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I just dropped Liam off at a friend’s house for a sort of a make-up sleepover, since we didn’t get to go to Alex’s house. And with Brady out of town until tomorrow, it means that I have the entire evening to myself.
I stop at the liquor store for a bottle of wine. Nothing super sophisticated, but hey, I don’t have anyone to impress tonight.
I drive back to Brady’s and key the security code in to open the gate, which rumbles slightly as it sweeps back across the pristine driveway. No potholes here.
I park my car, for once not caring if I’m leaving it right out front. So what if it’s a Mazda that’s seen better days? No one will see it—though itdoeslook odd in front of the mansion’s grand façade.
Like a zit on a supermodel.
I giggle.
I key in yet another code and open the front door. The polished foyer echoes my footsteps, and even though I know Brady’s housekeeper is at home in her apartment above the garage, I have a momentary shiver of uneasiness.
Calm down, Izzie, I tell myself, dropping my purse and keys on a table with a clatter.
No dicey neighbors, voracious termites, or noisy traffic in this place. Just me, a bottle of wine, and a delicious soak in a hot bath.
I detour into the kitchen and grab a wineglass, then on impulse, a few decorative candles from the counter.
As I go upstairs to my room, I suddenly remember the massive whirlpool bathtub in Brady’s master suite. His bathroom’s tub is bigger than my entire bathroom at home, but why not live it up?
“You owe it to yourself, Iz,” I say aloud, kicking off my shoes and peeling off my clothes. I throw on the thick terrycloth robe that I’d found in the closet, then grab the wine and candles.
Let the spa night begin.
It’s still a little eerie creeping through the empty house, and I’m relieved when I make it to Brady’s suite.
As soon as I go in, I can smell the distinctive scent of his soap. I cross the room, trying not to notice the huge king-sized bed, but I can’t help glancing at it.
Satin sheets? Really?
I swallow hard at the image that suddenly takes over my brain, to spite me.
Brady, his muscles sliding across the satin as he sprawls lazily in bed…
No, no, no, Izzie. Stay away from that thought!
The bathroom is even more amazing than I remember from the quick tour Brady gave us. The tub is practically the size of a swimming pool, with a dizzying control panel that would seem at home in a seven-four-seven.
It takes me a few minutes, but I finally get the water running at just the right temperature, and the whirlpool swirling gently.
I put the candles on the granite countertop and light them, then dim the overhead lights.
Ah, ambiance.
Wine bottle and glass on the edge of the tub. I slither out of the robe, and then slide into the tub.
Bliss.
The bubbles gently caress my body, and I sink lower, grabbing the wine glass. Nothing fancy, but it works for me. The warmth relaxes my muscles, and I realize once again just how tense I’ve been.
The hot water creates a gentle steam cloud, which fogs the mirror. I probably should have turned on the fan, but what the hell.
Too lazy.
I finish the glass of wine and pour another, lying there lazily in the bubbles, idly staring at the way the candlelight flickers in the huge mirror over the sink. Only a real narcissist needs a mirror like that.
I close my eyes, sinking even deeper, totally relaxed and content.
