Zayden catches my eye and waves, his expression somewhere between apologetic and amused. Archer is in the chair next to him, scrolling through his phone with forced casualness, like he gets pedicures all the time. Weston—one of the new rookies—looks like he’s contemplating murder. Rhys, the other rookie, is just staring at the ceiling, clearly dissociating.
“This is your idea of team bonding?” I ask.
“It’s my idea of getting everyone in touch with their feelings.” Logan steers me toward the door. “And you, my friend, have a lot of feelings to get in touch with.”
“I don’t have feelings.”
“You’re a terrible liar.” Logan pushes open the door, and the wall of chemical smell hits me full force. “Now get in there and let a nice lady touch your feet.”
I’m going to kill him. I’m going to wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze until—
“Banks!” One of the salon employees—a tiny woman with an aggressively cheerful smile—appears in front of me. “You must be Banks. We haveyour chair ready. Right this way.”
She leads me to an empty massage chair between Zayden and Logan, who’s already settled in and looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“This is a nightmare,” I mutter, lowering myself into the chair. It immediately starts vibrating, which does nothing to improve my mood.
“It’s self-care,” Logan corrects. “Very important for athletes. Reduces stress, improves circulation—”
“Did you read that off a pamphlet?”
“Maybe.”
The tiny woman returns and turns on the water in the basin, then gestures for me to put my feet in. After removing my shoes, I do, reluctantly, and have to admit—privately, where no one can hear me—that it does feel kind of nice.
“See?” Logan says, reading my expression. “Not so bad.”
“Shut up.”
“You’re welcome.”
Around us, the salon is chaos.
Grayson—who I’m surprised is even here, given our history—is sitting in a chair near the window, trying very hard to look cool and failing miserably. His foot keeps twitching away from the technician’s touch.
“Dude,” one of the rookies calls out. “Are you ticklish?”
“No.” Grayson’s voice is at least an octave higher than normal. “I’m just—she’s touching a sensitive—STOP THAT.”
The technician looks up, unimpressed. “Sir, Ineed to scrub between the toes.”
“Do you, though? Do you really?”
On the other side of the room, I hear Weston let out a string of profanity that would make a sailor blush.
“What’s wrong with him?” I ask.
“Calluses,” Zayden replies, not looking up from his phone. “Apparently, he’s got some serious ones. They’re using some kind of… blade thing.”
“A blade?”
“For the dead skin. Don’t think about it too hard.”
I think about it too hard and immediately regret it.
“This is nice, though,” Zayden continues, wiggling his toes in the water. “Tori makes me get pedicures with her sometimes. It’s actually pretty relaxing once you get past the weird parts.”
“The weird parts being…?”
