Wow, they really think of everything. I feel a little awkward wearing snug swim briefs instead of trunks, but it’s not like anyone’s going to see them under my bathrobe.
I have no idea what sauna etiquette is, so I skip that door and head a little further to the open area with the hot tub.
It’s like a… hotpool. It’s styled like a lagoon, shaped from glimmering blue tile and rimmed with miniature palm trees. A little waterfall streams into the pool on one side, sending steam into the air.
There’s a tray of room-temperature spring water on top of a fridge stocked with more. I grab a bottle and down it, realizing I’m still pretty dehydrated from last night.
I’m kind of surprised that the water isn’t from Fiji, but then I take a look at the label and I realize it’s probably ten times fancier than Fiji water.
As I sink into the hot water, the scent of minerals rises from the surface, and the heat instantly unwinds the lingering soreness in my back and neck.
I lose track of time, floating in the soothing heat and listening to the sound of the waterfall.
A soft voice calls from the door, startling me.
“Jamie? Your next service is in five minutes. You canfollow me when you’re ready.” She takes a step back and stands dutifully outside the door.
I hurry out of the hot tub, towel off, and slip my robe back on to join her at the door. She leads me down a padded hallway to a room lined with windows and a set of beautiful glass desks that must be the nail stations, since Morgan is already seated at one.
She’s scrolling on her phone as one of her hands soaks in an opaque container, and I get a whiff of acetone.
But overall, this nail salon doesn’t really smell like… well, a nail salon. I tried to go get a manicure once, but the nail polish scent was too overwhelming. This is surprisingly manageable.
The two nail techs are also model-gorgeous, with trendy makeup and long, smooth hair.
“What are we doing for you today?” My tech asks me as I sit down.
“Um…”
“Gel,” Morgan cuts in. “Something professional. Show them a few options.”
The nail tech pulls out her phone and hands it over to me, letting me scroll through an album of designs.
I was planning on getting beige or something so it’s not so obvious, which is already branching out from my usual black or dark green.
The fingers in the pictures are all so elegant, so pretty. I think most of the designs would look strange on my hands.
But something catches my eye—a light blue design with a delicate white flower print layered over top that reminds me of pottery.
“Is this okay?” I murmur, returning the phone to the tech.
“Great choice. What do you think of this color? I’ve been dying to do this combo.” She pulls out a bottle in a soft sage green.
“Oh, that’s perfect,” I breathe, and I actually mean it.
“Great match for your complexion,” she says, and I surrender my hands over the table.
It doesn’t take her long to strip the old polish, and I’m grateful that she doesn’t comment on how bad it looked. I’m familiar enough with the process of filing, soaking, and cuticle trimming, but then she pulls out a foil tube of lotion and pushes back the sleeves of my robe.
My chest tightens with anxiety—are tattoos allowed in spas? Or is that a bathhouse thing?—until she says, “Great tatts,” and smooths the lotion over the sleeve of medicinal flowers that covers my left arm.
“Oh, thanks.”
Morgan’s eyes flick over from her phone, and I brace for disapproval.
She purrs, “Youarefull of surprises.”
My cheeks heat. But I don’t get a chance to process what just happened as Morgan returns to her phone and the nail tech massages the lotion into my hands and forearms.
