Page 27 of Escape Girl

But the sane part of my brain had never been able to defeat Bobby’s effect on me. Maybe it was weak, but I wanted to see how he remembered that night. How he would capture it. Because, yeah, if someone put a gun to my head and forced me to tell them the best twenty-four hours of my life, the time we spent at Indian Springs would probably be it.

I clicked on the button to enter the escape room. Immediately, the screen pixelated into an image of the Golden Gate Bridge, as though I were in the front seat of a car driving over it. My pulse sped up, and suddenly I felt just like last-October Emily, barely able to keep from bouncing up and down in Bobby’s Jeep…

Chapter Eight

Last October

“Ican’t believeyou’ve never been to Indian Springs,” Bobby exclaimed. His left hand gripped the steering wheel, and his right hand squeezed my thigh.

We’d been dating for almost six weeks, but I still wasn’t used to his casual touches. Or the way he grinned at me behind his sunglasses, the wind from the open windows whipping his light hair back.

“I’ve heard of the resort, of course,” I said. “Calistoga is one of my favorite places in wine country.” At the north end of Napa Valley, the town of about six thousand residents was known for its hot springs, mud baths, and proximity to dozens of wineries. Some friends and I had done a girls’ weekend there right after college graduation.

“It’s got an Olympic-sized mineral water pool fed by on-site geysers. The water is always between 92 and 102 degrees, even in January,” he marveled. “I’m glad it’s going to be so cool tonight. The hot water is amazing when the air is cold. Oh! How do you feel about steaks for dinner? There’s this place in walking dist—”

My face kept smiling and my head kept nodding, but I’d lost the thread minutes ago. Yes, yes, I was excited about the mineral pool. About the food. About the grounds of the resort. Wine, yay.

But but but…this was going to be our very first overnight together, and ohmygod how could he talk or think about anything else?!

Bobby’s hand slid an inch higher on my thigh, and my muscles automatically clenched.

Six weeks of lunches, dinners, movies, museums, theater, concerts, walks, hikes, morning coffees, afternoon ice cream cones, local IPAs, and California wine.

Six weeks of kissing like each other’s mouths had the oxygen we needed to survive. Six weeks of my fingernails scraping his neck and back. Six weeks of shamelessly pulling his body against mine when we clung to one another before saying goodnight. Six weeks of feeling his smile against my earlobe and his teeth on my neck.

Finally, a night together. My thoughts bounced between what we would do and what it would mean. Would it mean too much? Too little?

Bobby’s entrance into my life had all the subtlety of a tsunami. One moment I was a workaholic between jobs, a daughter, an occasionally bitchy malcontent with inexplicably severe insomnia. The next, I was a woman consumed, a smitten daydreamer, my thoughts and days completely absorbed by one person.

When my father managed to snag me for brunch last weekend, he’d asked, “You ever going to decide on one of those job offers?”

“I’ve narrowed it to two,” I answered breezily, as though winnowing from four to two was solid progress. In reality, the firm in New York had been my first choice and the firm in San Francisco had been my second choice, right from the start. And truthfully, the partners at both places were getting just a little impatient for my decision. But I couldn’t even imagine moving to New York right now. Even if I decided to stay here, I knew that as soon as I started I’d be back to sixty billable hours a week. I’d see Bobby a tiny fraction of the time I did now. What if he wasn’tinterested in a relationship with a woman who spent ninety-nine percent of her waking hours working?

“Dad,” I’d said softly, speaking to us both. “Before I left the firm in Seattle, I took a total of ten days off in five years. This time is good for me.”

A text from Bobby buzzed on my phone then. My face flared hot, and my body went gooey from head to toe as I read:How would you feel about a road trip?

My father ducked behind his newspaper, mumbling, “You do look happy.”

In the car, we drove up Highway 29 through Yountville, Oakville, Rutherford, and St. Helena. Bobby pointed out his favorite wineries for Cabernet Sauvignon and Chardonnay. Tomorrow, I’d ask him to drive back south on the Silverado Trail so I could show him my favorites. Not that I could actually wrap my mind around the concept of tomorrow yet. Tomorrow would mean that tonight had happened.

As we coasted into Calistoga, he said, “I was thinking we could check into the hotel and then go out exploring on foot. There are several tasting rooms and restaurants right here in town that we can walk to.” He paused. “Does that sound OK?”

You know what sounded OK? The twinge of nervousness in his voice. This tripmeantsomething to him. “Perfect,” I agreed.

As promised, the Indian Springs resort was gorgeous. I’d stalked the property online last night, so I knew it was a collection of Mission Revival–style buildings, historic cottages, and bungalows spread out across seventeen acres. As we drove onto the property, I saw the building framing the mineral pool, the spa famous for mud baths. Bobby parked in front of the check-in location. “Be right back.”

When he got back in the car, I expected him to drive to the parking area for The Lodge, the largest building of rooms, but he surprised me with a different turn. “I got us a bungalow,” he saidin response to my questioning look. “I figured, we’re out of the city for the night…why not have a little extra space?” He cleared his throat and stared straight ahead. “A little extra privacy.”

Oh my. I swallowed and willed my pulse to stop slamming so hard against my veins. Our bungalow was set way back from most of the other buildings. The pathway to the door was flanked with sweet-smelling vegetation, mint maybe. Two white wicker rocking chairs sat on each side of the front door.

I let out a gasp of appreciation as I entered a cozy, impeccably decorated living room. Bobby threw open a set of French doors, revealing a private patio with a firepit and views of the Napa Valley Hills. “It’s gorgeous!” Suddenly his plans of hiking around town didn’t sound quite as lovely. I wanted to pop open a bottle of bubbles and just nestle next to him on one of the cushy chairs.

Then he had to go and say, “There are two bedrooms.”

I turned and gaped at him. Was this trip not what I thought? His eyes were still hidden by his sunglasses. I marched up to him and gently pulled the glasses of his face. If I had to initiate this humiliating conversation, he was going to participate with eye contact. “Do you want us to sleep in different rooms?”

He gripped my elbows and growled at me. “No, Em. I do not want to sleep separately. But I wasn’t sure where your head’s at, and this is super important to me.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “I didn’t want to mess anything up by making assumptions.”

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