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Chapter Twenty-Three
Talia
Two weeks later, I’m inspecting every corner of the night spa and preparing for the opening. Today is the final walk-through, then we, or rather he, can alert the team to fix the crooked molding in massage room three, or hang the warning signs required by law in the wading pool room. They were designed to be stylish and quiet instead of big, bold, red-lettered eyesores.
Everything I started months ago—from dumping green juice over Ed Lambert’s head, to launching my own company, to starting up with Archer, is beneath this one overarching goal.
We’ve been hanging out nearly every night since Lis’s last night in Ohio, when I sneaked over and slipped into his bed. The following morning I woke next to him. I left him snoozing, the rain pattering the windows and patio door in the early hours. I intended to have breakfast with my sister before she left that afternoon. When I opened Archer’s front door, guess who was standing there, beignets in hand?
Lis, who was thrilled I’d stayed the night with Archer, barged in with breakfast and made her presence known by shouting up the stairs, “Get your butt down here, Kingpin!”
Predictably, Archer didn’t spring out of bed bursting with sunshine. I went upstairs to wake him, which he resisted, instead pulling me into his arms, burying his beard in my neck, and mumbling something I couldn’t understand but assumed was a sexual request. When I told him my sister was downstairs with donuts, he cupped a handful of my butt and squeezed, and said to give him five minutes. Then he climbed out of bed, shut the bathroom door, and turned on the shower.
Since our beignet-and-coffee filled morning with my sister, he hasn’t mentioned what will happen after I return to Florida. He doesn’t shy from telling me he likes me in his bed or in his life, but he’s careful in the way he goes about it. I’m glad. If he turned up the pressure, I’m not sure how I’d react.
Will he want to continue flying back and forth to Florida if seeing me means travel? Or will we go back to email-flirting with the occasional request of advice? Will he chalk us up as temporary, moving forward with his life as usual?
Will I?
Whenever I think about “us,” my stomach clenches in fearful anticipation. What if I changed my mind about leaving? I can’t afford the townhouse next door, but he could rent it to me. When I think of moving in with him, I want to throw up. I made a similar decision with Brandon, and it was so clearly the wrong decision. And what about Calista? She can’t afford a place of her own. What’s she supposed to do? Move in with Julio? Or worse, Webber?
The bell dings over the front door as Archer and I emerge from the long corridor of the pool area. A woman wearing a butter-yellow pantsuit and carrying a fat leather handbag smiles in greeting.
“Mr. Owen. Ms. Richards.” The event planner, Carmella Fortova, is here to finalize the plans for Saturday night. She’s older, fifty or so. Her hefty build is balanced on a small frame precariously. She has the energy of a hummingbird. “Ready to wrap this baby up?”
“More than ready,” I answer and feel Archer’s eyes at the side of my head.
“Wonderful. In here?” She gestures to the lobby, where a massive round glass table sits in the center of a circle of couches and chairs that are stacked with fat, fluffy pillows. Rather than ratty magazines on the table, there is a collection of shells in the middle. Guests will be encouraged to bring their drinks from the bar, whether it’s wheatgrass juice or a peach Bellini, and congregate.
Carmella takes the chair while I lower onto the couch. Archer sits next to me, his hip touching mine. She pulls a leather binder out of her bag and takes a pen from the loop. “I didn’t see a sign out front. No name for your spa yet?”
“It has a name,” Archer says.
Pen set over paper, her eyebrow wings upward.
“It’s a surprise for the grand opening,” he says.
“Even I don’t know what it is,” I tell her. Archer wanted to guarantee interest in the spa and thought a surprise “reveal” would garner attention and lure in guests. He’s a genius at this sort of thing, so I default to him.
Carmella hums and scribbles something down. “Well, everyone knows the address, and the neon flashing ‘Open’ sign outside should alert them if they don’t. Now, about the guest list…”
An hour and a half later, she has arranged our ducks into a neat row. She wishes us the best of luck for the grand opening. Unlike Archer—or me, apparently—she doesn’t oversee her own handiwork, instead promising to send a staff of three to the actual event. She’s efficient and smart. There’s an air of power surrounding her. As I watch her hasty walk to the parking lot, I sigh wistfully.
“I want to be Carmella when I grow up.”
“Sorry, Wildflower, you’re too tall.” Archer, just over my shoulder, cups my hips from behind and murmurs into my ear. “Let’s try the pool. It’s heated to the perfect temperature and no one’s here for the rest of the day.”
Tempting. The clouds are low, and while the sun hasn’t set yet, it’s nearly dark from a day of rain. I’ve been chilled to the bone all afternoon. A heated pool sounds like heaven.
I spin in his arms and hook my hands around his neck. I fiddle with the longer strands of his dark hair. “You need a trim, Kingpin.”
“You don’t like it?”
“I do.” I like him every way. Dressed, undressed. Bossy, quiet. Smiling, frowning. There isn’t much I don’t like about him. As if he senses this, he places a kiss on my mouth that lasts longer than either of us expect. I lose track of time, and of where we are, wrapping my leg around his and curving my back to get closer to the part of him I enjoy most.
But that’s a lie, isn’t it? There was a time when I liked him for what he could do to me in bed, but over the past few months, that’s changed. I also like to talk to him. About everything. Business. Family. The weather.
I pull my lips from his, and he hums low in his throat, cupping the thigh of my leg still looped around his. “Is that a yes to the swim?”
