Page 79 of Pucking my Enemy Boss

“Hello?” she answers, shifting her tone to the “hmm, is this trouble?” pitch. “Oh,Liam! So, now you’re actually calling, huh?”

There’s a dramatic eye-roll from Mia, a soft laugh slipping out as she leans back in the seat. And suddenly, I’m all ears, watching her shift from her usual sarcasm into that “I’m pretending not to be totally into this” tone. Apparently, a hockey player’s charm has melted her icy stance.

When she finally hangs up, Mia’s trying—and failing—not to blush.

“Well,thatsounded promising,” I say, glancing over with the best “I need details now” expression.

She smirks, crossing her arms, and practically scoffs. “Promising? Oh please, it’sLiam. We’re still talking about the man who thinks that wearing a wrinkled blazer counts as dressing up.”

“But?”

She shrugs, her expression slowly giving way. “But, well, he did ask me out. Officially. For, like, an actual date.”

Ah. So, Mia’s finally admitting her crush on the wrinkled-blazer-wearing charmer.

“Well,finally! I was about to intervene myself. You’ve had your ‘I’m too cool for this guy’ act on since, what, Thanksgiving?”

She waves me off. “Just doing my due diligence. Besides,someonearound here has to make the guys work for it.”

Mia’s laughter fills the car as she pulls up in front of Lauren who’s waiting on her porch, scarf swishing in the wind like she’s about to take flight.

A second later, Lauren practically skips out to the car, her oversized scarf trailing behind her like a superhero cape. She slides into the back seat, grinning like the official captain of today’s “Girls’ Day Out” trip.

The moment she climbs in, the day’s plan unfolds in one breathless spiel:

“Alright, ladies, let’s hit the spa,” she declares with a flourish. “Mani-pedi, massages, and an obscene number of snacks are in our immediate future.”

I’m not usually one for spas, nails, and all the “girl time” fluff, but Lauren and Mia make even the pinkest nail polish feel like a badge of honor.

The spa lobby is pure bliss wrapped in white walls, scented candles, and a soft, magical music that drifts over us like we’ve somehow wandered into a cloud. The whole place has that hush, the one that tells you people here are very serious about relaxation. Mia flops into a lobby chair, stretching like a cat as if she’s just claimed the entire spa as her personal relaxation zone, while Lauren’s eyes are practically sparkling as she peruses the service menu, flipping pages with the kind of glee most people reserve for dessert menus.

“This place is heaven,” she sighs, looking at us with a grin. “I mean, look at these options! Do you think we can doallof them?”

I snicker, reaching over to nudge her. “Lauren, we’ve only got so much time before they boot us out. Don’t go getting us banned for spa gluttony.”

“Spa gluttony,” she repeats with a dreamy look. “If I get kicked out for that, I’m fine with it.”

Before we know it, an attendant appears, guiding us into the changing rooms where we wrap up in robes so soft I feel like I could sink into one and stay forever. We’re then led down a quiet hallway to dim, lavender-scented rooms, and I can already feel my worries dissolving with every step.

Within minutes, we’re stretched out on massage tables, every little bit of tension melting away under the hands of miracle-working masseuses.

“Why don’t we do this every week?” Lauren’s voice drifts over, muffled and drowsy from the table next to me. In this moment, it doesn’t seem remotely impossible to just … live like this. Stress? What stress? There’s only peppermint-scented relaxation and the fantasy of a world where massages are just part of the weekly routine.

Mia snorts, though it’s softened by the total relaxation only a spa could create. “Because not all of us have rich uncles with private jets and connections. Some of us have to budget.”

“Hey, same!” Lauren protests, sounding scandalized. “I’m just saying I’dliketo.”

“Yeah, until you remember what more rich uncles mean at Christmas dinner.” I chime in. “No, thanks. There’s only so much passive-aggressive ‘So, what do you do again?’ I can handle in one year.”

Our laughter dies down as we’re led to the manicure and pedicure room, where Mia immediately swoops down on the plushest chair in sight. She stretches out with a satisfied smirk, raising an eyebrow at us like she’s some sort of spa queen.

“Ladies, you may now serve me,” she says, waving a mockingly regal hand as she settles in.

Lauren rolls her eyes but grins. “Please, Mia, they’d have to pay you to get out of that chair.”

The nail technicians set to work, and we fall into a cozy rhythm of conversation that’s as soothing as the spa treatments. We chat about our plans for Christmas—and I tell them about my family’s annual Christmas party, complete with the traditional fruitcake nobody ever eats. Mia shares her mission to throw the city’s best New Year’s party, and Lauren brings up her holiday plans, which mostly involve avoiding the Chicago Blizzards captain, who she’s surprisingly now warming up to.

Then Mia, eyes twinkling with mischief, breaks into the conversation. “Alright, serious question: if you’re in trouble and you have to call someone for help on the Chicago Blizzards, who would you call?”

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