“How much?”
We often speak in shorthand. Carrie knows what I mean. “One eighty.”
“For a half hour?”
“Focus groups. Marketing priced it with focus groups.” See? Called it.
“Was there a beta test?”
“Yes.” Carrie bites her lower lip. “Revenue from each customer jumped like crazy. They want the personal touch. One woman set up a recurring appointment.”
“I’m surprised Henry didn’t mention this to me.”
Carrie lights up. “Do you think you could convince him? He was the most requested consultant and he refused.”
I’ll bet his wife Jemma refused.
“And the guys…they’re okay with this?”
Carrie chortles. “Ryan’s loving it. Says he makes more money talking to women about their hot flashes and uptight husbands than he does when his hands are on them. They just want someone to listen.”
“For one eighty a half hour, Ryan better be a damn good listener.” Ryan is one of the tatted-up male employees. The women love him.
Carrie’s face softens, eyes going unfocused. “He is.”
“You can handle the phone tree people? I don’t have to add this to my plate?”
“Sure. No problem. It’s all about getting people to put themselves on hold when they need to be patient, and to learn to press the right buttons to get what they want.”
“Just like sex,” I note.
We share a laugh.
Just like life, I think. Someday, maybe my options will change, and I can just press zero for help.
If only life were so simple.
A message window pops open on my computer screen:
HELP GET ME OUT OF HERE NOW
It’s the cool and unflappable Henry.
What’s wrong? I type back.
CLIENTPROFNAKED!!
Professional naked? Your client is a stripper?
This would be highly unusual for an O client—our members might enjoy watching a show, but they don’t typically perform in it—but it’s certainly nothing to panic over.
PROFESSOR!
NAKED!
HELPOUTNOW!
I’ll get Zeke, I type. Zeke’s our other master-level masseur. He has brown hair halfway down his back, pulled up in a trendy man bun right now, blonde streaks a sign of his addiction to outdoor life. Tanned, with strange scars dotting his thighs, and a tattoo of a mandala on one ass cheek (hey – I can’t help but look—it’s my job) in vibrant colors. Zeke’s a great asset to O.
Not quite as experienced as Henry, and lacking his way with words… although judging by this message, Henry’s way with words has just escaped him.
I check the daily appointments screen and see that Henry’s in the Sage Room, on the spa level, second floor. Then I’m out the door, running for the elevator.
In four-inch heels, this is more like speed-walking on tiptoe.
As I “run,” I call the spa manager and explain the situation. Not that I understand the situation.
Zeke and I arrive at the door of the Sage Room at the same moment. He taps gently, giving me a look with green eyes that glitter with mirth. After a slight pause, the sliding door opens and Henry slips out.
Poor Henry has a towel wrapped around his head like a turban, hiding his curly ginger hair. Although the treatment rooms are maintained at the optimal temperature, he is sweating profusely.
“What’s wrong?” Zeke asks urgently. “Should we call security?” I love his English accent. So do the clients.
“Barnacle!” Henry hisses.
Zeke and I exchange a glance.
“A skin condition?” I am at a loss.
“Professor Barnacle! My bio-ethics professor! Naked! Moaning!” Henry is distraught.
“Zeke, are you free now? Can you take over?” I ask. “Her information should be on the iPad screen, right?”
He nods and disappears into the darkened room, the music pulsing and then silenced as the door slides open and closed.
Inside the staff lounge, I pour Henry a glass of O’s signature passionflower-infused iced tea. Counter-intuitively, passionflower is supposed to be calming. With a shot of vodka, it might be. Members can order it that way, too, but of course the O team must not indulge. Until their shift is over, that is.
“When I entered the room, I smelled a familiar perfume, but that happens all the time. And the lights were low, and she was lying face down, covered with the sheet. The client info screen showed that she requested the Tantric Touch massage, ninety minutes. I put my music on, and I started warming and mixing the oils. Then I noticed the wild black hair.” He shudders. “And that purple nail polish she wears. But still I wasn’t sure.”
