Page 80 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

The spa building itself is brimming with warm wood and clean lines, nestled beside a lake that looks cold enough to cause instant regret should you so much as dip a toe in it.

Inside, the sauna room is intimate. Cedar walls glow amber in the soft light, wooden benches sit stacked in tiers, and a pile of smooth stones radiates enough heat to make the air shimmer.

It reminds me of a cozy cabin in the woods, only with less taxidermy and more eucalyptus. The scent of wood and steam fills the space, and it’s so quiet I can hear the lake lapping against the dock outside.

We do a quick change and we’re all in towels, the whole lot of us—me, Bess, Nettie, Marina, Ransom, and Wes—and it feels both awkward and strangely equalizing. Nobody looks all that intimidating in terry cloth.

Scratch that. My husband looks intimidating in terry cloth. Ransom Baxter looks intimidating in a bathrobe, in a Santa hat, and without a stitch of anything on at all. I can personally attest to that last one, and I plan to attest to it again later tonight. A wife has her research to conduct.

Nettie immediately claims the top bench as if she’s planting a flag on newly discovered land. “Top tier is mine. I’ve earned this through suffering. Besides, after getting shot out of a cannon, heights have lost all power over me.”

She was more or less shot out of a cannon, so I choose not to argue with her about that.

“You got stuck in a cannon because you climbed into it voluntarily,” Bess points out, settling onto the middle bench and smoothing her towel as if it were one of her cranberry pantsuits. “The only people who suffered were the four firemen who had to catapult you out.”

“Those men can pull me out of anything, anytime.” Nettie wiggles into place with a dreamy sigh. “Two of them had forearms I’ll be thinking about clear through Christmas.”

“That’s not suffering,” Bess says. “That’s a felony in progress.”

“My definition is more flexible than yours.”

“So are your morals,” Bess mutters, and I decide someone should issue that woman a license for concealed sass.

Marina perches beside Bess, tucking her towel carefully around herself. “How long are we supposed to stay in here?”

“Until we achieve enlightenment,” Nettie says from above. “Or pass out. Whichever comes first.”

There’s a woman aboard our ship who recently helped someone achieve the permanent version of passing out, so I’d prefer we not tempt fate with either.

“That’s not how saunas work,” Wes says, taking the bench across from where I’m already sitting beside Ransom.

“Everything’s negotiable if you’re determined enough,” Nettie tells him. “That’s how I landed my second husband and how I got out of a speeding ticket in Montana once. Same skill set, coincidentally.”

Ransom drapes his arm across my shoulders and pulls me close, and I lean into him because the heat is already making me drowsy in the best way possible.

Wes’ eyes keep drifting to Marina, who has her crimson hair piled on top of her head and her towel gliding down her chest just enough for the good captain’s eyes to bulge while trying their very best to stay north of the danger zone. She looks serene and beautiful and slightly pink from the heat, and judging by the way our captain has forgotten how to blink, I’m not the only one keeping score.

“This is nice,” I murmur.

“It’s a hundred degrees,” Ransom says.

“Exactly. Nice.” I tip my chin up at him. “You of all people should know by now that I like it hot.”

“Believe me,” he says, dropping his voice into that low register that makes my knees melt with or without the heat, “I know exactly what you like.”

A quiver runs through me when he says it, and I highly approve.

Ransom seals the deal by pressing a slow kiss to my bare shoulder, right there in front of the Good Lord, country, and two octogenarians, and I feel that one straight down to my toes.

Marina presses her lips together and studies the ceiling as if the cedar planks have suddenly become fascinating.

“Get a room, you two,” Nettie calls down from her perch. Then she swings a look at Marina. “And while you’re at it, maybe you and the captain should book the one next door. I hear this establishment has vacancies.”

Marina gasps loud enough to suck up all the steam.

Wes, to his credit, reaches for the ladle beside the water bucket as if he’s been given a job to do and pours water over the heated stones. Steam hisses up in a dramatic cloud, and the temperature spikes another ten degrees.

“Are you trying to cook us?” Bess asks.