavin.
He’s coming home. I’m not sure when, but I’m excited and scared and lusty and nervous all at once.
I worry I’ll disappoint him. I’m just me—pretty, but not a stunner like Lulu. Talented? Hell, I don’t know. You’re reading my writing. You decide.
I worry he’ll disappoint me. That he’ll be the cocky rock star I read about in Spin, instead of the confused, wrecked, passionate guy I’ve been chatting with.
I don’t want the rock star—I want the Gavin who wrapped me up in his favorite T-shirt after a very scary night. The Gavin who figured out how to send me passion fruit gelato on my birthday. That’s the Gavin I know.
Or think I know.
I worry that reality won’t work. That outside of a chat session, we won’t connect in real life the way we did online. Will we have chemistry? Will he still want to do the things he promised to do to me once he sees me in person?
Iris removes the mud from my back and helps me roll over so she can coat the other side of me. I sigh deeply and she mistakes it for relaxation—but mostly, it’s angst.
I’m crazy about him.
Truth.
And if Gavin takes one look at me and runs the other way, my heart will be shredded. Eugene-Beryl would grieve and move home. The budding New York-Beryl? I have no idea how I’d survive it.
Maybe I need a strategy. Maybe I should have my guard up in case things don’t go as planned. I try a few careless phrases in my mind, trying to be dismissive of too little feeling from Gavin. I try to be cool, aloof, disinterested.
But who am I kidding?
The very reason I’m so eager to see Gavin is the fact that he was real with me. He’s not the packaged product I imagined when I first saw him online. I’ve given him truth in return—secrets I haven’t shared with anyone. Feelings that run deeper than I ever thought possible, even after a year and a half with Jeff.
Iris finishes the mud and rinses me with a high-pressure showerhead that makes me squirm. She rubs a soapy lather all over my body and then pulls two coarse mittens over her hands. She scrubs furiously on my skin, up and down every limb, my back, my armpits, even—cringe—my butt.
“Pressure OK?” she asks brightly, not seeing me cringe.
“It’s fine,” I lie. I open my eyes and see rolls of dead skin being sloughed off my arms, the way it comes off after a sunburn and a shower.
Gross, yet strangely satisfying.
When that peculiar brand of torture is over, I’m transferred to another room with a carpeted floor instead of tile. The sound of a trickling fountain kind of makes me want to pee. Jared’s in charge of my massage and I’m blissed out in minutes under his long, sweeping strokes.
I’m snoring on the massage table when he’s through. No wonder rich people go to spas. If I had as much money as Gavin, I’d be here every weekend.
Or daily. I could handle daily.
In the salon, a stylist walks me to a treatment room where she instructs me to lie down on another table. “I just can’t let you out of here without fixing those brows,” she says sternly. “They’re all wrong for your eyes. Have you been threaded before?”
I shake my head and watch as the woman unwinds several lengths from a fat spool of white cotton thread.
“Don’t worry. It doesn’t hurt much.”
The “much” is what I’m worried about. I remember a failed brow-waxing experiment in college with Stella—it felt like she was tearing my skin off.
I exhale and chant “try new things” in my head as fast as possible, bracing myself.
I hear a high twang, like a tiny stringed instrument being plucked, and feel the thread run above my brow. Two strands twist together and rip lines of hair out of my face. It’s not nearly as bad as wax and when I finally inspect the finished product in a mirror, I have to admit it works.
Satisfied, the stylist takes me back to her chair where she does a treatment that turns my curls into luscious waves. Lea Michele can kiss my ass—now I have show-stopping hair.
I’m a million times more relaxed than when I started, silently thanking Gavin again for the birthday treat. But I’m no closer to figuring out what I need to do about Gavin. He could be home anytime, and I need a plan.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
I drift out of the spa on a cloud of endorphins, ready to pour myself into bed for a long Sunday nap.
I feel rubber-limbed and squeaky clean after being purified, scrubbed, massaged, plucked, and polished. I also look ridiculous, my face red and blotchy from threading and my yoga clothes sweaty from the walk home.
I check my phone and Mom’s sent me a text to say Dan’s taking her to the airport. I smile. I know she has to get back to Eugene for client appointments tomorrow, but I’d bet a pint of gelato that she’ll be back in New York soon.
When I open the door to Gavin’s apartment, I immediately feel something different.
The terrace doors are open. The living room lights are on. And Jasper doesn’t greet me with his familiar baroo—I don’t see him anywhere.