“Did you say anything?” I ask because Henry has a distinctive voice, surprisingly soft for a man of his power and size. That voice would identify him, even in the dark.
“No, the idea is to be as silent as possible. As if my hands were unconnected to anyone. Just floating touch.”
I reflect on this for a brief moment. Money actually can buy happiness.
“So I began the massage,” he continues. “In Tantric practice, everything proceeds very slowly. Thank god for that. If it went any faster, I’d have violated every faculty-student interaction policy on record by now. It wasn’t until she turned over that I knew for sure it was Professor Barnacle. And by then she was begging me to ‘move to the center of her chakra’ and ‘release her inner flood.’”
“That’s a new phrase for female ejaculation,” I mutter.
“I thought that was a myth?”
I don’t even dignify that with a response.
“Poor Zeke.” Henry shudders and motions for me to make another cup of tea. This is a role reversal. Part of his job is to serve me. But we’re friends, and I’m compassionate, and I’m curious.
I want to know what the hell happened in the Sage Room, and if I’m already being nice, I might as well pump him for info.
“Did she touch you?”
Before Henry can answer, a loud moan that rises along three octaves takes up all the available decibels in the room.
“Oh, dear,” I whisper. We do have some rather enthusiastic clients who fully embrace their sexuality and aren’t inhibited in expressing pleasure. Generally, though, they manage not to shatter all the wine glasses in the tasting room.
“I hope she tips well,” Henry mumbles, then looks at me. “And I swear, if it were anyone but my advisor, I’d be fine with the basics.”
Another moan.
“Is that what Zeke’s doing? Basic Tantric Massage?” If that’s “the basics,” we need to up our prices.
Henry shrugs.
“We do need to walk a fine line. I’m sure Zeke’s not crossing it.”
“Oh, God,” Henry’s professor cries out. “You have divine hands.”
“That’s it,” Henry announces, elbows on his knees, fingers threading through his hair in frustration. “I can’t continue working here. This was way too close a call.”
An alarm buzzes through me. Clients request Henry at a rate three times higher than our other masseurs. That’s why his fee is so much higher, and the profit margins are fabulous. With a presentation for investors coming up this week, I have to have the financials in a solid place.
Henry’s too valuable to let a horny barnacle scare him off.
“Go home. I’ll talk to management and make sure they’ll cover your base pay for the day. You’re rattled. Understandably rattled,” I add, as Henry glares at me.
“Can you imagine finding someone from your personal life suddenly invading your work space?”
“No.” I shudder. I have one rule: no mixing business with pleasure. Okay, so I broke that when I met Joe, but that was it. One time only. Joe was the exception.
“Who’s the moaner?” asks Ryan, walking into the lounge carrying a Kylo Ren costume and a light saber. He hangs the costume in the staff closet and turns around, hands on hips, ears perked.
“Client,” Henry snaps.
“Duh, it’s a client.” Ryan shoots him a pissed-off look. Ryan is our resident “Bad Boy” masseur. Liberally covered in real tattoos, he’s sleeved and looks just enough like Charlie Hunnam when he dyes his hair blonde to make him the second most popular masseur at the spa. “But damn, she’s wicked loud. Chloe, you need to upgrade the soundproofing in those massage rooms.”
“Duly noted.” Now that is one operations item a mystery shopper would never, ever document.
“Why the hell are you sitting in the lounge sipping tea in your shoelace?” Ryan asks Henry. His hair is his natural chestnut brown, short but longer at the bangs, and he wears a slight beard, just scraggly enough to make him look dirty, but not so long as to evoke Duck Dynasty. Like all the O men, he’s tall, muscular, and makes Joe Manganiello’s abs look like Pillsbury biscuits.
Note to self: O Spa calendar series photography needs to be booked. Stat.
Henry stands abruptly, abandoning his tea. He gives me a savage look and says, “I’ll take you up on the offer to go home,” his butt-flossed ass the last we see of him as he storms out.
