Our Options Have Changed: On Hold Series Book #1

by Julia Kent

  Henry is a rule follower at heart, so he returns the report.

  I check the index, and pull out a highlighter of my own. Orange.

  “Okay, here it is…” I hand him the report and watch his eyes scan the pages.

  “Think, Henry.” I lean forward. “Do you remember anyone who seemed to know a little too much about your services, or asked too many questions?”

  He frowns. “There was one woman—you know, when I enter the room, the client is always lying on the table, under the cover, as instructed.”

  I wish he hadn’t mentioned lying on a table. Joe. Technically, I wasn’t lying on the table. I was bent over it. Well, the first time, at least…

  “Chloe?” Henry waves his hand in front of my face. “Earth to Chloe! You listening?”

  “Um, right. Yes.” I will away the memory with a sigh and a sip of my coffee.

  “But this woman had the linen sheet wrapped around her, and she was looking at my framed diplomas on the wall.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Well, yeah, now that I think about it… she was older. Blonde. Kind of wild. Ditzy, but I got a sense it was an act. She came here with a younger woman, and later mentioned her daughter was getting married. She drank a shot out of my navel.”

  “How is that memorable?” I tease. “Every woman who sets foot in O does that.” I pause and think. “Hell, so have I.”

  “I think it was a requirement during my interview,” he says dryly.

  Everyone working at O has some pretty good stories. We have a very appealing staff of men and women, all highly trained to provide the ultimate release from stressful reality. O space is carefully designed to encourage escapism. But Henry is on the frontlines of funny. As he says, it’s lucky he has an understanding wife. Actually, Jemma is one of my closest friends.

  Technically, we’re not supposed to talk about clients, ever, but when the three of us have dinner, it’s confidential.

  And hilarious. I’d write a book if my employment contract didn’t specifically prohibit it.

  “Not sure I want the details.” I pause. “Yet. Do you remember her name?”

  He snorts. “No, are you kidding? I don’t even see client names. I just see their membership number. But if I recall correctly, her number should have been sixty-nine.”

  I burst out laughing. “We didn’t assign sixty-nine to anyone! Sort of like high-rise buildings that don’t have a thirteenth floor. It would be tempting fate.”

  He stands to leave, glances at my phone, then looks at me closely. “Is the mystery shop the only thing on your mind?”

  Unexpectedly, my eyes fill up with tears.

  I’m not a crier.

  I am cool. I am collected. I hate crying.

  “Dammit, Chloe.” He knows. We all know.

  Joe.

  “Henry, do NOT make a Joe Blow joke.” We’ve been down this road before.

  Henry leans down, and I stand up for his hug, but forget I’m holding the orange marker. Which somehow highlights the front of his grey gym shorts.

  Perfect. But at least we’re laughing now.

  “Better highlighter than lipstick, I guess,” I offer.

  “Only until Mystery Shopper #69 comes back,” he says ruefully.

  My phone buzzes with a text.

  He snatches it away from me.

  “It could be the adoption agency!” I protest weakly. I don’t even reach for it.

  Henry looks. His head recoils. “It is.”

  “It is?” I gasp, grabbing the phone.

  Home study cleared, Chloe. Please call me when you can. Congratulations, Yvonne.

  Henry and Jemma have been my staunchest supporters through my adoption process. They came over and helped me install child-proof locks on all my cabinets before the home study. Have given tips and hints, listened and held me, parsed through logical issues and irrational state requirements.

  “Yes. It says yes. Home study cleared,” I say in wonderment.

  His face splits with a huge grin, his white teeth shining, the former tense lines between his eyes gone. “I knew it.” He pulls me into a hug. “You’re going to be a mom soon.”

  Mom.

  The phone buzzes again. I look behind Henry’s shoulder at the phone in my hand.

  And buy a fifth of Tito’s, Joe texts. You can drive me home.

  “You are getting what you deserve, Chloe,” Henry says. “Everything you’ve ever wanted.”

  I turn my phone off.

  Right.