I kick off my sneakers at the door and pad into the apartment. A ratty-looking backpack is slumped on the couch next to a battered guit
ar case. A glass of ice water sweats on the kitchen island.
Gavin.
I don’t call out. Instead, I tread silently through the apartment, looking for him in the office, the music room and the downstairs guest rooms.
Nothing.
I take a breath for courage and ascend the spiral staircase, wondering if I should somehow knock.
Dirty jeans and a T-shirt are piled on the floor of Gavin’s bedroom, his bathroom door ajar. Jasper’s snuggled in the center of the new white comforter, curled in his dog-bagel shape.
I hear the shower shut off and I’m caught—should I run back downstairs? Should I have knocked and waited outside? Before I can flee, the bathroom door opens and I see Gavin in a billow of steam with nothing but a towel slung low around his hips.
Hot damn.
I shrink back toward the stairs but Gavin sees me and his face shifts from surprise to a smile.
“Beryl.” He opens his arms, beckoning me closer. I can’t walk away from this magnetic pull and I come to him, closing my eyes as I bury my face against his neck. Holding him is a thousand times better than I imagined.
I feel his damp skin against my cheek, his hands sifting through my newly straightened hair. I open my eyes and I’m inches from the tattoo that I’ve looked at a million times in pictures—reckless inked just below his collarbone.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” I say, wrapping my arms more tightly around his waist. “You’re real.”
“You’re a dream,” he says. “I got home and it was everything you promised. The only way I was sure this was my place was the piano.”
“Do you like it?” I tilt my head up, my hazel eyes meeting his pale blue ones. His full mouth is inches from mine and I flash to the wicked things I’ve imagined it doing to me, over and over.
“Oh, yes.” Gavin steps back, holding me at arm’s length as his eyes sweep my body. “I like.” He’s not talking about the apartment.
“I’m so glad you’re home.”
“Me, too. We have a lot of catching up to do.” He guides me to the foot of his bed and has me sit. I follow his direction, docile and curious, wondering if he’s going to do the things he’s promised in our most intimate conversations right now.
I lick my lips in anticipation.
But he goes to a dresser to retrieve new clothes. As if sensing my train of thought, he grins. “After everything we’ve talked about, I’d rather just drop this towel and ravish you, but I have learned a few manners on my trip.”
Gavin’s smirk is wicked as he retreats to his bathroom and puts on clothes. The fact that he leaves the bathroom door ajar has my body on high alert even though I can’t see him dress.
“Let’s try this from the beginning,” he says, taking my hand as he leads me down the spiral staircase. “Hi, I’m Gavin, and it’s nice to meet you.”
His grin is boyish and sweet. His blond hair sticks up in every direction after being scrubbed dry with a towel and left uncombed.
“I’m Beryl.” I giggle as we walk toward the kitchen. “And if you play your cards right, I’m willing to share some of the passion fruit gelato a cute guy gave me.”
“Cute guy? Should I be jealous?”
“Depends on if you think you can compete.” I take the gelato from his freezer and grab two spoons from a drawer, feeling weird that I know Gavin’s house better than he knows it, considering I’ve reorganized and redecorated every inch.
Gavin follows me to the squishy leather couches in the living room. “What do I have to do to beat this guy?”
I love that he’s playing along. I sit and tuck my feet under me. Gavin sits close, one bare foot on his knee, and helps me pry the lid off the gelato. “Well, for starters, this guy isn’t just some bad-boy rock star.”
Gavin frowns. “Does that mean I have to be a good boy?”
I grin. “Not too good. But reformed a bit. No more self-destructive jags.”
“Agreed. What else?”
“He listens. I mean, really, really listens—he gets me. One time I randomly mentioned I liked gelato and he sent me four pints of this.” I tip the carton for Gavin to take a spoonful and he puts it in his mouth, savoring it.
“This is really good.”
“Duh.”
“The guy who found it for you must be a genius.”
I laugh. “He’d like to think that.”
“So he’s not? Well, then, all I’ve got to do is prove my genius-ness and I win.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Then tell me. What’s the magic recipe?”
“When I met this guy, he was a screwed-up, irresponsible celebrity and I was an ultra-responsible New York newbie.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m try-new-things Beryl. And I want to get to know a guy named Gavin who’s found a new muse, ditched his pity party, and decided he’s ready.”
“For what?”
“This.” I lean forward and press my lips against his, my eyes open and searching his reaction. His hand freezes in midair, still holding an empty spoon, and the other hand plunges into my hair and tightens into a fist.
