Page 35 of The Upgrade

“No problem, ma’am.” That’s Logan, a former U.S. Marine who got paired with me for this job. He gives me a look that says it’s nothing personal. “Lots of guests feel self-conscious at first. There’s never any pressure to do anything but enjoy your time here.”

With a pleasure-soaked sigh, she closes her eyes and leans forward as Logan smooths sunscreen between her shoulder blades. “You remind me of my ex’s brother,” she murmurs as her eyes flutter shut. “I should have marriedhim. He’s so much nicer. You know what Glen used to tell me?”

“What’s that?” Logan’s attentive as he re-hooks her top and squirts more sunblock into his palms.

“He told me I have pancake tits.” The brunette sniffles. “He wanted me to get a boob job.”

“Not cool.” That pisses me off. “Your body’s perfect exactly the way it is. You deserve to be treated with kindness and respect.”

“You’re fucking hot,” Logan agrees. “Sounds like you dodged a bullet with that guy.”

“I did, didn’t I?” She peers up at Logan and smiles. “Were you really a Marine?”

I tune them out for a bit, watching waves lap the shore. It’s beautiful here, which I kind of expected, but website photos didn’t do justice to the postcard perfection of the place. Palm trees parade along a white sandy shore, with tropical birds swooping through crystal blue skies. Sunset last night was the best one I’ve seen in my life, all orangey and pink as I watched from the balcony of my private suite with a glass of good scotch.

This job is the post-storm calm my soul craved. A break from the long string of blows; my father’s death, my split with Miranda, the choice to leave London behind. Maybe for good. I haven’t decided yet what comes after this.

By the time we finish sunscreening the brunette, it’s time to clock out. Consorts are urged to set our own schedules, but it’s strongly suggested we take breaks in twelve-hour chunks.

As I pick up my pager, a message blinks up on the screen.

Room 24: Are you free for dinner tonight?

Eve.And she wants to have dinner?

The request didn’t come through the portal, but on the private communication channel for consorts and guests. She’s not choosing a service from the menu, where she’d otherwise pick from options like the Luxury Lickity Split—that’s under-the-table oral with a lobster dinner—or the Frisky Foodie French Kiss—gentle neck kisses for the duration of a five-course French meal.

Not that I’d mind doing any of that. Especially with Eve.

But this seems more like a friend date. Or adatedate. Is it risky to see her twice in one day? She’s my sister’s best friend. A woman processing a painful breakup. Those things add a layer of complication.

I’m still formulating a response when another message comes through.

Room 24: I know you have dozens of other women to service, so no pressure.

I start to reply as another quick text comes through.

Room 24: Not “service.” Enchant. You have dozens of women to ENCHANT. Still learning the lingo.

I laugh and type out a response.

TOPHER: I would love to have dinner. Name the restaurant, time, and attire and I’ll be there.

Normally, I’d never throw all the decisions on a date, but this is Eve’s time to call the shots. To say if she’s picturing me shirtless, feeding her forkfuls of pasta and massaging her shoulders between bites.

That’s also an available enchantment on the menu. It’s called the Randy Ravioli Rubdown, if I’m not mistaken.

Her reply comes through two minutes later.

Room 24: Just made a reservation at Halcyon Bistro for 7:30. Dying to try their coconut curry scallops. It’s Caribbean dressy, whatever that means. Maybe linen slacks and button-down shirt for you, a sundress and sandals for me? I can ask.

Ah, okay. So more like a date or a dinner between friends. That’s not to say she won’t request more, and the thought of that gets me excited.

TOPHER: I’ll be there. And a sundress sounds perfect.

I hesitate a second.

TOPHER: Sundress for you, not me. Unless you’d like me to wear one.

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