“I don’t know,” Jennifer said, and tried not to be impressed. It wasn’t easy. “I guess I’ll have to wait and see.”
21
Melting
When Harlan knocked at the door of the suite, Jennifer didn’t answer. Dyma did. She was wearing a Pink Floyd T-shirt with her jeans this time. The shirt was faded and tight, like she’d bought it when she was younger—like, for example, fifteen—and her jeans were cut a little low, allowing him to see that her belly button was pierced by a silver barbell with a tiny ring hanging from the bottom stud, just to give Owen something else to stare at. She held the door, tipped her buzz-cut blonde head to one side, letting the longer layers fall free, gestured them into the suite, and informed them, “We’re pretty relaxed in here. Could be dangerous. Mom’s especially relaxed, since you sent over that bottle of wine. I’m not sure she’s made it out of her robe. They have these fantastic bathrobes, like wearing a cloud. I kind of want to steal one, even though I’ve never actually stolen anything.”
“Yeah?” Owen asked. “Tonight your night to be bad? So what was your spa treatment?”
“I had a massage,” she said. “Which Harlan knows, because he booked it. It was pretty amazing. More than an hour long, and they used hot stones on your back, which feels better than you’d think, and played soothing music, and there was a fancy shower room to use afterwards with all these different lotions. Although in fairness, I’m not sure if it was actually amazing or not. It being my first time and all.”
“Yeah?” Owen asked.
“Oh, yeah,” she agreed. “First time for everything, I guess. I’m lucky mine was that good, huh?” With a sidelong look from those blue eyes that Owen wasn’t going to be great at resisting.
Harlan cleared his throat, and Owen glanced at him and said, “You don’t even have to say it.”
“And yet,” he said, “it feels so much like I do.”
The bedroom door opened and Jennifer came out, smoothing her coppery curls around her face. And, yes, she was still in her robe, her feet bare. Her legs were bare, too. She looked so pretty, her complicated, curvy mouth soft and a glass of red wine in her hand, and he wanted to be alone with her so bad, he could taste it.
“Well, hi,” he said, once he could manage it.
“Hi,” she said, and smiled. A slow, glorious thing of eyes and mouth and square face and freckles, and there was also nothing but pale skin and a few more freckles showing in the deep vee front of that robe. She told him, “I can’t seem to get out of my bathrobe.”
Owen told Dyma, “Know what I want to do? Eat in the restaurant. Can’t take Thor, because somebody always figures out it’s him, and then he makes us run away before I’m even done. They’ve got steak, though, because I checked, and I want it, but I don’t want to try to cut it on this coffee table, all hunched over. Want to check the place out with me? We could go swimming first. That saltwater pool’s heated up nice, they said. There are these waterfalls, too. What do you think? Do some floating? Watch some stars?”
“I totally want to do that,” she said, “but I don’t have a suit with me.”
“Neither do I,” he said, “but I’m guessing we’re about ten minutes from downtown. We’ll find a store open. It’s a tourist town. Come on. Bring your robe. Steal it for a night, anyway. Robbery Lite. Shopping, a swim, and dinner sounds like a pretty good plan to me. This place is going to have vegetarian options. You can count on it.”
“In the restaurant,” Harlan said. He thought Owen got it, but when a girl looked at you like that, a guy could forget his better impulses. And although he wanted Owen to take Dyma out of here pretty desperately, and appreciated Owen’s outlining his timetable like crazy …
“Yes, Dad,” Owen said. “In the restaurant. And then I bring her straight home. After all of that.”
The door closed behind Dyma and Owen, and Jennifer sighed, sat down on the multicolored couch in front of the flickering fire, and shoved her hair back. “I should worry, I know,” she said. “But I really am too relaxed.”
He sat down beside her, and she was as aware of his presence as if he were touching her, as if the very air molecules between them were quivering. “Nope,” he said. “You shouldn’t worry. They’ll be OK. I’ve got this.”
“Mm.” She leaned back against the couch, put her bare toes up against the coffee table, and closed her eyes. “You say that a lot, you know. That you’ve got this. Is that your mission in life? Also, do you want some wine? It’s really good. Somebody sent it to me.” She gave him a sidelong look. He was sitting forward, elbows on knees and big hands interlinked, his head turned toward her, a smile on his too-beautiful face.
“I’m glad,” he said. “Yeah, I’ll get myself a glass.” He didn’t, though. He just sat there. “So tell me about how you got so relaxed.”
“I told myself,” she said, “that I’d talk to you about your parents and your sister tonight, if we had a chance to be alone. Help you talk it out, think it through. That was my plan.” She sighed and took another sip of wine. Silky-smooth, fathoms deep, rich and dark as sin, it drifted through her veins like smoke.
She’d thought she’d had wine before. This, though, was a completely different beverage. She didn’t know wine words, but it tasted almost as good as Harlan smelled. His hair was damp, and he must have taken a shower, because she recognized the faint cedar-y, sage-y scent. It had been one of the options in the very long shower she’d taken after her treatment. She’d checked them all out, but she hadn’t used that one. She’d gone for buttercream and French vanilla instead, and had slathered the accompanying lotion on afterwards as well. She smelled so good, she wanted to lick herself.
Or, possibly, to have somebody else do it. She’d bet Harlan could lick. She’d bet he would lick. Slowly.
She wasn’t going to do it. Nobody said she couldn’t think it, though.
Harlan said, “You don’t need a plan. Not tonight. This night is all yours. You just need to tell me about that treatment.” He was pouring himself a glass of wine, his long fingers strong and somehow … clever. A wide receiver would have to have hands like that, though, and Harlan was a very, very good wide receiver.
“Mm,” she said as he leaned back beside her. “My treatment.” Another sigh. “You know what it was, because you chose it. How did you know it would be perfect?”
“I asked,” he said. “What would be good for a woman who was extremely sore. A massage, now, when you’re that sore …” He took another sip of wine. “It works, not saying it doesn’t, but it’s not too comfortable, especially if you’ve got some bruises. I figured you’d been uncomfortable for about three days, and that was long enough. So tell me about it. Describe it to me.”
Another mouthful of rich, red wine, and oh, did she enjoy it. “They called it a hot towel infusion. You’re lying down in this cozy little room with another of these fireplaces, and they give you a sleep mask, so it’s really dark behind your eyes. And they play this music, a guitar and a flute. I think it must be Indian music. Hopi, maybe? It sounds like it, if I knew what Hopi music sounded like. Peaceful. Just from that and a hot shower, I was already getting more relaxed, lying on my back under this warm sheet, except that I still hurt everywhere, so I couldn’t actually relax. And then this lady came in and put these … these hot, wet, rolled towels and some kind of weighted hot packs, I guess, all around me and over me, so it all sort of sunk in. It smelled amazing. Sage and cedar and things, like the desert. A little like you right now. I like how you smell, too.” Another sidelong glance at him, and he was smiling just a little.