Page 100 of The Parent Trap

I glance at the table. “What’s…what’s this?”

“A massage table.”

“You have a massage table?”

“I do now.”

I lick my lips. “Um, why?”

He rounds the end of the table and wraps his hands around my waist, tugs me to him—the box is between us, awkward and poky. “It’s comfy to sleep on?”

I laugh. “Smartass.”

“Because I told you I’d give you a massage.”

“Yeah, a butt massage.”

He touches my chin with a fingertip. “I can include a butt massage.”

“Thai—” I don’t even know which way is up. “The candles, the bath, the massage table…” I swallow hard. “You did all this…for me?”

I’m still holding the heavy box in my hands, but I’ve all but forgotten about it.

He nods. “I’ve been keeping the water hot and the bubbles fresh for about an hour. I’m going to rub you down, and then you’re going to take a bath and relax. And then you’re going to bed.”

I nod. “I see, I see.” I smirk. “One suggestion, however, if I may?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“Bath first, and then massage?”

“I figured the bath would wash the oils off.”

I shrug. “True, but three things—one, baths are not for getting clean, they’re for relaxing. I mean, you can’t really get clean in me-soup, you know? Two, the bath is hot and bubbly now. Third, once I’m done being bathed and massaged, I’m going to be a puddle of so much useless jelly, and it’ll be easier to get me from the table to bed than from the tub to bed, all wet and soapy.”

He nodded, rubbing his chin. “Points taken.” He gestures at the box. “You haven’t opened it, yet.”

I frown. “Oh. I was so surprised by the candles and everything that I—” I cut off abruptly. “Wait? It’s for me?”

He laughs. “Yeah, didn’t you look at it?”

I do so: The shipping label readsTo Delia McKenna, c/o Thai Bristow, with the address to this condo. The return address is Los Angeles, a name I don’t recognize.

“What is it?” I ask.

He snorts. “Open it and find out?”

I set it down on the massage table pick at the edge of the packing tape until I can peel it off. Within, a long, crumpled wad of thick construction paper used as packing material. I pull it out—underneath, stacks of books.

Transparent archival-quality protective sleeves sheathe hardcover books. I pick up the top one:Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.Hands shaking, I gingerly withdraw the book.

I glance up at Thai, but his face is impassive.

I open the cover, and there, on the blank page, is J.K. Rowling’s signature. The copyright page indicates this is a British first edition, first printing.

“Thai…” I breathe.

“Keep going,” he murmurs.