Page 92 of Wrecked on the Mountain

He laughs and whisks me out of the penthouse, walking quickly until we're standing outside the spa's couples massage room, wrapped in the softest robes I've ever worn.

Of course… the massage room looks like something you'd find on a cruise ship.

Soft music plays from hidden speakers, essential oils perfume the air, and two massage tables are positioned side by side with enough space for the therapists to work their magic in-between.

"First time at Cascade Springs?" asks my masseuse, a woman named Frankie whose hands feel like they were specifically designed by the universe to work out tension.

"First time anywhere like this," I admit, face down in the headrest, already melting into complete relaxation.

Andmy God…

I haven't felt this loose in... years.

Possibly ever.

The last time I got a massage was during residency, when Piper dragged me to some discount place in Chicago that felt more like physical therapy than pampering.

This is different.

This is pure indulgence, every stroke of Frankie's hands designed to make me feel like a goddess.

From the table beside me, I hear Jamie grunt as his masseuse works on what sounds like some serious knots in his shoulders.

"You carry a lot of tension here," the man tells him with an accent I can't place. "Physical job?"

"Mountain rescue," Jamie replies, voice muffled by the headrest. "Lot of heavy lifting."

"And carrying beautiful women to safety," I add with a grin.

I hear Jamie's laugh rumble through his chest. "Just the one beautiful woman, lately."

Frankie chuckles. "You two seem very relaxed. Celebrating an anniversary?"

"Not yet," Jamie says, and his husky tone makes my pulse spike.

Not yet.Like it's inevitable. Like anniversaries celebrated like this are just a matter of time.

"Feel good?" Jamie asks, his voice closer than it should be.

I crack one eye open to find him reaching across the space between tables, trying to hold my hand. The movement makes his towel slip dangerously low, and his masseuse clears his throat.

"Um, sir?" The man says, trying not to look. "Your—"

"Shit!"

Jamie fumbles to adjust the towel and somehow manages to knock over the bottle of massage oil in the process, sending expensive eucalyptus oil spreading across the bamboo floor.

"Shit," he mutters again, trying to sit up while maintaining his modestyandnot lose the towel completely. "Sorry, man."

"It happens," the masseuse says diplomatically, reaching for towels to clean up the mess while Frankie and I dissolve into laughter.

"I was trying to be romantic," he grumbles, face red with embarrassment.

"You succeeded. Just not how you planned."

By the time we're finished with the massages, and Jamie helps with clean-up despite protests, we're both glowing and loose-limbed.

"Ready for the hot springs?" Jamie asks, wrapping one of the resort's fluffy robes around my shoulders.