“What the hell’s wrong with him?”
“The moaner is one of his professors.”
Ryan lets out a low whistle. “No shit?” Like all the other employees at O, Ryan knows how aggressively Henry separates his personal and professional lives. “No wonder he’s upset. She recognized him?” Women love Ryan’s Southie accent, which becomes more pronounced when he talks about drama.
“It’s all fine now,” I say. Ryan has a tendency to hoard gossip, and I am not going to be his supplier.
One of the cleaning staff enters the room, dressed in the O signature kimono but with a zipper instead of a tie to hold it closed, and swiftly removes Henry’s cup of tea.
“Hey, Chloe, I think payroll screwed up last week. I was shorted about eighty bucks on my paycheck,” Ryan says.
My turn to groan. “Again?”
“Corporate never makes mistakes in my favor.”
I pat his forearm as I walk out of the lounge. “File a ticket in the new accounting system. CC me on it. I’ll make sure it’s caught up next week.” I don’t handle operations, but with O poised to expand into new franchises after my upcoming presentation with Anterdec, I troubleshoot every issue these days.
He flashes me a brilliant, grateful smile. If I didn’t have a strict “No Fraternizing” rule with the employees, I’d be so tempted.
“Thanks. You’re the best.”
“Oh, God!” the professor screams. Screams.
“I think Zeke’s the best,” I say out of the corner of my mouth, as Ryan bursts into laughter.
Just another day at work, and it’s not even half over.
Chapter Three
Chloe
I was born without abdominal muscles.
This has never been confirmed by any medical professional, but it’s the only possible reason why I have executed tens of thousands of curl-ups in my lifetime with no visible result.
None.
Jemma is lying on the mat next to mine, cradling a two-pound weight on her chest. She’s not even pretending to move. If we pulled the mats outdoors on the roof deck, people would think we were tanning.
Hmm, not a bad idea. At least we would be accomplishing something.
One of the perks of working at O Club is that we get to use Oxygen. Not the breathing apparatus. The fitness studio. Although there is a special room here where members can inhale concentrated oxygen in special scents.
We offer Summer in Provence, Colorado Evergreen, Caribbean Spice. For non-vegans, we have Ferrari Leather. I have suggested Warm Balls—more than once—but it never appears. Am I the only one who finds that scent delicious? And for some of us, it’s scarcer than Southern Oleander.
We’re in product development for a new scent: Jamie Fraser. The focus group marketing companies have been inundated with volunteers to test-smell that one.
Jemma turns on her side and does a few leg lifts. Like, three. In the middle of my work day, I can take an hour and join any class with an open spot. In fact, I’m encouraged to join a class every workday. It helps me stay in touch with the business and the clientele.
Maybe once I adopt, we can add Baby and Me yoga classes.
Scratch that. Definitely out of the scope of O’s branding.
But I can’t stop thinking about babies.
“It’s a good thing you decided to adopt instead of doing IVF, Chloe. I can’t really see you doing a strict daily routine of Kegel exercises. Unless lululemon introduces a maternity line with super cute yoga pants.” Jemma’s comment about adoption jars me out of my reverie.
“Oh, lots of benefits to adoption. Like, I don’t have to worry about my water breaking in public. And I’ll definitely take the baby home wearing my pre-motherhood jeans.” No one has openly asked, but I’m adopting for reasons that are no one else’s business anyway, so the lack of questions has been fabulous. It’s complicated, but the bottom line is, I have always wanted this baby.
Jemma sticks her tongue out at me, just a little. It’s cute. “You would anyway. Your size never changes. My closet has every size from 2 to 14. I’ve shopped in major department stores that don’t carry that many sizes.”
“My size never changes because I am a contentment eater.”
“A what?” Jemma laughs.
“A contentment eater. I’m not hungry when I’m deliriously happy, and I can’t even look at food when I’m sad or upset. Or stressed. When I’m perfectly content, and everything is smooth, then I will polish off a pizza. By myself. But since I’ve almost never been perfectly content… size four.” Okay, six. But who’s checking?
