Page 16 of Whiskey Splash

“You’re late!” my coworker and close friend, Naomi, whispers as I walk up to the front desk after changing into my masseuse outfit.

Shoots of bamboo grow out of a planter behind Naomi and above her head is a giant lotus logo painted on a sheet of suspended glass, along with the nameThe Mandara Spa. Naomi is a Scandinavian beauty with perfect bone structure, long legs, and gleaming blond hair that makes you wonder what Elven lord her mother must have slept with. It’s pure luck that Naomi is covering reception this morning, otherwise I’d be totally busted.

“Sorry,” I grab the clipboard next to her. “It’s been kind of a crazy twenty-four hours.”

“Mrs. Rose has been on a rampage since the Hollywood people showed up at the resort,” Naomi warns, looking over her shoulder to the closed door of Mrs. Rose’s office, both of us well aware that her strict no-nonsense policies tend to stress us out more than enhance the relaxing spa atmosphere. “But I covered for you.” Naomi pulls up the appointment book. “Your first client is in room ten and ready to go.”

“Hollywood people?” I ask, playing dumb as I scan my schedule. Was Arie right? Is Desmond staying at the Atlantis?

“Yeah, I guess it’s some action film remake or something,” Naomi confirms. “Word is that they’re shooting all over the island and several of the crew members are staying in the resort. Thus, Mrs. Rose is being extra vigilant should any of them come to the spa.”

“Oh, okay,” I say noncommittally, trying not to show too much interest in the fact that she just confirmed that Desmond—or at least some of his coworkers—is on the premises. “Well, be sure to give me a heads up if you think anyone from the crew is coming in.”

“You bet.” Naomi nods, handing me the client card for my first massage. It’s a deep tissue massage for a Mr. Clarke, which is perfect, exactly what I need to work out this pent-up frustration! “Sooooo, was it a good crazy-twenty-four hours?” Naomi pries. “Or a …” she trails off hoping for me to fill in the blank for her.

“It was … crazy interesting,” I admit, putting the clipboard back down and keeping the small index card with Mr. Clarke’s preferences on it. “You should come over to my house after work and we can split a pizza. I’ll tell you all about it. Arie was up to her normal tactics, but this time it was … yeah, extra interesting.”

“Ooooh la la!” Naomi sing-songs. “If Arie’s involved, there’s bound to be stories to tell. Deal. I’ll meet you at your place after work.” She hands me the key to room ten. “All your oils and towels are in the room already. Diana set up your client. He should already be on the table and good to go. He’s probably been in there for about ten minutes.”

“Thank you!” I kiss her on the cheek and head toward my room.

I take several deep breaths as I walk down the dark corridor that leads to my client, tiny buddha statues lining each side of the hallway and a stream of floating candles bubbling along beside my ankles. I let the sweet lemongrass scent fill my lungs and the calming flute music ease the knot of tension in the back of my neck.

I love my sister, but she breeds drama. Becoming a masseuse was probably an unconscious life choice to make sure I always have a tiny Zen paradise to retreat into, somewhere that I can reset and be alone with the silence. It turns out working at the Mandara is just as calming and reenergizing formeas it is for the client.

I turn the corner to the massage rooms, happy to be back in the familiarity of this routine, easing me back to normalcy. I walk up to room number ten and knock softly, pausing before putting the key in the lock and letting myself in.

All of the massage rooms are dark by design. The only lights are candles that sit in alcoves along the walls, which are meant to create a womb-like safe space where you can focus on the massage and forget the busy noise of the outside world. The normal flute music is replaced by the sounds of water trickling over a cascade of stones, along with the occasional ring of a meditative singing bowl that already has my heart center humming with positivity.

My station is to the right, lined with oils and towels, and Mr. Clarke lies on the table at the center of the room. He looks young, in his late twenties maybe, lying face down and nude with his backside covered with the complimentary sheet.

“Good morning, Mr. Clarke,” I say softly, as to not disturb his relaxation. “I’m Esme, and I’m going to be your masseuse today.” I walk over to my station and start pulling out the oils that he’s requested. “We’ll be doing a deep muscle massage and—” I check the card. “It looks like you don’t have any allergies or special accommodations that I should know about. Is that right?” He muffles a yes behind me and I hear him shift.

“Did I get the time wrong?” he asks to my back, turning his voice in my direction as I pour the coconut oil onto my hands. “I’ve been waiting a while.”

“No, you were on time, sir. I apologize. I’m the one who was running late.” I grab a warm towel and the bottle of oil. “It’s been a bit of a morning for me and I appreciate your patience. It won’t affect your time, of course. You’ll still get the full hour.”

“Bit of a morning? Huh?” he asks, shuffling again. “Were you out late last night on a hot date and couldn’t get yourself out of bed this morning?”

I laugh. “No-no, sir! Nothing like that. I assure you my night was very ta—”

I turn around and stop dead, the bottle of oil dropping out of my hand and crashing onto the floor. Lounging on the table in front of me—is Desmond!

He’s no longer face-down, but instead, he’s turned onto his side with an arm propped under his head. My jaw must drop open, because he smiles in amusement, lounging in front of me like a glorious Greek God, draped in the sheet like he’s wearing a toga and everything!

‘Wearing’ is an exaggeration. His whole torso is gleaming gold in the candlelight and that thin privacy sheet is barely slung over his hips—under which he’s naked!

Yup, I’m inside a dark, poorly-ventilated room gawking at Desmond Pike and the thickness of his arms, and the V-of his hips, and his wide, strong chest that I would like to lick frosting off of!

Holy hotness, Batman; get your shit together, girl!

My tiny massage room just became a pressure cooker and my body is on high alert just looking at the sheer beauty of him.

“You dropped something,” he says casually, that crooked smile hooking his cheek and I realize I’ve been gawking at him like he’s a piece of meat.

“I—I—Sorry, I—!” I flip around so I’m no longer facing him and all that incredible skin. “I must have the wrong room! I’m so sorry. There’s been a mix up!”

I peek over my shoulder to look at the number on the back of the door, deliberately not looking at Desmond stretched out below it.

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