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“Go,” Esther mouths, flapping a shooing hand at me.
I back away and quickly turn, hurrying out before I give in to the urge to take over, dialing Pearl again.
“Hello?” she says.
“Are you working?”
“Just wrapping up before I go on a break.”
“What time do you have to be back?”
“In a few hours.”
“We’re going to the spa.”
“Fab, on my way.” She hangs up, and I break out into the sunshine, slipping on my shades. Tank and Fury are propped up against one of the Range Rovers. “Where’s James?” I ask Beau.
“He’s gone to the club.”
“Why? It’s early-afternoon.” Nothing happens at the club in the day. Not even shootouts anymore.
Beau shrugs. “I don’t know, but I’m here and isn’t that what matters?”
I grin and go to her, letting her wrap an arm around my shoulder.
“How’s it feeling down below?” she asks.
“Breezy.”
Beau bursts into fits of laughter, as do I, and it feels so good. Loud, unapologetic laughter. And, thankfully, no pee escapes. Pelvic floor exercises are a woman’s friend, Doc said. Don’t I know it.
“It’s the interviews today,” Fury says from the car.
We both shut up, looking at him in question.
“At the club,” he goes on. “New dancers. Interviews today.”
“Interviews?” I question. “You mean auditions?”
He shrugs, and Tank chuckles, the sound deep and earth shaking. “Great,” Beau breathes. “We get freedom, and our husbands get a pass to watch women strip.”
I laugh and go to the car. If there is one thing in this world that I am sure of, it’s my husband’s fidelity, and I know Beau feels the same. But . . . I’m hardly meeting Danny’s needs right now. I miss him. I miss us. Does he? On cue, my boobs twinge, reminding me of their purpose right now, and it’s not my husband’s pleasure. “Anya’s coming and Pearl’s meeting us there.” I slip into the back and Beau gets in beside me, shuffling up so she’s in the middle, leaving the door open for Anya as she comes dancing down the steps, wrapping a light scarf around her neck.
My mind goes back to the club. Strippers. Many willing women whose bodies are young and tight.
I shake my head to myself. I’m being ridiculous. That’s sleep deprivation for you.
I stand in the middle of the spa with the fattest smile on my face as the contracts manager, Alan, talks me through the updates. “We had to move the washing stations a fraction this way,” he says, indicating some plumbing work. “Because your ceiling drops here and if you want the floating ceiling with illumination, we’ve got to start a foot farther away.”
I nod, reaching up and straightening my hard hat. “And the pedicure stations?”
“Could you lose one?” he asks, walking to the far side. “It would make the space less tight around each chair.”
I ponder that. “Sure.” I don’t want clients feeling like they’re on top of each other. “And the million-dollar question,” I say, smiling, hoping to charm the right answer out of him rather than adopting my husband’s tactic and terrorizing it out of him. “When can the decorators start?”
“Well, Mrs. Black,” he says, gazing around the space. “There’s been a few unexpected problems along the way which have hindered the schedule.”
I narrow a suspicious eye. “Like?”
