Blue Roses(5)

I send her a text message apologizing, and then go to work.

Thursday goes by like a typical Thursday.

Friday is no more interesting. I keep hoping Luca will stop in, or post something on Facebook, like a sudden change in relationship status. His profile currently has it set to private, so I can’t even see.

On Friday night, I’ve been thinking about Luca Lowell so much that he comes to visit me in my dreams.

They’re very good dreams.

Saturday morning, my alarm clock goes off early. I don’t have to work today, but I do have to hit the road.

Today is the beginning of my weekend getaway at a hot springs resort.

Rory won the package through a contest, and was generous enough to take me with her. I pick her up in my car, and I pay for the gas and snacks to get us there.

We check in at the resort before noon, and go straight for lunch. She’ll go into the hot springs after we eat, but she won’t use the spa packages.

Rory isn’t just squeamish about people talking about sex. Her other issue is she can’t stand people touching her. She has to cut her own hair, and she takes Valium before dentist appointments.

Since she won’t partake in the treatments, that means double the massages for me, which I don’t mind.

The rest of Saturday passes in a fog of bliss.

I sleep like a log—a log who dreams about a tall, muscular, gruff-looking man with blue eyes.

At brunch on Sunday, I keep my vivid dreams to myself.

In the afternoon, I go to my next treatment while Rory visits the steam room.

In the treatment room, I’m given my choice of massage therapists.

I make a joke, saying, “I’ll take the one with the biggest hands.”

The attendant taps at her tablet. “He will be with you in a moment. Please make yourself comfortable on the table.”

She gives me a funny little smile, like she thinks I might be requesting a guy on purpose. My brain badgers me with worries.

Tina, now you’ve done it! This spa chick thinks you want a happy ending. Why’d you ask for someone with big hands? Aren’t the sex dreams more than enough for you? What if the spa puts you on some sort of registered pervert list?

I look at the door and think about making an excuse and running out.

But I don’t run out.

I’m curious about this massage therapist with the big hands. What would that even feel like? Every guy I’ve dated has had hands not much bigger than mine. I’m five foot nine, and my boyfriends haven’t been tall.

I get onto the table, face down, and cover my butt with the sheet. Minutes pass.

I imagine this mystery guy getting ready, washing his big hands and complaining to his coworkers about having to give yet another happy ending to a horny spa guest.

Unfortunately, now I’m thinking about happy endings.

Even though it’s a joke, my body starts to hum with excitement. My body does not understand the difference between a fantasy and a horrifying worst-case scenario.

I’d be mad at my body, but it’s been well over a year since I was touched, and my body is game for anything.

The door to the treatment room squeaks open, and someone slips in quietly. I lift my head to take a peek. The man looks like an Olympic skier from Norway. His square jaw and blue eyes remind me of Luca.

I put my face down and give myself a lecture:

Tina, do not moan. This man is a professional, and he’s going to give you a professional massage. Keep your mouth shut and keep your happy sounds to yourself. Do you hear me, Tina’s body? No wiggling around under his touch.

“My name is Daniel,” he says. “Are you enjoying your stay?”

“Yes. I’m here with my girlfriend.”

He chuckles. “Girlfriend, hmm?”

I pull my face up from the pads and turn to face Daniel. “Yes, my girlfriend. She’s very jealous. That’s why I can’t get a massage from a girl. That’s the only reason I requested a guy.”

“Very smart,” he says. He gathers up some bottles of oil and sets them on a rolling tray next to the massage table.

Then he gives me a look that says he doesn’t believe a word of what I’m saying.

I return my face to the oval-shaped padding and try to relax.

Tina, do not sigh, and do not think about Luca Lowell. Do not imagine those are his big, paint-speckled manly hands on your lower back.

Daniel gets to work, softly explaining each part of the massage as he goes.

“You have some areas of tension,” he says.

“Oh?” My voice is muffled in the padding.

“You’re going to put me through my paces. Hang on, you’re going for a ride.”

Hang on? Hang on to what? What ride?

Something whirrs, and the table lowers, moving about a foot closer to the ground.

“Much better,” he says. “Now I can really get in there.”