Page 119 of Stealing Blinds

It’s over the top, but it reminds me that I’m cherished, so I don’t hate it. I would assume he was going to do the honors, but he’s leading me to the spa. The girls and I got our nails done here on my birthday. Like everything in this resort, it’s lavish and refined—elegance found in vintage Art Deco luxury.

He ushers me inside and checks in with the fifty-something woman at the desk. “Hi, Wendy. Could you get my beautiful girl set up?”

“My pleasure, darlin’.” She beams at him, like a doting aunt.

Maybe the most impressive part of La Lune Noire is how possessive the employees are over the owners. They don’t just respect them. They care about them.

When Cash pulls me aside and kisses me goodbye—unhurried and passionate—I’m baffled.

With a swoop of my stomach, I open my eyes to latch to ocean blues. “You’re okay with letting me get a massage?”

“There’s nothing more important to me than taking care of you.” He palms my head and nips my lower lip. “You’ve been working so hard. You deserve to feel pampered and relaxed.”

“Thanks. You could get a massage with me.” I slant my head with that suggestion, trying to pluck out the missing piece here. Sweet or not, there’s more to this. “You’re going back to the penthouse to unpack my bikinis, aren’t you?”

We’re leaving in twelve hours, and we have countless concerns to focus on, but he mean-mugged my orange knit swimsuit when I stuck it in my suitcase and then groused when I added two others, muttering something about fucking floss.

“Yes.” His dimple boasts about his plans. “Before I burn them.”

Maybe it’s the scent of white tea and eucalyptus calming my nerves, but the notion of him setting my clothing on fire does nothing to rile me. It also doesn’t stop my mouth.

“So, no one can see me in a perfectly acceptable bathing suit, but someone can rub me down?” I don’t know why I poke bears, but we all have our fatal flaws. This is simply one of mine.

His Adam’s apple bobs on a thick swallow. “Don’t overthink it, Sly. You’d better get in there before I burst inside to massage a much different part of you and the whole goddamn place hears you beg me for more.”

I bite my lip and flutter my lashes. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

“I know.” He clutches the sides of my face, intensity rolling off him. “You’re more than a fantasy, Sylvie.” His mouth presses to mine for a final kiss. “You’re my future.”

Every time I think he’s reached his peak for swoonworthy moments, he tops them all.

My heart thumps against my sternum. Thank God he refused to let me dismiss him in our first encounters because Cash Noire is a jaw-dropping vision with depth that gets lost in his beauty. I don’t even want to imagine how tragic it would’ve been if I hadn’t been introduced to his profound angles.

He strides out of the spa, and I turn to find the receptionist patiently waiting for me to follow her into the room. It’s tranquil with bamboo and gold and a creamy color palette. The lighting is dim, and candles are already lit.

“I have to tell you,” Wendy begins in a soft voice, “it is good to see him so smitten.”

“Well”—I laugh—“he’s not the only one.”

She squeezes my arm before gesturing to the closet and other essentials throughout the room. “You can undress to your comfort level and slip under the blanket. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to press the call button for me or let your masseuse know.”

She turns a water feature on, which blends with a noise machine and chiming ambient instrumental music to create a soothing rhythm, and she taps a sign on her way out.

Please remember that the rooms are not soundproof.

Do not discuss anything confidential with your masseuse.

Based on the nature of the resort, I guess that is an important reminder. I wonder if the employees are ever afraid. It might even be a safety precaution for them.

Five minutes later, I’m lying face down under the blanket, allowing myself to melt into the hypnotic babbling-brook melody when I hear a knock on the door. My eyes pop open, but all I see is the floor through the hole in the table.

“Are you good to get started?” a syrupy voice asks.

“I’m good,” I reply. “Thank you.”

Blocking out noises is a difficult feat, considering my profession. I’m so accustomed to discerning what every click, clack, or footfall could reveal that the water feature and white-noise machine fade away, and the hushed sounds from the movement of bottles and shoes and doors, muted giggles in the hallway, and an echoing conversation from the room beside me take up residence in my mind.

But when the blanket is folded down and hot stones are laid along my spine, I rest my eyes and bask in the relief to my muscles.