“And anyway,” I continue, “you have a husband who finds you dead sexy no matter what you’re wearing.” And he should. Jemma’s gorgeous.
“I do,” she agrees, smiling to herself. She runs her hand along her own curvy hip. “Maybe when your baby comes, contentment will be easier to find. How much longer now?”
“The birth mom is due in twelve weeks. After all this time, I can’t believe the baby is almost here. I’m so excited, Jem. And terrified. I keep wondering if this is how my mom felt when she adopted me.”
“How is Li?” Li is a sixteen-year-old homeless street kid I met a few months ago while doing philanthropic work for a charity attached to Anterdec, the parent company of the O Spa chain. Through a series of still bizarre events that I am amazed ever happened, she came to me, confessing her pregnancy, and asking me to adopt the baby.
Unreal.
Even my adoption lawyer said she’d never heard of such a thing.
Yet here we are, months later, on track. I go with Li to the downtown health clinic for her monthly checkups. Baby’s fine. Li’s getting social services, refusing help from me other than some shopping sprees, and determined as ever to have me adopt.
Unreal, all right.
If it weren’t happening to me, I wouldn’t believe it, either.
“Li’s fine. A trooper.”
“You realize she still might…this could be…”
I place my hand on her arm. She stops her leg lefts. I’m not sure if she stops out of compassion for me, or relief that she has an excuse to stop.
“I know, Jem. You and Henry and the social worker and my lawyer don’t have to remind me constantly. I’ll support Li if she changes her mind. I really will. I’ll just go back to the more traditional route I was in before she came along. It’s okay.”
“Sorry.”
We share a smile that manages to mix excitement, wistfulness, and pain.
“Not content yet?”
“Nope. I’m the only expectant mother ever to lose three pounds.”
“What’s Joe saying about this? It’s going to change a lot of things. You’re not going to be able to meet him at odd hours, or on a moment’s notice.” Jemma looks at me carefully. “Or bail him out of jail when he gets a DUI and doesn’t want his wife to know.
”
“That only happened once!”
She gives me a look that manages to mix pained pity with drill-sergeant grit.
I look away. “I have a meeting in twenty minutes, gotta go.”
And I roll up my mat. I’m never going to have abs.
It’s hopeless.
* * *
5:30. I’ve got to leave work now if I’m going to meet Joe at my apartment in an hour. There’s plenty of wine, and vodka in the freezer if he wants his favorite martini. But I need to stop at the Broadway Market for olives, some chèvre, and those little toast crackers he likes.
And I need to do a little picking up before he gets there. Joe doesn’t like disorder, and there’s a black lace bra drip-drying in the bathroom. A wine glass and a coffee cup in the kitchen sink.
And oh my god, I left my swan charging on the bedside table. Joe may be my boyfriend, but every woman needs a battery-operated backup, right?
Jemma’s words haunt me. She’s right. Joe has zero interest in kids. I know this.
Yet I’m adopting anyhow.
I admit it: I have a paradoxical inner life. I own it.
I am stuffing the mystery shop report into my bag when my phone screen lights up with a text coming in.
Joe: I can’t believe this, have to cancel tonight
Shit.
Shit, I type.
I know, SO sorry, have to work late. This acquisition. Joe is representing a company that’s buying an Italian textile factory, and the international laws are complicated.
I text back a frown.
But the divorce lawyer said there’s been movement, he replied. Honey, I’m so close.
I smile. He can’t see it, of course, but I do. No worries. Poor you, don’t stay too late. Call me later, I answer.
Damn it. He’s been doing this lately. That acquisition might be great for his client’s bottom line, but it’s been hell on my libido.
At least I don’t have to race to the market. But I was really looking forward to seeing him.
And feeling him.
And him feeling me.
And who knows when he’ll have another free evening.
Spring Romance Page 86