“Spa night,” Sean says reflexively.
“You need to relax,” Declan murmurs against my ear as I sip from the mug, tasting a tea that’s sweet and vanilla with hints of nut.
I spot a tray of nail polish lined up like offerings—pale pink, soft gray, something shimmery that could pass for champagne. “Y’all didn’t have to?—”
“Shh,” Sean interrupts, pressing a finger to his lips. “Patient non-compliant.”
Rowan gestures toward the hall. “Bath’s ready. Towels are warm.”
“Go on,” Declan murmurs. “Let us handle things for once.”
I manage a smile. “You three planned this?”
“Down to knowing you’d be home early,” Sean says, standing from the rug and walking over to me to help steer me toward the bathroom.
I let them walk me down the hallway, but I look up at him and say, “No, you didn’t. Cheyenne texted you.”
He chuckles and opens the bathroom door. “Whatever you want to believe, princess.”
Steam curls out of the bathroom doorway. The tub is full, foam shimmering on the surface. Candles flicker along the counter. A record player hums from the living room, something slow and low that wraps through the walls.
Three pairs of hands help me undress. Below me, Declan holds my feet and unbuckles the straps of my heels, lifting my legs to carefully pull me out of them. Rowan unzips my dress and then works at the fastenings of my bra as Sean pulls my dress down, letting me step out of it.
By the time I sink into the water, my body hums in relief. The heat catches up to the ache in my back, the places that have been carrying too much. I close my eyes and let the sound of their voices drift from the other room. Sean’s laugh rolls through the hall, followed by Declan’s dry retort and Rowan’s low rumble of command. It’s the most soothing sound in the world.
When I finally emerge, I find my robe has been warmed on the towel rack. They must hear me clattering as I get out becausethey’re at the door, helping me slide my arms into the sleeves, their fingers brushing my skin.
“Seat’s ready, Miss Abel,” Declan declares, guiding me back to the bedroom.
“The patient appreciates your professionalism,” I tease.
He doesn’t take the bait. He just guides me to the chair in the bedroom where Sean is already uncapping nail polish bottles and Rowan is arranging lotion and oil like surgical instruments.
“Sit down,” Declan says. “You’ve done enough.”
So I do. Sean takes one of my hands, tongue poking out in concentration as he paints a coat of shimmer over each nail. Rowan kneels at my feet, dripping the oil from the candle onto my calves and rubbing it in, thumbs tracing circles until the muscles unclench. Declan moves behind me, his hands firm on my shoulders, the pressure precise at first, then softer as he exhales into it.
“Y’all are ridiculous,” I murmur, somewhere between laughter and a sigh.
“Ridiculously thorough,” Declan corrects.
“Thoroughly ridiculous,” I say back, looking up at him.
“Please, can the patient look ahead?” he asks me, gently correcting me with a hand on my neck.
Rowan chuckles under his breath and asks, “Does it feel good at all, at all?”
“It does,” I admit.
They feed me in intervals—tiny bites of cake, a strawberry here, a sip of tea there. The whole thing feels like a dream I’m afraid to wake up from.
“Next year,” Sean says, “we’re renting a beach house. Kids can come. Maybe.”
“Maybe,” I echo, eyes heavy.
Declan’s voice drops near my ear. “Sleep if you need to, now.”
I almost do, but I don’t want to miss a moment of the pampering. If I sleep, I won’t feel myself being massaged. Sean says, softly, “You don’t have to earn nights like this, you know.”
