Page 72 of Whiskey Splash

“She will rot your brain!”

“Like a hard candy made of sin and profanity.”

“That is a very accurate description,” I admit, as Naomi opens the door for me to push my cart through. We head down the hallway toward our respective rooms and I breathe in the sassafras scents, reminding myself that I’ve got this. “Oh hey,” I remember, as I get to my client’s room. “Do you want to join me for yoga after work this week?” I ask Naomi, but she nods to the private steam rooms that line the back hall.

“Actually, some of the girls and I have been using the steam rooms after hours,” she says. “Chatting and relaxing. Or using the individual ones if we just need a quiet moment.”

“Mrs. Rose is allowing that?”

“Yes, actually,” Naomi nods. “Despite popular opinion, she isn’t all hell-fire and Godzilla.”

“To you, maybe.”

“She requires that we wipe down the rooms afterward, but we have to do that anyway regardless of if we use it. So, why not put in an extra sweat while we’re at it,” Naomi explains. “Yoga may help clear your head, but if you want to detoxify for good, come share one of our steam rooms.”

“Mrs. Rose will surely be on my back then.”

“Or…” Naomi turns to me with her listen-to-me-for-once face. “You could act like normal, like nothing is going to happen and hang out with us girls. Freaking out about Mrs. Rose is the easiest way to slip up. If you act like nothing has changed and you do your job like normal, then she’ll piss off. So, come hang out with us like you normally would.”

I frown at her, unconvinced. “That all sounds good in theory,” I say. “But—”

“Haven’t I covered your ass lately like I’m your own personal fairy-godmother?” Naomi counters, and I have to admit she has. “You don’t think I, and the girls, will have your back? We all know Mrs. Rose’s Sherlock-Holmes-charade is crap. We’ve all had that awkward chubby-situation in the massage room. No one wants Mrs. Rose breathing down their neck like she’s doing with you. You’d be looking out for us too if the tables were turned.”

That’s true. I’d beOcean’s Eleven-ing the shit out of this if it were Naomi or Tammy or any of the others on the chopping block. “Okay, I’ll think about it,” I concede. “But I might just do yoga instead.”

“To limber you up for Mr. Clarke?” Naomi teases, pinching me in the side as my neck starts to flush.

“You really need to stop hanging out with Arie!” I toss back, pulling out my key for my first session. “I’m not sure I can handle having two of you badgering me!”

Naomi laughs again. “Too bad!” She winks, pinching me one more time before walking down the hall to her own client’s room. I look at my schedule and take a deep calming breath before knocking on the door.

Be normal.

Do your job.

Follow the rules.

Simple.

* * *

At mid-day Desmond texts, inviting me to lunch, only his idea of lunch is room service up in his penthouse suite and there’s no way I’m going up there. Not only because I’m embarrassed to face the scene of the crime, I also wouldn’t be able to stop sneaking glances at that beautiful terrace with the vines and trumpet flowers where he tore unladylike obscenities from my throat.

Additionally, I can’t go up there because someone might see us. It’s the middle of the day and there are resort employees everywhere. There is still a strict don’t-date-the-guests policy after all.

I text him back, saying as much—the resort policy part, not the bit where I’m remembering the thunder and lightning and him stripping down naked in front of me. I tell him to order something portable, like a sandwich, and meet me half a mile down the beach near the aquarium.

When my lunch break arrives, I set my phone timer to make sure I’m not late getting back to work (follow the rules, young grasshopper), then I head down the beach to meet Desmond.

When I arrive near the aquarium, I text him that I’m the one in a pink sunhat. Normally, he’d look for my lavender hair, but I’ve tucked it all up inside the hat, just in case someone is out here watching. Not that anyone from the hotel is following us, but this beach is really public. There are plenty of cameras and cellphones and who-knows-who hiding in the bushes. I push away the thought of that photographer breaking the law and invading our privacy. But still, we are out in tourist-central, begging the question of why his crew isn’t staying on the quieter side of the island, hidden from all the tourism and Waikiki bustle.

Flip-flops in hand, I walk to the water’s edge and soak my feet in the salty ocean, telling myself to forget about it. Be normal, right? Be normal at work. Be normal in everyday life. Simple. I turn my face up to the sun and let the tide roll in, water glazing over the backs of my feet and splashing against my ankles. It’s a tiny pleasure, a small moment to make space and breathe, and it’s absolutely heavenly.

Arms wrap around me from behind, warm strong arms covering me just like on the film set. I don’t startle or move, knowing it’s him, leaning into the comfort and ease that is Desmond. The water kisses my ankles and his cheek brushes against my own, soft stubble, soft sand, and I stare out at the horizon like this breath is enough for us to always stand in.

“I could be a complete stranger, you know?” I quip, as his head dips down and his lips graze my neck. “There could be a hundred tourists out here in pink hats, and you’re about to give a grandma a heart attack.”

“Grandma? Really?” One of his hands drops down to my hip. “You realize your hair is not the only part of you I’ve gotten good at recognizing.”

---