Page 41 of The Hitch
Yes, sir.
His response is immediate, as it always is. I'm sure The Marbas and Cherie won't be pleased, but I don't really care. I'm taking my wife out on the town, whether she likes it or not.
As I maneuver to the interstate, I sneak peeks at her. She stares out the window, unblinking, almost perfectly still. It's eerie, just like the night I watched her all those weeks ago. This must be some form of stress response. Completely immobilizing her until she passes out. It's not a verygoodstress response, but where I'm taking her will most definitely relax her.
"Pick the music," I say and gently tap her on the shoulder. She doesn't move. I poke a little harder, harder, until she snaps her gaze over to me.
"What? Where are we?" she gasps.
"Just outside the city, and we've got about an hour and a half to go. Pick the music," I repeat and gesture to the sound system.
Melody grumbles and hooks her phone up to the radio, fiddling with the volume knobs until the sultry sounds of… 90s hip-hop fills the air. Alright, not my choice for a spa day. But tobe entirely fair, I didn't tell her we're going to the spa. She bobs her head to the beat and half-heartedly raps along.
I'm in deep shit. I think I like my wife.
After receiving the full Melody Music Tour, we pull up outside the Cocoa Spa. My family has held partial ownership of the spa and attached hotel for years, and the staff know meverywell.Not fifteen minutes after arriving, we're ushered to a private room together, handed fluffy bath robes and branded slippers, then espresso martinis.
"Can't have these when you're pregnant, either," I say as I lift my glass to hers.
"Yup," she mumbles as she takes a long slurp. Smacking her lips in satisfaction, she turns to me. "Why are we here?"
"Isn't it obvious?" I sweep my arms wide, nearly sloshing out the drink. "I'm pampering you. Or did you get all of that out of your system this week? To the tune of a couple thousand dollars?"
"Happy wife, happy life." She plops herself down onto an Adirondack-style chair and fluffs out her waves. I lower myself down next to her. The room they've assigned to us is exquisite, but I wouldn't expect anything less.
Matching massage tables stand proudly in the center of the room, and a two-person alcove is built into one of the walls. The sauna, of course. Our day clothes have been hung with care on a rack above the towel warmer. There isn't a speck of dust to be found, though the place doesn't smell of the industrial cleaner I know they use. In fact, the whole place seems to have the scent of chocolate chip cookies, fresh from the oven.
The longer we sit quietly together, the more relaxed Melody looks. She flinches a tiny bit when the door swings open and two massage therapists file in serenely but quickly composes herself.
"Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Lyons. Have you selected your preferred packages for today?" Kathy, a middle-aged woman with an air of professionalism about her, asks.
"Indeed, we have. The King and Queen treatments, respectively. And please." I smile at Melody. "Keep the martinis coming."
"It'll be our pleasure."
Kathy extends her hand to Melody, who gratefully takes it and allows herself to be led to the massage table. The other woman, Eleanor, looks a bit nervous and tentatively holds her hand out to me. I wave her off and lie down on the table next to Melody, angling my head to watch her.
With every stroke of Kathy's firm hands, Melody melts into the table. Something like pride warms in my chest. My wife ishappy. And I don't hate it.
Eleanor gently angles my head into the circular cushion, obscuring my view of Melody. As the woman works on my trapezius muscles, I feel a soft hand gently graze my fingers. I lift my head just enough to see that my wife is reaching for me, and I clamp my fingers down on hers. Her sigh of contentment is audible, and that pride-like feeling in my chest heats again.
I hold her hand until the massage therapists gently pry us apart, before asking us to turn over onto our backs. Fine by me, I can see my wife. She lazily smiles at me before closing her eyes again. I follow suit and lose myself in the deep pressure. Eleanor is amazing, and I know Kathy is the best of the best. Every ounce of tension drains away to the sound of new-age flutes.
Two hours fly by in pure bliss. My wife isglowing. Her hair is a little ruffled from the finishing head massage, but she looks so satisfied. I'm not sure how many espresso martinis she's had,but a pink flush stains her chest and cheeks. She grins at me and swirls the drink in her hand.
"How'd you drink those while getting massaged?" I ask, chuckling.
"There's this really cool new invention called a straw," she laughs back. "You should try it sometime."
I like this. I like that she feels comfortable enough to joke with me. It's a far cry from where we started—which reminds me, like a punch to the gut. I have to talk to Roman. The plan is off. If, after producing an heir for me, she wants to leave? She can. I'll send her on her merry way, with the vast majority of my fortune.
I'll follow her to the ends of the earth, of course, but shecouldleave.
"What's up?" Melody tilts her head as she takes another sip of her martini—through astraw—and I want to squirm in my seat.
"Nothing. Just thinking about what else you can't do when you're pregnant." I force a smile. "Ready for the hot tub?"
I lead my wife to the hotel elevators as she giggles to herself and stumbles in her steps. Do I regret instructing the spa staff to keep her supplied with martinis at all times? Logically, yes. But she looks sohappy. I've never seen her smile, genuinely smile, as much in one day as I did today.
