Page 9 of Misbooked for Love

The attendant looks between us, the brightness in her eyes dimming just a little. “I’m afraid we’re fully booked today. We can cancel your appointment, of course, but unfortunately, we wouldn’t be able to fit you both in separately until sometime next week.”

Clara lets out a long breath, throwing a look my way, clearly debating whether to put up with yetanothermistake or lose her massage slot altogether.

She glances at me and mutters, “Fine. Whatever. Let’s just do this.”

I stifle a groan. I don’t need more proximity to this woman. This is the very last thing I expected for what I thought would be a relaxing day, but I’m not about to lose my only chance to ease this muscle tension. I nod to the attendant. “Let’s get it over with, then.”

She leads us down a short hallway, past a string of softly lit rooms, until we arrive at a private suite withtwo massage tables set side by side. There’s a large, floor-to-ceiling window at the back, and two small chairs facing it. The room is filled with soft music and the faint scent of lavender. And lit candles. Everywhere. On every surface, on the floor, around the massage tables. It’s unreal and completely unnecessary.

Clara and I eye each other, both of us clearly less than thrilled with the setup.

The attendant hands each of us a glass of a sparkling beverage that looks suspiciously like wine and says with another conspiratorial grin, “Your therapists will be right in. Just get comfortable, and enjoy your experience together.” With a small wave, she disappears out the door, and Clara sighs. The most dramatic one yet.

“This,” she mutters, making her way to the chairs facing the window, her steps cautious to avoid any flames, I assume, “is exactly the kind of nonsense I wanted to avoid.”

“Believe me,” I say, following her but stopping short and placing my drink on a small side table. “I’d rather be getting my own massage than sharing this with someone who thinks my entire existence is a nuisance,” I shoot back, not exactly feeling the warm and fuzzies this setup is trying to do either.

She shrugs and sits down, closing her eyes andtaking a deep breath. “Can’t help it if the truth’s hard to hear.”

I roll my eyes and take off my robe, hanging it on the hook on the wall closest to one of the massage tables. There’s silence for a moment as I settle, face down, covering myself with the warm blanket and trying to relax despite the awkwardness hovering in the room like a big, fat elephant.

“Turn around,” she says, as if she can’t tell I’m facing down with my head on the headrest and my eyes closed, trying to zone out and ignore the world around me. “Don’t look.”

I snort. “Yeah okay.”

“You’re such an asshole, you know?—”

The massage therapists choose that moment to enter, their calm tones and gentle introductions at least partially distracting me from the fact that I’m stuck in a couple’s massage with a very tense woman next to me. This resort is huge, with plenty of indoor and outdoor activities to entertain us, and we seem to end up in the same space consistently.

But soon enough, the therapist’s hands start working out the tension in my shoulders, and I finally feel a bit of the stress melting away. If I weren’t so on edge already, I would have used this time to think about my next steps. I had an enlightening conversation with my business partner last week, where we discussed thefuture of our business and our partnership, and I finally brought up some things I was not comfortable with and some other things I wanted to try instead of the intense business of breeding and growing elite horses.

Just as I’m starting to relax, Clara speaks, her voice low. “Are you enjoying this?”

“Enjoying what?” I ask, keeping my tone light. “This romantic, cozy bonding moment with my roommate? It’s the highlight of my trip, to be honest.”

“Ugh,” she groans, but there’s a hint of amusement under her frustration. “Do you think they think we’re together and maybe you are asking me to marry you?”

“What?” I lift my head and snap my eyes in her direction, but she’s still facing down, her arms hanging by her head and her fingers dancing on the floor, one of them playing with a rose petal.

She lets out a sigh, and I catch a glimpse of her face turning toward me, but the moment she notices I’m looking she shifts back, resting it on the headpiece and mumbling something I quite don’t understand.

I turn my face back down, smirking into the headrest. She may have turned away quickly, but I caught the faint blush that colored her cheeks. For a woman who seems to hate my guts, Clara sure has a lot to say.

“Are you… flattered?” I ask, keeping my voice light. “Because it sounds like you’re putting a lot of thought into this fake proposal scenario.”

“Oh, please.” She scoffs, but her tone is playful,just like the glimpse I got of her last night. “I’m simply amused by how easily you fit into every Valentine’s cliché this resort has cooked up. It’s like you were destined to play the brooding, reluctant male main character.”

“Brooding?” I chuckle. “I didn’t realize you’d been studying me so closely, sweetheart. Guess I’m flattered, then,” I drawl.

“In your dreams, Thomas,” she says, but I can hear the hint of a smile in her voice. “The whole setup’s ridiculous, that’s all. Rose petals, candles, a couple’s massage room… Seriously, what’s next? Chocolates on our pillows? ‘Will you marry me?’ written with these same rose petals on the bed back in the room?”

“Probably,” I mumble, half to myself. “This place seems determined to play matchmaker.”

Clara laughs, and for the first time, it sounds genuine, free from the usual bite. It’s a sound that tugs at something in my chest I’d rather ignore. The room falls into a peaceful silence, and for a moment, I let myself sink into the rhythm of the massage, the soft background music, and the quiet.

It’s… almost nice.

Almost.

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