“Nope.” She huffed. “I don’t know, the idea of a stranger kneading me like bread always sounded weird.”
I smirked. “You do realize that’s the appeal, right?”
She shot me a look. “Is it? Or is the appeal signing up to get publicly humiliated when they find out my back is just one giant knot?”
“That sounds like a very specific kink. I’m not against it, though.” Her fingers tightened around the linen, and I sighed deeply. “Don’t overthink it, Scribbles.”
“I’m not overthinking,” she said. “I’m just mentally preparing. What if I can’t relax? What if I tense up so much they have to call in reinforcements?”
I chuckled. “That would be a first. I highly doubt you have that much tension.”
She peeked at me, narrowing her eyes. “Maybe I didn’t, until I was forced to spend all this time with you and?—”
The moment the masseuses walked in, all serene smiles and effortless grace, Macey practically flung her face back into the headrest. I turned my head away just in time to compose myself. Barely.
“Are we ready to begin?” one of the masseuses asked in a calm, melodic voice.
Macey made a noise that might’ve been a yes.
I said, “Oh, I definitely am.”
Macey’s hand twitched like she wanted to reach over and smack me.
Soft island music played through hidden speakers, blending with the rustling palm trees outside. The masseuses poured warm oil into their hands, the scent of coconut and vanilla orchid filling the air. The second the first stroke of pressure rolled over my shoulders, I let out a deep exhale.
“See?” I said, voice melting into relaxation. “Not so bad, right?”
Macey made a noise, the sound of someone slipping into pure bliss.
I grinned. “Is that a yes?”
“Shut up,” she murmured, but there was no bite to it.
The masseuse’s hands moved expertly over my back, kneading tension I hadn’t even realized I was carrying. I sank deeper into the table, letting the steady pressure work through each muscle.
Then, from beside me, I heard another little sound—soft, almost surprised.
“That definitely wasn’t a noise of de-stress.”
Macey retaliated, “I amnotmaking noises.”
“Mm.” I cracked one eye open, watching her out of the corner of my vision. “Whatever you say.”
We slipped into comfortable silence, luxuriating in the massage. I was about ready for a nap when I heard it—a small, barely there squeak from the massage table next to me.
I turned my head slightly, just enough to catch Macey’s face. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her lips pressed together like she was trying very hard to will herself into serenity.
Another shift of the masseuse’s hands, and her body gave the slightest twitch.
I withheld a laugh. “Was that?—”
“It was nothing,” she said quickly, voice tight, her fingers gripping the edges of the table like she was bracing for impact.
I raised a brow. “Are you ticklish?”
“No,” she shot back, too fast, too defensive. Which, of course, meantyes.
I rolled my head back onto the headrest. As if this massage couldn’t get any better.
