It’s been a long time since I’ve felt that.
Back in my hotel room, I stare at the swimsuit lying on the chair as if it’s personally betrayed me. I’d packed it with good intentions, thinking I might use the pool at Morton Hall. I’d even looked up the opening times. But the moment I arrived and saw the number of people floating about in the not very big pool, I decided it was safer to admire the water from a respectable distance, fully clothed.
Now, here I am, debating whether I’ve completely lost my mind.
How on earth did I let Aaron talk me into this?
He’d walked me back to Morton Hall after we finished our hot chocolate, unhurried, the way people do when they don’t actually want to say goodbye. Somewhere between talking about Mrs Higgins’ “tactical evacuation” and the ridiculous spa recommendation, I’d admitted I liked the idea of a hot tub, just not the part where it involved other humans.
He’d grinned, that maddening, cheeky grin of his, and said, “Then we’ll go when there aren’t any.”
I’d laughed it off, but he’d somehow turned it into a plan.
And then, before I knew what I was doing, I’d given him my number. With conditions.
“No calls,” I’d said firmly.
“Only texts,” he’d promised, hand over heart, like it was a solemn oath.
Now my phone sits on the bedside table, silent and accusing, while the swimsuit stares at me from across the room.
If someone had told me three days ago that I’d be considering a semi-spontaneous spa visit with a man I barely know, I’d have assumed they’d mistaken me for someone else.
Maybe I have too.
I find Aaron waiting in the lobby, standing near the fireplace with his hands in his pockets. He looks far too at ease for someone his size, all six foot four of him taking up space without trying. His dark hair has just enough silver at the temples to make him look effortlessly distinguished rather than old, and the faint shadow along his jaw suggests he’s either forgotten to shave or decided he looks better without bothering.
He’s wearing jeans and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, the top button undone. Simple, casual, and entirely attractive.
When he turns, those dark brown eyes—the same ones I’d admired yesterday over the hot chocolate—catch mine and I have to remind myself to breathe normally.
“You came.” He beams at me.
“I did,” I manage, though it sounds cautious, even to my own ears. “But only because you promised there wouldn’t be many people.”
His grin widens, the sort of grin that feels like it comes with its own gravitational pull. “I can do better than that. There won’t be anyone else.”
I blink, already suspicious. “What do you mean?”
“The spa’s closed,” he says, far too casually.
I frown. “Closed as in we’re not going?”
“Closed as in we have it to ourselves,” he says, clearly enjoying my confusion. “Jon and Abby know the owners. They offered us after-hours access.”
I glance at the clock above reception. “That explains the late start then.”
“Exactly,” he says. “No crowds, no noise, no audience. Just you, me, and the hot tub.”
My cheeks warm instantly. For a split second, the words sound far too intimate, the sort of thing that should come with candlelight and consequences.
Then, I catch myself. Of course he doesn’t mean it like that. He’s just being considerate. Kind. Understanding that a quiet spa sounds far more appealing to someone like me than a room full of strangers.
Still, the faint heat in my face refuses to go away.
He notices the tote bag hanging from my shoulder and gestures towards it. “Here, let me take that for you.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” I say automatically, clutching the strap a little tighter.