  * * *

  Coffee has diminishing returns, and by two in the afternoon, I am a rat pushing the caffeine lever over and over without receiving the desired effect. All I can think about is babies. My computer screen has twelve tabs open, one to PoshTots, one to Babycenter, one to Dr. Sears, one to the CDC guidelines for cribs, and the rest are for baby clothing sites. I don’t know why they make shoes for babies who can’t even stand up, much less walk, but they are ridiculously cute.

  Hey—priorities.

  “Chloe? Must have been a good night if you’re still wearing hangover glasses after lunch.”

  Carrie is O’s junior designer, though she’s only a year younger than me. We’re opposites. I’m darker-skinned with dark, straight hair, while Carrie looks like someone dropped her out of an Amazonian cornfield in Iowa. Her long, wavy strawberry blonde hair hangs over one shoulder in a loose ponytail, like a witness to the awful mystery shop report.

  She drops a bunch of new fabric samples in the basket next to my desk, towering over me. “Are those the new J.Crew sunglasses?”

  Well, yes, they are. I take them off and rub my eyes.

  “Worse than a hangover. I’ve been reading hot pink criticism for four hours. I needed protection,” I explain.

  She gives me a polite, soft laugh.

  “Carrie, how are we doing with the voice response system? We’ve reached a point where we need to get the computer system in place for customer service calls and reservations.”

  “I’m on it, Chloe.” Carrie reaches for a folder and slides out a piece of paper. “Our only obstacle now is the service request menu.”

  I look at the list.

  Press 1 to schedule a massage appointment

  Press 2 to request a master masseur

  Press 3 to speak with a coordinator about divorce parties

  Press 4 to purchase merchandise

  Press 5 to --

  I squint. “Does that say what I think it says?”

  Carrie laughs. “Yes.”

  “We can’t have an option to speak directly with one of the masseurs. They’ll be inundated!”

  “It’s a new idea from the business development office. Customer-driven. They want ‘phone sessions’ with the guys.”

  “Paid phone sessions?” My jaw drops. I’ve seen a lot here, but this takes the cake.

  “Right.”

  “That’s phone sex!”

  Carrie squirms, her face reddening. “Ah, technically, it’s a half-hour consultation with the guys to discuss self care.” I can tell that is a very well-rehearsed euphemism written by a marketing team via focus group input, all right.

  “How much?”

  We often speak in shorthand. Carrie knows what I mean. “One eighty.”

  “For a half hour?”

  “Focus groups. Marketing priced it with focus groups.” See? Called it.

  “Was there a beta test?”

  “Yes.” Carrie bites her lower lip. “Revenue from each customer jumped like crazy. They want the personal touch. One woman set up a recurring appointment.”

  “I’m surprised Henry didn’t mention this to me.”

  Carrie lights up. “Do you think you could convince him? He was the most requested consultant and he refused.”

  I’ll bet his wife Jemma refused.

  “And the guys...they’re okay with this?”

  Carrie chortles. “Ryan’s loving it. Says he makes more money talking to women about their hot flashes and upt
ight husbands than he does when his hands are on them. They just want someone to listen.”

  “For one eighty a half hour, Ryan better be a damn good listener.” Ryan is one of the tatted-up male employees. The women love him.

  Carrie’s face softens, eyes going unfocused. “He is.”

  “You can handle the phone tree people? I don’t have to add this to my plate?”

  “Sure. No problem. It’s all about getting people to put themselves on hold when they need to be patient, and to learn to press the right buttons to get what they want.”

  “Just like sex,” I note.

  We share a laugh.

  Just like life, I think. Someday, maybe my options will change, and I can just press zero for help.

  If only life were so simple.

  A message window pops open on my computer screen:

  HELP GET ME OUT OF HERE NOW

  It’s the cool and unflappable Henry.

  What’s wrong? I type back.

  CLIENTPROFNAKED!!

  Professional naked? Your client is a stripper?

  This would be highly unusual for an O client—our members might enjoy watching a show, but they don’t typically perform in it—but it’s certainly nothing to panic over.

  PROFESSOR!

