Page 44 of Plotting Summer

“Here you are, Mr. Palmer.” He hands over a key and pulls out a map of the resort. “You’re in villa thirty-six.” He points to a door across the lobby and then to the corresponding door on the map for reference. “Just take this door and follow the pathway until the end. You’ll be the second-to-last villa on the right.”

“Thanks.” Tristan takes the key and guides me in the direction the man indicated.

“Why do we have a villa?” I whisper-hiss, ignoring the way Tristan’s hand is still situated on my lower back as he directs me past a few patrons whose curious gazes follow us. They’re probably also wondering why we’re here. Or why I’m here. Or maybe why Tristan is here with me. So many possibilities.

Tristan leans in close. “Don’t get the wrong idea, Capri Sun. I have no intention of letting you seduce me today.”

My lips part, and I nudge my elbow into him.

“Fine.” He chuckles and opens the door for me. “If you’re going to be like that, I’ll consider it.” And then he winks.

Tristan Palmer WINKS! At me!

I step through the door, hardly able to take in the sight of the massive pool in front of us. My brain is using up all its energy attempting to compute what’s happening right now. Not just the fact that Tristan and I checked into a private villa together, but the blatant flirting. I get that the seduction comment is a joke—Tristan’s not that kind of guy—but it’s not the sort of teasing we engage in. We keep all interactions strictly in the platonic zone which, as I understand, doesn’t include mentions of seduction in any form. Maybe this is what Walker meant when he warned me to be careful. I’m also aware that Tristan can be a flirt, but I haven’t been the recipient of it. His thoughtful remarks, yes. His knowing looks and smiles, yes. But not his flirtatious teasing, and I can suddenly see why my brother thinks I might take it the wrong way—because my heart is already throwing caution to the wind and wanting more.

Tristan must mistake my contemplation for concern, because the twinkle in his eye lessens. “Noah thought we should have a home base for today. A place to put our stuff and get ready when we need to—separately,” he says with emphasis.

So the villa wasn’t Tristan’s idea. “That makes sense.”

We continue down the palm-covered pathway, pointing out the different villas tucked away as we go. When we finally get to villa thirty-six, we walk up the narrow, foliaged path to the front porch, and he opens the door. I step inside, my heart taking off at a rapid gallop when my gaze falls on the single bed with white linens and thick, fluffy pillows. One wall is completely open and leads out to a patio where a small private pool is situated, surrounded by lush greenery that makes it feel enclosed. There’s a wicker loveseat inside (not a full, sit-on-the-other-side-of-the-couch length sofa) and one bathroom. And the general ambiance is screaming secluded romance.

This room has way too much potential for a mouth-watering scene—two friends, sharing a secluded villa. That is, if characters from my books found themselves in this situation (which they just might after this). But because it’s me and Tristan, I mute the author part of my brain for the time being. Though I do soak in the small details for future inspiration, like the tri-fold blinds that can be used for privacy and the sheer white fabric draped over the wooden four-poster bed.

“It’s a shame we’ll only be using this as a place to change,” I say before I realize how that sounded. “I only meant⁠—”

“I know what you meant.” Tristan doesn’t tease me this time. Maybe I’m not the only one with a warning siren going off in my head. Not because he actually worries about anything happening between us but because he wants to make sure the boundaries remain crystal clear. Tristan glances at his watch. “Our first appointment is in ten minutes, so we can”—he lifts his hands at his sides—“head over now if you want?”

For someone who was jokingly throwing out comments about whether he’d consider letting me seduce him, he seems pretty eager to not be alone with me. Which I completely understand. Situations like this—and like sunset boat rides—can confuse the logical side of people. Or, as evidenced in the case of The Incident, the logical side of me. Better safe than sorry, especially when he likely regrets blurring the otherwise firm lines we’ve maintained with his next-level teasing earlier.

“What’s the appointment for?” I ask.

The carefree, excited smile returns to his face. “You’ll see.”

I step out from the dimly lit room into the posh waiting area, my eyes adjusting to the change in light.

“How was that?” Tristan asks, glancing up from his phone. He looks straight out of one of my daydreams with his disheveled hair and the fluffy white robe he’s wearing that came from our room. I know he has on his swim trunks underneath, but without being able to see them, and with the way his chest is peeking through at the top, my natural instinct is to look away. Or more like protective instinct, so I don’t start drooling or staring or say something incoherent. But that’s what seventeen-year-old Capri would have done, so I meet his gaze as if his Grecian lounging vibe doesn’t faze me.

“Unbelievable.” Never in my twenty-seven years of life have I considered paying a stranger to rub my entire body into a state of utter relaxation. But I’m officially hooked.

Tristan pats the chair next to him, and I secure my own matching robe more tightly around me before sitting. “How was yours?” I ask.

“Tony was a little heavy handed. I may have whimpered a few times.”

I smile, ignoring the way Tristan’s arm is draped over the back of my chair and the smell of his minty breath when he leans in. “You did not.”

“Oh, I did. I kept thinking how glad I was we opted not to do the couple’s massage.”

Clarification, Tristan opted not to do the couple’s massage, letting the pretty young woman at the counter know that we actually weren’t a couple and I’d probably prefer my own room. Yes, in hindsight, I’m extremely grateful. I’m not sure I could have relaxed at all with Tristan on a massage table next to me, both of us wearing nothing but a sheet for cover. But the woman’s eagerness to assist him, all while batting her thick eyelashes, felt a little pointed.

Speaking of Miss Eyelashes, she steps in front of us with two large tumblers in her hand. “Mr. Palmer, Miss Collins, if you’ll follow me.”

We stand up in unison, and again, Tristan’s hand goes to my back. “After you,” he says. Apparently the whole ‘this is my woman’ meaning attributed to the gesture is fictionally based, and I’m now mad at every author who has continued to push that narrative, including myself. From here on out, I vow to use it correctly—as nothing more than gentlemanly behavior.

We follow our guide into an area with tiled floor, a collection of drains embedded throughout, and several large glass doors lining the otherwise wooden planked hallway. She points at the first door. “This is the sauna and that there”—she then points to the next door—“is the steam room. We also have a cool pool and a hot pool there, and a saltwater ice bath through the last door on the right. Be sure to stay hydrated.” She hands us each a tumbler, and the ice clinks around inside. “There’s a refill station at the end of the hall just past the bathrooms. Please don’t hesitate to ask if there’s anything else you need. Otherwise, whenever you’re ready for your mud baths, let me know and we can get you started on those.”

“Mud baths?” I mouth to Tristan.

He shrugs as if he has no idea what Noah signed us up for. “Is there an order we’re supposed to do everything?” he asks.