Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88902 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88902 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
He takes it.
His fingers close around the glass where mine were. Not beside, not above. Where mine were. His grip fitting over the shape of mine, thumb settling into the condensation my thumb left, and I don't know if he's doing this on purpose, I don't know if this is just how he picks up a glass or if he's deliberately placing his hand in the exact imprint of mine, but the room gets very small and very warm and my heart is doing something that's probably medically inadvisable and I need him to drink this water and leave before I say or do something that gets me fired.
He drinks. Sets the glass down. And those eyes find me, the iron ones, cooler than the rest of him. Everything warm about this man lives in his body and everything guarded lives in his face. He gives me nothing. Not a smile, not a thank you, not the polite murmur that most clients offer at the end of a session, and I'm standing here with my hands clasped behind my back so he can't see that they're still trembling, waiting for him to say something or leave or both, preferably both, and preferably soon, because my composure has about forty-five seconds left in it.
"Thursday," he tells me. "Same time."
"It's already in the schedule," I reply, and my voice comes out so professionally level that I almost believe I'm a real adult with a real handle on her emotions. "Weekly."
He nods. Once. And then he walks past me, and the air he displaces carries warmth and clean soap and cedarwood on his skin and I hold my breath until he's through the door because if I breathe him in one more time I will make a sound and it will not be a professional sound.
Gone.
I stand in the doorway and my eyes fall to the glass he left behind. The condensation is drying. Two sets of fingerprints in the fog, overlapping, mine and his, layered on the same surface. Already disappearing.
I pick up the glass. Wash it. Dry it. Put it back on the shelf.
And then, because I am alone and the door is closed and no one on this ship can see me, I press my palms to my face for one second, just one, and breathe in cedarwood and his skin and the ninety minutes that are still living in my hands, and then I put them down and I go clean my room because I'm a professional, that's what I am, that's what I do.
Highlight this, self: you survived. Session one, complete. No spontaneous combustion. No inappropriate touching. No audible sounds of emotional distress. Gold star, Thornton. Now do it again next Thursday.
And every Thursday after that.
For the foreseeable future.
With your hands on his scarred back and his heat in your palms and his voice saying "not the hands" in a way that made your entire spine melt.
...add to planner: investigate career change. Deadline: before next Thursday.
I'M LOCKING UP THE supply cabinet when I hear heels on teak.
A quick, confident rhythm. I step out into the spa reception and a woman is crossing the floor toward me, and she is so beautiful that I actually stop what I'm doing, which I never do, because I notice hands and posture and tension patterns, not beauty. But this woman doesn't give you a choice. Dark hair, glossy, past her shoulders. Olive skin. A wine-coloured dress that fits her the way his dark shirts fit him: like the clothes know their job and are doing it well. Early thirties. She moves through the spa reception the way this ship moves through water, smooth and certain and like the room was expecting her, and I'm suddenly and painfully aware of my creased uniform and my rolled-up trousers and the oil stain on my left cuff that I've been pretending isn't there for the last two hours.
"Oh!" She stops when she sees me, her whole face opening up into a smile so warm it feels like being handed a blanket. "You must be the new girl. I'm Mila. From the gallery?"
"Star," I offer, and then, because apparently I've forgotten how introductions work, I add, "Star Thornton," as if she asked for my full government name and I'm at passport control.
"I know, darling. Kobe told me about you." She clasps her hands together, and her nails are perfect, this shade of nude that probably requires an appointment and a postcode I can't afford. "Have you settled in? Is the ship treating you well? It can be overwhelming at first, I remember my early days."
"It's good. It's... really good, actually." And it is, and I can't help the smile that comes with it, because this ship is still the most incredible place I've ever been and I haven't stopped marvelling at it and I don't care if that makes me look like a kid on her first holiday abroad. "Thank you."