Page 40 of Caribbean Crush

They were smart to space us out throughout the day so it’s not a huge group filing in at once. I’m one of six, and the two attendants who come to collect us from the changing room—Brigitta and Ana—explain that we’ll each be able to choose three services from the spa’s overflowing offerings, which include things like seaweed wraps, HydraFacials, massages. As if all that wasn’t enough, we’ll then be whisked over to the salon for our choice of hair and makeup treatments.

I feel like a princess being pampered before a royal ball.

I start with a facial, and next I opt for a full-body citrus wrap, and then finally a decadent massage. I am so relaxed by the time my session is over, my worries don’t even exist. They’ve left my body.

I’m merely a vessel for lemon water and facials. Thank god for Sienna, though. She’s the one who had the sense to recommend we get our hair and makeup done at the salon, so we’re ready for the show.

“That way, we don’t have to worry about doing it ourselves. God, it’s such a treat not having to blow-dry all this hair.”

“Good call.”

I sit in the salon chair while some heavily accented blond man named Viktor—I think he’s Russian, maybe?—inventories all the things wrong with my hair. I didn’t see it before, but I certainly understand exactly what he means once he’s done with his diatribe. What was I thinking, keeping it this length? And no layers? How was it supposed to breathe? My god. I’m as offended as he is. Get the scissors!

He does his thing, working flawlessly and efficiently. I’m stunned with the end result. He’s cut my hair; I know he has, and yet, somehow, it looks longer and fuller than ever. How did he ... who is he ...

“Flawless,” he tells me, and I glow under his admiration. I’ve known him for forty-five minutes, and I’d trust this man with my life.

When I stand up to move to the makeup chair, he shouts at me not to slouch, and I straighten my back immediately lest I accidentally piss him off.

“He’s a bit scary, isn’t he?” Sienna whispers.

I just shake my head, worried he might somehow have ultrasonic hearing.

“He’s a creative genius. Don’t question it.”

After everything is said and done, once the last stroke of mascara has been applied to lengthen my lashes and my cheeks have been dusted with a shimmery pink blush, I’ve never felt prettier in all my life. I stand in my suite, in a slinky gold cocktail dress that Sienna’s let me borrow, and I almost, very nearly tear up. It’s the thought of my grandmother never seeing me like this—looking so grown up and glamorous, that is.

I suppose I dressed up nice for my high school prom and the occasional date or two, but it was nothing like how I look tonight. I never quite looked this stunning. Yes. I’m allowed to think it, I tell myself. Now that there’s no one else to say it for me. I deserve to hear it, if only here, in the quiet of my suite. I’m allowed to feel like pure sunshine in this gold dress. My legs go on forever in my coordinating sky-high heels, and though they’ll absolutely ruin my feet, tear them to bits most likely, there’s no choice. They have to be worn. I’ve never seen a more tempting pair of shoes. There’s a demure strap over my toes and another midway up my foot; then instead of a traditional buckle around my ankle, there’s a long thin snake-shaped spiral that winds up my lower calf. God, they look expensive. They’re Sienna’s as well. Some London brand I’ve never heard of.

“You take them. They’re yours. They were gifted to me, and they’re a half size too small, and I don’t know what I was thinking packing them for the trip. I suppose I was hopeful they’d work out, and now they have, on you.”

“You’re like my fairy godmother.”

“Oh, yuck, wasn’t she old? I’d like to be Cinderella’s sexy friend, the one who has a tryst with Prince Charming’s brother instead.”

My stomach is filled with nerves and not much else as we make our way to deck four. The performance starts in fifteen minutes, and I meant to grab a bite to eat in my suite before meeting Sienna, but I didn’t get the chance. They gave us little snacks and things at the spa earlier—cucumber sandwiches, fancy French cheeses, a sampling of smoothies, but looking back, it equated to about seventeen calories, certainly not enough to take the place of dinner.

Outside the theater’s entrance, there’s a cocktail bar. Sienna shoots me a look like Should we? I shake my head adamantly. We shouldn’t. But then she responds with a look that says C’mon, what do we have to lose? I roll my eyes. For me? Not much. Just my last lifeline. She crosses her arms and purses her lips.

In the end, we take our seats in the middle of the theater, each with a glass of champagne.

“Do not let me guzzle this down,” I say just before my lips come into contact with the most effervescent, bubbly, delicious champagne I’ve ever tasted. It’s gone in two seconds flat. “Right, well, don’t let me guzzle down my second glass.”

“Good evening, Ms. Hughes. Ms. Thompson.”

Sienna whirls around with a big smile. “Oh, hello, you two!”

I turn to greet Tyson, genuinely happy to see him for the first time since yesterday morning until I notice his friend behind him. Phillip is devastatingly handsome, as always. In a fitted black suit, sans tie, with the top two buttons undone at his collar—my mouth goes dry. I freak out. Look away. Then I realize after the fact that I forgot to greet him. Whatever happened yesterday on that golf cart doesn’t warrant me completely ignoring him, but what do I do now? Turn back and laugh? Offer a smile? I can’t. I’m glued to my spot, my heart thundering in my chest.

They fill the two seats behind us, talking to Sienna while I review the program like my life depends on memorizing every word of it. Somehow, they arranged it so Phillip is directly behind me, though it should have been Tyson.

Sienna and Tyson act like two chatterboxes, carrying on so easily, though Phillip is as quiet as I am.

Eventually, though, he leans forward, breaking the awkwardness with a greeting that sends goose bumps down my arms.

“Ms. Hughes.”

I smirk before turning gently to look over my shoulder, just enough to get him in view without having to spin all the way around in my seat. It’s easier now to look at him knowing what to expect. My heart rate only barely picks up. His hair is combed smoothly, dark and gleaming like it’s still damp from a recent shower. His jaw is clean shaven. His cologne is subtle but there, tingeing the air with a spice that has me wanting to lean closer.

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