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The strip show she put on was painful.

And I mean painfully hard.

With each button she threaded through the hole, with each inch of the zipper she lowered, I felt myself getting dumber and dumber. It probably had something to do with all the blood in my body making a beeline south, straight to my dick, but I wasn’t complaining. By the time she was down to her underwear, I was going to pass out. Purple lace had never been my thing, but right now I had a new appreciation for it.

Tillie stalled.

“Take it off, Tillie,” I encouraged.

Slowly, she reached behind her and unsnapped the clasp of her bra, letting the straps slip off her shoulders before the scrap of lace landed in a pile with the rest of her clothes. Then, as quickly as she could, she shimmied her panties down, kicked them away, and climbed in.

“Oh fuck,” she moaned as she sank below the water.

“What?” I asked, confused, or maybe I was still dazed and hypnotized by her tits.

“The water is beautiful.” She smiled across at me as she settled in.

“So are you,” I told her, handing her her wine. “Now, sit back, let the jets work their magic, and tell me all about your day.”

“Wait! You were serious about that?”

“Of course,” I confirmed.

“You want to hear about my day at the diner?” She still wasn’t getting it. I wanted to hear everything she had to say. Politics. Religion. Sports. The fine art of making sourdough. Anything Tillie was willing to tell me, I wanted to hear.

Tillie leaned back, her head resting on the edge, and took a deep breath. As beautiful as she was, she also looked tired. There was a weariness about her, and I had to stamp down my guilt. I knew she wasn’t getting much sleep, something I should feel more remorse for than I did. She spent all day on her feet, waiting on other people. Tillie was one of those selfless people. Selfless to the point of insanity. I bet she never took the time for herself. Time for her to breathe. To just be. To rest. I reached down underwater and grabbed her foot, pulling it into my lap.

“What are you …” Her words died on her lips as I pressed my thumbs into the ball of her foot. “Oh, fuck that feels good.” She moaned.

“Now, how was your day, dear?” I tried again as I continued to massage her feet.

“Busy.”

“Busy good or busy bad?”

“Can it be both?” she asked.

“Absolutely it can.”

“I know it sounds silly, but I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop,” she admitted, sipping her wine.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s silly.” She shook her head.

“I’m sure it’s not. Talk to me,” I pushed again.

“Don’t get me wrong, Rosie’s diner is my dream. Ever since I lost …” The words clogged in her throat. She took a breath, shook her head, then pressed on. “I wanted it to succeed. I was going to do whatever I had to, give up whatever to make it a success.”

“And you did!” I cheered. “People love it. Your food is amazing.”

Her cheeks turned that deep shade of pink that had me grinning from ear to ear. “Thanks.”

“But?”

“But I feel like I’m holding my breath.”

“Why?”