activities and decide that the first order of business is a celebratory facial and body scrub down at the spa. Solo. I don’t think Ethan is much of a pampering type, but the worst thing would be to have him lift a cooling cucumber slice off my eyelid and glare down at me while I’m lounging in a robe.
“Ethan,” I call, “what are you up to this afternoon?”
In the answering silence, I sense his panic that I might be requesting his company.
“I’m not asking because I want to hang,” I add quickly.
He hesitates again, and when he finally answers, his voice comes out tinny, like he’s actually climbed into the closet. “Thank God.”
Well. “I’m probably going to head down to the spa.”
“Do whatever you want. Just don’t use all the massage credits,” he tacks on.
I scowl, even though he can’t see me. “How many times do you think I’m going to get rubbed down in a single afternoon?”
“I’d rather not contemplate.”
I flip the bird in his general direction, consult the directory to confirm that the spa has showers I can use, grab my key card, and leave Ethan to his surly unpacking.
• • •
GUILT EDGES IN A TINY bit when I am being pampered and indulged for nearly three hours using Ami’s name. My face is exfoliated, massaged, and moisturized. My body is covered in clay, scrubbed until I’m red and tingly all over, and then covered with warm eucalyptus towels.
I make a silent promise to put aside money from each paycheck for a while so that I can send my sister to a lavish spa back home when she no longer feels “like a freshly reanimated corpse.” It may not be Maui, but any little bit I can pay her back for this, I’m committed to do. All I have to do this entire week is tip the staff; it seems so preposterous. This type of blissful, transcendent spa experience isn’t for me. I’m the one who gets a fungal infection from a pedicure in the Cities and a bikini wax burn at a spa in Duluth.
Limp as a jellyfish all over and drunk on endorphins, I look up at my therapist. “That was . . . amazing. If I ever win the lottery, I’m going to move here and pay you to do that every day.”
She probably hears that daily, but she laughs like I am exceedingly clever. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.”
Enjoyed myself is an understatement. Not only was it dreamy, but it was a full three hours away from Ethan.
I’m led back to the lounge, where I’m told to take as much time as I want. Diving into the plush couch, I pull my phone from the pocket of my robe. I’m unsurprised to see messages from my mom (Tell your dad to bring us some toilet paper and Gatorade), my sister (Tell mom to go hooooome), Diego (Is this punishment for making fun of Natalia’s terrible bleach job? I’d say I’m sorry but I’ve seen mops with fewer split ends), and Jules (Do you care if I stay at your place while you’re gone? This thing is like the plague and I might have to burn down my apartment).
Too tired and blissed out to deal with any of it now, I pick up a well-loved copy of Us Weekly. But not even celebrity gossip or the latest Bachelor drama can keep me awake, and I feel my eyelids closing under the weight of happy exhaustion.
“Ms. Torres?”
“Hmm?” I hum, groggy.
“Ms. Torres, is that you?” Eyes bolting open, I nearly overturn the cucumber water I’ve got precariously perched on my chest. When I sit, I look up and nearly all I see is an enormous white mustache.
And oh. I know this mustache; I first met this mustache at a highly important interview. I remember at the time thinking, Wow, a Sam Elliott doppelgänger is the CEO here at Hamilton Biosciences! Who knew?
My eyes move up. Yes, the Sam Elliott doppelgänger—Charles Hamilton, my new boss’s boss—is right in front of me at the Spa Grande in Maui.
Wait . . . what?
“Mr. Hamilton! Hi!”
“I thought that was you.” He looks tanner than when I saw him a few weeks ago, his white hair a touch longer, and he definitely wasn’t wearing a fluffy white robe and slippers.
He crosses the room, arms outstretched for a hug.
Oh. Okay, we’re going to do this. I stand, and he catches my expression of discomfort—because I don’t usually hug my bosses, especially not when