  NAKED!

  HELPOUTNOW!

  I’ll get Zeke, I type. Zeke’s our other master-level masseur. He has brown hair halfway down his back, pulled up in a trendy man bun right now, blonde streaks a sign of his addiction to outdoor life. Tanned, with strange scars dotting his thighs, and a tattoo of a mandala on one ass cheek (hey – I can’t help but look—it’s my job) in vibrant colors. Zeke’s a great asset to O.

  Not quite as experienced as Henry, and lacking his way with words… although judging by this message, Henry’s way with words has just escaped him.

  I check the daily appointments screen and see that Henry’s in the Sage Room, on the spa level, second floor. Then I’m out the door, running for the elevator.

  In four-inch heels, this is more like speed-walking on tiptoe.

  As I “run,” I call the spa manager and explain the situation. Not that I understand the situation.

  Zeke and I arrive at the door of the Sage Room at the same moment. He taps gently, giving me a look with green eyes that glitter with mirth. After a slight pause, the sliding door opens and Henry slips out.

  Poor Henry has a towel wrapped around his head like a turban, hiding his curly ginger hair. Although the treatment rooms are maintained at the optimal temperature, he is sweating profusely.

  “What’s wrong?” Zeke asks urgently. “Should we call security?” I love his English accent. So do the clients.

  “Barnacle!” Henry hisses.

  Zeke and I exchange a glance.

  “A skin condition?” I am at a loss.

  “Professor Barnacle! My bio-ethics professor! Naked! Moaning!” Henry is distraught.

  “Zeke, are you free now? Can you take over?” I ask. “Her information should be on the iPad screen, right?”

  He nods and disappears into the darkened room, the music pulsing and then silenced as the door slides open and closed.

  Inside the staff lounge, I pour Henry a glass of O’s signature passionflower-infused iced tea. Counter-intuitively, passionflower is supposed to be calming. With a shot of vodka, it might be. Members can order it that way, too, but of course the O team must not indulge. Until their shift is over, that is.

  “When I entered the room, I smelled a familiar perfume, but that happens all the time. And the lights were low, and she was lying face down, covered with the sheet. The client info screen showed that she requested the Tantric Touch massage, ninety minutes. I put my music on, and I started warming and mixing the oils. Then I noticed the wild black hair.” He shudders. “And that purple nail polish she wears. But still I wasn’t sure.”

  “Did you say anything?” I ask because Henry has a distinctive voice, surprisingly soft for a man of his power and size. That voice would identify him, even in the dark.

  “No, the idea is to be as silent as possible. As if my hands were unconnected to anyone. Just floating touch.”

  I reflect on this for a brief moment. Money actually can buy happiness.

  “So I began the massage,” he continues. “In Tantric practice, everything proceeds very slowly. Thank god for that. If it went any faster, I’d have violated every faculty-student interaction policy on record by now. It wasn’t until she turned over that I knew for sure it was Professor Barnacle. And by then she was begging me to ‘move to the center of her chakra’ and ‘release her inner flood.’”

  “That’s a new phrase for female ejaculation,” I mutter.

  “I thought that was a myth?”

  I don’t even dignify that with a response.

  “Poor Zeke.” Henry shudders and motions for me to make another cup of tea. This is a role reversal. Part of his job is to serve me. But we’re friends, and I’m compassionate, and I’m curious.

  I want to know what the hell happened in the Sage Room, and if I’m already being nice, I might as well pump him for info.

  “Did she touch you?”

  Before Henry can answer, a loud moan that rises along three octaves takes up all the available decibels in the room.

  “Oh, dear,” I whisper. We do have some rather enthusiastic clients who fully embrace their sexuality and aren’t inhibited in expressing pleasure. Generally, though, they manage not to shatter all the wine glasses in the tasting room.

  “I hope she tips well,” Henry mumbles, then looks at me. “And I swear, if it were anyone but my advisor, I’d be fine with the basics.”

  Another moan.

  “Is that what Zeke’s doing? Basic Tantric Massage?” If that’s “the basics,” we need to up our prices.

