Annie and Brendon’s joint bachelor-bachelorette extravaganza—Brendon’s word, not Olivia’s （extravaganza made her think of the annual mattress sale at the furniture store off State Route 410）—was taking place at Salish Lodge & Spa, a resort getaway half an hour outside of Seattle, halfway between the city and the ski summit. They’d be spending two nights—Wednesday and Thursday—at the lodge, before heading back to the city in time for the rehearsal dinner on Friday night and the wedding the following day.
In the passenger seat of Olivia’s Subaru Outback—it had all-wheel drive, unlike Margot’s Toyota Camry—Margot stared at her phone, rattling off facts about the lodge where they’d be staying. “Ooh, get this. Every guest room has a gas fireplace—fancy—a shower with dual heads, and an oversized soaking tub. And there’s an on-site herb garden and . . . ooh, there’s an apiary that provides honey for both of the lodge’s restaurants and the spa.”
“Mm.” Olivia sped up, passing a minivan going ten below the speed limit.
“Let’s see . . . award-winning spa . . . steam room, sauna, soaking pools are available by appointment,” Margot read from the site. “Fitness massage, tranquility massage, hot stone massage . . .”
That all sounded fantastic, but Olivia had too much to do to simply send the next two days relaxing in a spa. She needed to follow up with the vendors, make sure the final payments had been received by the suppliers, and deliver the final head count to the caterer for the rehearsal dinner and the reception. All of which she could do from the lodge, but she’d packed her laptop and double-checked the resort had reliable Wi-Fi for a reason.
“Hey.” Margot waved her fingers, frowning softly. “Where’d you go?”
“Sorry.” Olivia smiled and shook her head. “I’m just thinking about everything I still have to do with vendors and suppliers and . . . I don’t know. I—maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to come. There’s just so much and—”
“Hey, whoa.” Margot swiveled in her seat the best she could with the seat belt strapped across her body. “Brendon and Annie invited you.”
“Right, and relaxing right now should be their number one priority,” Olivia said, eyes flitting between the road and her rearview mirror as she changed lanes. “My priority is making sure their wedding goes off without a hitch.”
“And you totally will,” Margot said. “But I’m pretty sure you can squeeze in a massage, too.”
Olivia hummed under her breath and rolled out her shoulders. “A massage does sound nice.”
Margot looked over at her and smiled. “If you needed a massage, you could’ve just asked.” Her brows wiggled. “I’m good with my hands.”
Olivia’s face heated at the memory of Margot using her hands to edge Olivia for what felt like an hour, driving her to the point of babbling and begging until finally Margot had wrung four orgasms from Olivia before relenting, leaving her a puddle of goo.
“That you are,” Olivia agreed, voice a touch breathless.
Margot’s smirked and turned her attention back to her screen.
Olivia reached for her bottle of water, suddenly parched. She flipped the rubbery straw up on her CamelBak and took a long drink, eyes flitting away from the road briefly to return the bottle to the cup holder.
On the center console, Margot’s hand rested, slightly cupped, fingers curled toward her palm, facing up. Olivia had a sudden, jarring flashback to seventh grade, when she’d gone out on her first date to the movies with Michael Louis, a boy who’d had a sweet smile and an unfortunate floppy bowl cut that made him look like a cute mushroom, or Jim Halpert circa season one of The Office. They’d gone to see some cheesy action movie and sat dead center in the theater. He’d rested his hand on the armrest and stared, not at the screen, but at Olivia, until she’d gotten the hint and slipped her hand into his, his palm damp and warm and oddly sticky.
It wasn’t a question that Margot was good with her hands or that she had clever, talented fingers that could drive Olivia to new heights of pleasure. It was a question of whether Olivia could hold Margot’s hand.
Was that . . . something they did now? If Olivia slipped her hand inside Margot’s, would she be pushing her luck?
Olivia held her breath, hand hovering above the cup holder, and—
A horn blared from the next lane over, the one Olivia had accidentally floated into. She gripped the wheel with both hands, careful not to overcorrect, and kept her eyes locked on the road, willing away her flush when Margot studied her from the passenger seat.