“Oh. Wow,” says Grant, eyes frozen wide. I have to stifle a snort. He bumps Martin’s shoulder, nodding at me. “This one’s a reeeeal bottle rocket in the old … sack.”
Old sack?I mouth at him, barely keeping it together. He shoots me a warning look, his lips pressed tight, but I can see the tremor of repressed laughter in his shoulders.
“Yep,” I say, fighting to keep my voice level. “Once we get started, we sure do … keep going.”
Martin clears his throat. “Well, I … I do admire your candor,” he says.
Something stony has crept into his face, but it’s still not enough. I don’t get it. We’re being the most obnoxious people who ever lived, and he still isn’t trying to kill us. What’s it going to take to push him over the edge?
“Want to know our secret?” Grant asks. Martin’s looking at him likeThanks, I’m good, whereas I’m trying not to look too intrigued. “It’s all in the buildup,” Grant continues. “You have to savor the moment. A slow dance, a massage … Don’t I give a great massage, babe?”
“Mm-hmm,” I say, a little unsteadily. “Magic fingers, this one.”
There’s a pause during which Grant doesn’t take his eyes off me, and the heat from the water seems to have entered my bloodstream.
“Matter of fact,” he says, “those shoulders are looking a little tense now. Why don’t you come here, babe?”
My breath catches. “Really?” He gives me a small nod, then flashes a quick look at Martin.Martin, who is finally beginningto frown. This is going to work. And it means nothing; it’s just the job.
Tentatively, I wade over to take my place in front of Grant. He carefully draws my hair aside, settling it over my shoulder, and breathes into his hands to warm them up—as if we haven’t all been sitting in hundred-degree water.
He starts out simply, with a karate-chopping motion that has the added bonus of splashing Martin every few seconds. I can see him flinching in my periphery, and I have to close my eyes to keep from laughing. Without a visual, there’s nothing but the sensation to focus on. And even though it’s not much more than short bursts of pressure over my upper back and shoulders, it feels good. He was right. Iwastense.
It’s when he switches to kneading, though, that I discover just how talented he is. His thumbs make slow circles at the nape of my neck, his fingers working over my shoulders. Every bit of stress in my muscles is melting away at the urging of his touch—gentle yet insistent, and absolutely sublime.
He wasn’t kidding. Hedoesgive a great massage. And it makes me wonder what else he wasn’t kidding about.
Savor the moment, he said. Did he mean that? Is that how it would be if we were really together—slow and indulgent, gradually building to more? I can imagine it. More than that—I canfeelit, right now, in the languid way his hands are moving over my back, slipping under the band of my bikini top, fingertips grazing my ribs. Only if this were real, he wouldn’t stop there. He’d pull me closer against him and I’d feel his chest at my back, his lips light on my neck, his fingers traveling forward … steady, unhurried, reverent.
But then again, there’s also that passion I’ve seen sparks of in him when stakes are high. Would he lead with that? Would he leave restraint at the door, giving in to hunger and heat? I canenvision that too—how easy it would be to let the embers between us erupt into a wild blaze. All we’d have to do is stop fighting it. And it would be like a storm breaking, all racing pulses and ravenous kisses and …
His hands go still on my back, and only then do I become aware of the sound that has just escaped my lips. There was a definite sigh. It might even have been his name.
I turn my head to gauge if he heard me, to walk it back if I need to. But the look in his eyes gives me pause. They’re locked on mine in a heavy, heated way that makes me think I may not have been alone in the fantasy. They drop lower. There’s a catch in my breath. If I moved just an inch closer, my nose would brush his.
I know we said no kissing, butcome on. How much harm could it do—just once, to play the part, to take the edge off?
I lean in to close the distance between us, and his arms wind around my torso, pulling me closer. His breath whispers across my bottom lip. And then his mouth is—
“STOP!”
Oh my God.Martin.Right. I jerk back, muscles tensed, to see him flushing an angry purple. Is this it—mission accomplished? Or did he hear me say Grant’s name? Does he know this is a setup?
“You’re a lovely couple,” he says, his eyes squeezed shut. “It’s been very nice chatting and I wish you only the best. But I am not going to shag you!”
The silence that ensues might as well be a record scratch.
“Sorry?” Grant chokes.
“Ohhh,” I say, realization dawning. “So you’re not here to—”
“No!” Martin cries, surging to his feet. “I’m here for some peace and quiet and to think about my writing. That’s all I wanted. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will go do that somewhere else. Good night.”
He splashes out of the tub and bundles himself angrily in a towel. And as he speedwalks off into the night, I swear I hear him grumble about how this “always happens.”
Grant and I turn back to each other, slack-jawed and speechless. And then all of a sudden, we’re in hysterics. It’s the kind of stomach-aching, tear-streaked laughter that feels like an earthquake, like we might break the hot tub.
Grant covers his face with his hands, his shoulders convulsing. “All this time,” he ekes out, “he thought we werehitting on him?”
