I grin.
Hyacinth makes a noise that might be a laugh or it might be don’t anger the scary short celebrity by smiling at her when she’s having a shit fit.
And after a long beat, Keisha breaks into laughter. “Oh my god, I’m so glad Hayes finally found someone with a sense of humor. C’mon, ladies. Don’t even bother getting changed. The spa will have robes for all of us. You. Begonia’s twin. You’re gonna have to leave your phone at home because I don’t trust you yet. No pictures. Maybe later if you quit gaping at me like that. Nikolay! Nikolay, we need the chopper, please. And Marshmallow needs a babysitter.”
Hyacinth makes a face.
“Down the hall, first door on your right,” I tell her.
“Stupid pregnancy. I don’t know if I can get a spa treatment without having to pee.”
Keisha pats her arm. “Sweetie, we only go places where you could literally shit on the table and no one would blink. Don’t shit on the table if you can help it, but for real—they can handle it if you need to pause mid-body wrap to take a piss.”
Hyacinth waddles down the hallway to the bathroom. Keisha disappears with an order for me to wash my hands and meet her at the helipad in twenty minutes, or she’s going without us.
And I take a chance and dial Hayes. I’m planning on leaving him a voicemail, but instead, I get the man himself.
“Good afternoon, Begonia. Having fun today?”
Goosebumps break out on my arms at the sound of his warm voice. He woke me early this morning after keeping me up late last night, and I can honestly say my body has never been more satisfied. “You brought me Hyacinth.”
“You seemed to be missing her.”
“I—I was. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
Dammit. My eyes are getting hot again. Chad used to complain about how much time I spent with my sister, even though I never felt like it was enough. And here the man who wants me to agree to fake being engaged to him just does it, despite how little time we’ve known each other. “I don’t think I can explain how much this means to me.”
“No need, bluebell. Just enjoy your time.”
How is it possible that the sweetest man on the entire planet is hiding under that grumpy exterior?
It’s a good thing we’re having sex now.
I don’t know if I could thank him properly with anything less.
“B, you wash up yet?” Keisha calls.
An hour later, we’re touching down in New York City.
I text a selfie with Hyacinth and the skyline to Hayes. OMG! I can see the Empire State Building! Is there anything I should know about spa days and shopping with Keisha?
He’s working, so I don’t expect an immediate answer, but I get one anyway. Tell her to use my credit card and have fun. Follow her lead and don’t talk to anyone she says to not talk to. But mostly, have fun.
We do.
It’s limousines and hours of spa treatments at what Keisha tells us is a secret spa. But I recognize the name. Silver Crocus was the brand of lotion Hayes had at his house in Maine, and the Silver Crocus logo on the spa’s front door matches.
This spa is so classy that I’m pretty sure I’m lowering its reputation just by setting foot inside the door. Everything smells like eucalyptus and lavender, the floor is marble, the walls a deep burgundy damask—to absorb light and sound, Keisha says—and the light fixtures flicker like candles, even though they’re modern bulbs. The orchids, lilies, and crocuses are real, displayed in real crystal vases, and the sheets are smooth as silk, and the towels are fluffy and perfect.
I get my hair touched up so that it glows even brighter, and Hyacinth and I have a couples massage where she only has to get up and pee once. Then there’s a body scrub. All three of us have facials in the same room while we’re getting pedicures and manicures.
“Usually they’d be separate treatments, but we’re on a timeline,” Keisha tells us as we recline in heated chairs with organic, fresh-picked cucumbers on our eyes and our feet soaking in bath salts and our hands being massaged with fancy oils before our nails are painted.
We leave carrying the spa robes and our old clothes, along with more sample products that look like full-size products than I could use in three years. Anything for Hayes Rutherford’s girlfriend, the woman at the counter whispered to me while she slipped two more full bottles of that amazing hand lotion into my bag. Be sure to tell people you love these, and we’ll send you more. Here’s a card with our public website. And another with our private website for exclusive clients.