  Henry shrugs.

  “We do need to walk a fine line. I’m sure Zeke’s not crossing it.”

  “Oh, God,” Henry’s professor cries out. “You have divine hands.”

  “That’s it,” Henry announces, elbows on his knees, fingers threading through his hair in frustration. “I can’t continue working here. This was way too close a call.”

  An alarm buzzes through me. Clients request Henry at a rate three times higher than our other masseurs. That’s why his fee is so much higher, and the profit margins are fabulous. With a presentation for investors coming up this week, I have to have the financials in a solid place.

  Henry’s too valuable to let a horny barnacle scare him off.

  “Go home. I’ll talk to management and make sure they’ll cover your base pay for the day. You’re rattled. Understandably rattled,” I add, as Henry glares at me.

  “Can you imagine finding someone from your personal life suddenly invading your work space?”

  “No.” I shudder. I have one rule: no mixing business with pleasure. Okay, so I broke that when I met Joe, but that was it. One time only. Joe was the exception.

  “Who’s the moaner?” asks Ryan, walking into the lounge carrying a Kylo Ren costume and a light saber. He hangs the costume in the staff closet and turns around, hands on hips, ears perked.

  “Client,” Henry snaps.

  “Duh, it’s a client.” Ryan shoots him a pissed-off look. Ryan is our resident “Bad Boy” masseur. Liberally covered in real tattoos, he’s sleeved and looks just enough like Charlie Hunnam when he dyes his hair blonde to make him the second most popular masseur at the spa. “But damn, she’s wicked loud. Chloe, you need to upgrade the soundproofing in those massage rooms.”

  “Duly noted.” Now that is one operations item a mystery shopper would never, ever document.

  “Why the hell are you sitting in the lounge sipping tea in your shoelace?” Ryan asks Henry. His hair is his natural chestnut brown, short but longer at the bangs, and he wears a slight beard, just scraggly enough to make him look dirty, but not so long as to evoke Duck Dynasty. Like all the O men, he’s tall, muscular, and makes Joe Manganiello’s abs look like Pillsbur
y biscuits.

  Note to self: O Spa calendar series photography needs to be booked. Stat.

  Henry stands abruptly, abandoning his tea. He gives me a savage look and says, “I’ll take you up on the offer to go home,” his butt-flossed ass the last we see of him as he storms out.

  “What the hell’s wrong with him?”

  “The moaner is one of his professors.”

  Ryan lets out a low whistle. “No shit?” Like all the other employees at O, Ryan knows how aggressively Henry separates his personal and professional lives. “No wonder he’s upset. She recognized him?” Women love Ryan’s Southie accent, which becomes more pronounced when he talks about drama.

  “It’s all fine now,” I say. Ryan has a tendency to hoard gossip, and I am not going to be his supplier.

  One of the cleaning staff enters the room, dressed in the O signature kimono but with a zipper instead of a tie to hold it closed, and swiftly removes Henry’s cup of tea.

  “Hey, Chloe, I think payroll screwed up last week. I was shorted about eighty bucks on my paycheck,” Ryan says.

  My turn to groan. “Again?”

  “Corporate never makes mistakes in my favor.”

  I pat his forearm as I walk out of the lounge. “File a ticket in the new accounting system. CC me on it. I’ll make sure it’s caught up next week.” I don’t handle operations, but with O poised to expand into new franchises after my upcoming presentation with Anterdec, I troubleshoot every issue these days.

  He flashes me a brilliant, grateful smile. If I didn’t have a strict “No Fraternizing” rule with the employees, I’d be so tempted.

  “Thanks. You’re the best.”

  “Oh, God!” the professor screams. Screams.

  “I think Zeke’s the best,” I say out of the corner of my mouth, as Ryan bursts into laughter.

  Just another day at work, and it’s not even half over.

  Chapter 3

  Chloe

  I was born without abdominal muscles.

  This has never been confirmed by any medical professional, but it’s the only possible reason why I have executed tens of thousands of curl-ups in my lifetime with no visible result.