The omega in me purrs.
My forebrain, however, isveryconcerned.
I force myself to not be a total creep as I follow Morgan back down to the driver. A few minutes later, we pull up to another gorgeous building styled in white marble and stainless steel.
I was expecting a really, really nice nail salon.
This is a whole other world.
A ten-foot waterfall cascades down a wall in the lobby, gently bubbling into a koi pond filled with flashes of orange fins and smooth green lily pads. The wall behind the front desk is lush with mosses and trailing vines, which fill the air with an earthy scent.
“Welcome back, Ms. Hunter,” the woman at the front desk says. She’s blonde with high cheekbones, bright blue eyes, and a light Nordic accent. She must be a model—she’s that gorgeous.
“This is Jamie,” Morgan says.
“Welcome.” The blonde flashes a smile of perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth. “You’ll find the locker rooms at the end of this hallway. Please let me know if you have any questions. Champagne?”
“Please,” Morgan says.
The blonde woman cracks open a bottle and pours two glasses, handing them to Morgan and me. I’m not sure more alcohol is a good idea—my throat still aches from last night.
“Jamie will also take the rejuvenation treatment during the manicure,” Morgan adds.
“Of course,” the blond woman says with a nod, typing something into the keyboard in front of her, her two-inch acrylics clacking against the keys.
Morgan starts down the hall, and I follow.
The only thing more horrifying than admitting I have no idea what I’m supposed to do is being alone in a locker room and still having no idea.
“I thought we’re just getting manicures,” I whisper.
“You are,” Morgan says.
“Then why are we starting in a locker room?”
“You’ve never been to a spa?” she asks, and I can’t tell if she’s teasing me.
“No,” I confess.
“You’ll find robes and slippers inside. Shower, then change. Our manicures are in forty-five minutes. Someone will come find you. There’s a sauna and hot tub to use in the meantime.”
“I don’t even want to know what this manicure costs,” I murmur.
“You’re cute,” Morgan says wryly, then she disappears through the door of the women’s locker room.
I stand frozen in the hallway for a moment, then suppress the twinge of discomfort as I push into the men’s room.
Fortunately, it’s pretty empty.
I step around a corner and see the full bare ass of an elderly man, and I drop my eyes, but he hardly seems to notice me.
I thought the bathroom at the hotel was fancy, but theshowers here are on a whole other level. Fortunately, there are private shower stalls—I guess it wouldn’t make any sense for a luxury spa to have open showers.
I go ahead and wash my hair, trusting that the spa’s luxury products—of which there are a dozen to choose from—won’t turn my hair into a frizzy mess.
That only kills fifteen minutes.
I don’t think I’m supposed to wander through the spa totally naked, so I carefully examine the rest of the locker room. There’s a rack of bathrooms and, next to that, another rack lined with swim briefs on delicate golden hangers.
