“Where are Deshni and Sarika?” I ask, eager to see what else they’ve come up with since we spoke yesterday afternoon.
“They’re just fixing their saris,” Roger says. He follows this with a hand gesture I loosely translate asI have no words for the beauty you are about to behold.
My breath catches as Deshni, followed by Sarika, come out of the guest washroom a second later. They’re dressed in traditional Indian saris. Deshni’s fabric is a honeyed bronze with a gold pattern printed on the hem and throw. Her hair is woven in a complicated plait and coiled into a knot at the nape of her neck. Sarika’s sari is a dark green, with a similar gold pattern, and her hair is in an up-do, her face open, her smile warm and kind. Both women have captured the elegance of their heritage, and somehow also of this Beaumont destination, just by standing there.
“Here we are,” Deshni says, her eyes shy, clearly waiting for our approval.
“You look breathtaking. This is so much more than I expected,” I say, catching a look of pure love and unguarded infatuation from Roger as his gaze runs over Deshni’s face. “And this opens up so many more photo ideas. I don’t—crap, I don’tknow where to start. Plus I have to be at the morning meeting at seven with Sarika. Are you going to go dressed like that?” It might give everything away.
“We’re thinking of taking a few photos like this, and then Sarika can be my client,” Deshni says. “We can do some of those before the meeting. So she’ll be back in her uniform by then.”
“Excellent,” Tristan says, taking visual measurement of the spa. “Let’s start at the sala. The sun’s almost up, so if you want soft natural light, now’s the time.”
“Good plan,” I say. “We can do these prop shots later. There’s a lot to work with.”
We grab the props and rush to the sala where we can shoot behind the white muslin curtains that hang around the square, thatched structure. Clearly Roger or the two women have already been here as well, because the light curtains, which are usually wrapped away at night, billow softly in the early morning ocean breeze, and the massage beds are ready for clients.
Tristan puts his tripod down, and I walk around the sala. “From this side, Tris?” I ask, noting how the gentle sun rays reflect the pink dawn on the white muslin. “Maybe with Sarika and Deshni inside? Pretending to do a treatment?”
He comes up next to me, a camera already in his hands. “That looks good. We’ll need bodies on the massage tables though.”
I look at Roger; Roger looks at me. “That’s us, buddy,” I say with a chuckle.
Roger smirks but is already shaking the sand off his bare feet. I’m in my uniform, but I can cover up, or strip to my bra behind the sheets.
“Take your shirt off,” Deshni says softly as she shows Roger where to lie down. He complies, and she keeps her eyes downcast, but I spot her sneaky glance and admiration as her eyes trail the ridges of his six-pack. Roger is built, but I suppose that’s what you get hauling scuba tanks around for guests all day.
Sarika sends me a look, and there’s no disapproval in the pull of her mouth, just a weariness over what stands between two people who are clearly madly in love.
I follow Deshni’s directions, and soon Roger and I are in position, fluffy white towels over our bodies. “Keep it vague, Tris,” I call to our cameraman. He is already snapping photos from outside the sala. “I have no makeup on, so close-ups will be a no-go.”
“You look radiant this morning. You don’t need makeup,” Deshni says.
I bite my lip to hide a smile. I might have a certain glow.
“I’m keeping it vague, angel, and focusing on Deshni and Sarika,” he assures me. “It’s looking good.”
His words melt my heart, and I relax into the bed, Sarika’s oiled hands working my feet. I know we’re all faking it right now, but it feels so good. So perfect. I close my eyes, listening to the waves, relishing the soft breeze that steals a touch over my hair as the rhythmic click of Tristan’s camera comes closer and closer. When I open my eyes, I find him mere feet from me, a soft smile on his face as he looks at the camera’s screen.
“You’re winning?” I ask, conscious of how relaxed I’ve become in minutes, but also knowing I need to be at that morning brief with Sarika.
“Yep. I’ll show you later. I think you two need to go if you want to be on time. I know what you want, and with Deshni and Roger’s help, I’ll take enough photos that some of them are bound to be good enough for your brochure.”
“Thank you.” I reluctantly sit up. “Can we finish this massage some other time?”
Sarika laughs. “Any time. You just let me know when.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
LEXI
Istare at my computer screen and steel myself. It’s after six in the evening, and the only thing left to do is to check in with guests during their sundowners. I can finally say we’ve found our stride. Weeks in, I have my finger on every pulse in this place and know how everything works.
Jem and I are cordial, sort of, and she’s been a big help as I got up and running. But now I’m not sure what the hell is up with her. Ever since I became aware of the handy reflection of the glass door behind me, which allows her to see what I’m doing on my computer when she’s sitting at hers, I’ve become even more cautious around her.
My fingers hover over the keys. All I want to do is typeMia Reed sex tapein the search bar, but Jem’s still at her desk, shoveling papers. For fuck’s sake.
Our eyes connect over the short expanse of the office, and she hitches her brow at me.