The spoon falls and Gavin turns me, in one fluid motion pulling me on top of him as he reclines into the couch. His lips are hot and demanding, speaking with a thousand kisses to the dam of passion and need that’s been opened now that we are finally face to face.
I open to him, feel his tongue in my mouth, his hands on my body. I hear his breathing shift and quicken, and I moan as his lips blaze a trail along my jaw, then down toward the hollow at my throat.
I sink my teeth into his shoulder, grasping to bring him closer to me. I move my hips to his. I feel him harden in response, his arms pulling me so tight I’m breathless and alive and soaring.
And then, just as suddenly, he breaks us apart, his breath heavy as he pushes me away. He twists his head and struggles to sit, righting us from the deep dive of passion.
“Gavin? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He scrubs his hands against his face, as if he’s trying to wake up from an intense dream.
“Is it something I—?”
“No. You’re damn near perfect, Beryl. This is just—I have to go. I have to deal with something before we can do this. I promised myself when I was traveling that I would do this.”
“Can I help?”
“No. I have to do this alone.”
His statement stings and I blink hard. “Then when can I see you?” I realize I’m committing a major slide into neediness and I balk, feeling stupid as I ask the question.
Fear and insecurity wash over me but Gavin pulls me close to him, planting a few soft kisses across my cheek, with a final sweet touch to my lips.
“Meet me for dinner. Tonight at eight. We’ll go to Sant Ambroeus and sit outside. You’ll love their sangria.”
“OK.” I hesitate. A question hangs in the air, waiting for me to ask it. “What do you want me to do about accommodations tonight? I didn’t know you were coming home today or else I would have gotten my stuff out to give you space.”
Gavin runs a gentle hand over my jaw and tips up my chin. “Let’s talk about it—and us—tonight.” He offers me one more kiss and then sweeps through the apartment for his shoes, wallet and keys.
“Bye, Beryl.” Gavin waves at me, still shell-shocked on his couch, and is out his front door.
My chest heaves in a shuddering breath.
What. Was. That.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
I have three hours until dinner and I don’t know what to do with myself. My hormones are on overdrive, fueled by seeing Gavin so close and so real, from touching him and aching under his touch.
His sudden exit bewilders me. I was so certain of him when he was a pen pal, an abstraction I built up in my mind. That abstraction was healing and feeling and finding a way back to reality.
This Gavin, the real Gavin, is in the wind.
This Gavin is filling in the gaps that my imagination filled befor
e. I filled the cracks with what I wanted to see and hear from him. Now that he’s real, he’s flawed.
My Gavin is not as simple and perfect as a dream. Not that I should be calling him mine.
I go through my room—no, Gavin’s guest room—and clean up, packing some of my clothes into my suitcase to be ready to move. I can go anytime; the Steens left for Europe this morning and I made my first visit to walk their chocolate Lab, Aleah, before going to the spa.
I tell myself I haven’t moved over there yet because Jasper needs me, too, and I didn’t know when Gavin would get home. But the truth is, living here—sleeping in Gavin’s bed, feeling his soft T-shirt around my body—makes me feel closer to him.
I take Jasper for a walk. I need to get under the trees and think.
Jasper and I get Aleah from the Steens’ and we wind through The Ramble, following a shady trail where few others are likely to pass. I let the dogs off-leash to sniff around in the brush and I shut my eyes, inhaling the smell of warm earth and early summer, verdant leaves and sweet grass.
This space gives me clarity: I am being lame.
Try-new-things Beryl gives New-York-newbie Beryl a swift kick in the ass. I can mope or I can seize the moment, get dressed up, go out and have a fantastic date, and stop whining about which way the wind is blowing with Gavin.
He’s real. He’s unpredictable. And just because he’s not following my imagined playbook doesn’t mean things aren’t going to be amazing.
And if they don’t turn out perfectly?
That’s not the point. The point is to try.
***
I’m reinvigorated by the time I’ve fed Aleah at her apartment and returned with Jasper to Gavin’s. I listen carefully when I enter but he’s not home yet.
I shower and take extra time with my makeup, drawing fine eyeliner at the base of subtle shadow. I stain my lips and apply gloss, then pin up my hair in defense against New York’s sweaty heat.
My bumpkinwear has migrated to the back of my closet, and for a few minutes I debate resurrecting something from Eugene to wear to dinner with Gavin. But he’s a rock star, and I’m—well, nothing but a house sitter.
Tattoo Thief (BOOK 1) Page 20