Chapter 1: The Splash Zone
The brochure for Serenity Springs Resort & Spa promised tranquility; it promised rejuvenation, and fuck it, but it promised possible enlightenment, and all via hot mineral water, but what it
didn't
mention was the distinct possibility of your year-long, secret online flirtation suddenly manifesting in the flesh by the main fucking pool.
I, Jayne, forty-five and feeling every minute of it under the unforgiving fluorescent lights of the lobby, had signed up for the former, and yes, it was possibly a mistake.
It was my college suite reunion weekend, a chance to escape the comfortable, predictable beige-ness my life had become, reconnect with people I vaguely remembered liking twenty-odd years ago, and maybe soak away the persistent ache in my lower back and my general sense of
Is-This-the-Fuck-It?
My husband, bless his reliable cotton golf socks, thought I needed the break. He'd waved me off with the same distracted kiss he used before leaving for his Saturday morning golf game like the schmuck he was; let's be honest.
It was all very safe, very predictable, very fucking
beige
.
And it was probably why "Scott" had become such a potent, illicit splash of color in my digital life.
For a year, he'd been my witty, charming, deliciously inappropriate online confidante. We met in some obscure forum discussing vintage synthesizers (don't ask) and quickly graduated to private messages filled with longing, frustration, and frankly, some impressively creative descriptions of what we'd do if we ever met.
And you know he's married, too. And like me, the man has kids.
Safe, I'd told myself, a fantasy confined to glowing screens because what the fuck, we both had children, spouses, careers, generic
shit
.
Until now.
"Jayne! Jayne Marlowe, is that really you?" Brenda barrelled towards me, arms wide, her caftan billowing like a psychedelic sail.
And fuck it, was I doing this? Was I dealing with a bitch in a
caftan
?
Brenda, who hadn't changed a bit, still radiated the energy of someone who exclusively drinks espresso and overshares intimate medical details that often involve vaginal dryness.
"Brenda! Wow, you look..."
Exactly the same,
"...great!" I managed, my body tensing as it accepted that bone-crushing hug because it wasn't the first or the last bone-crusher I'd get because we mingled with our old suitemates.
There was Mark, for example.
He was the football player, shocker, right?
Though technically not in our suite, he'd lived in the unit below us, was close enough, and still loved to talk about those "glory days," even ignoring the fact that he now apparently had a husband.
Then Chloe.
She'd gone full Zen master, kept trying to adjust my aura.
It was all awkward smiles, slightly forced laughter, and the mental gymnastics of trying to remember why I even gave a fuck or what these people and I ever had in common, and I was just starting to think I could actually relax, maybe even enjoy this nostalgic farce for the hot springs alone, when I saw him.
He was standing near the poolside bar. He talked to Mark, laughed at something.
Tall, dark hair silvering slightly at the temples, he wore a ridiculously expensive-looking casual shirt that screamed "successful but trying not to look like it," and I knew that I'd have to give him shit for it.
He turned his head, scanned the crowd, and his eyes--mischievous, intelligent ones I knew only from the pictures he'd sent me--landed on mine.
Scott.
My
Scott.
Here.
What-the-fuck?
My complimentary welcome cocktail (a blaring pink concoction called a "Serenity Sunset") went down the wrong pipe and I coughed.
Sputtering, I instinctively ducked behind a large, offensively fake-looking palm tree and my heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped fucking woodpecker because there was no way this shit was happening. Scott was not supposed to be real.
"Jayne, are you okay?" Chloe asked, drifting over with concern etched on her serene face. "Your energy just spiked erratically. Very jagged."
I did not need her cosmic crap.
"Fine! Fine!" I squeaked and I plastered a hopefully normal smile on my face. "Swallowed, uh, an ice cube whole. Tricky little devils."
Before I could formulate an escape plan (Feign sudden illness? Fake my own death? Claim diplomatic immunity?), Mark and Scott were walking the hell over to us.
"Hey Jayne, Chloe, you gotta meet this guy. Scott, this is Jayne Marlowe and Chloe..."
He trailed off, likely because he forgot Chloe's last name, as usual, and fuck me, but I wish he'd done me the same solid because Scott now knew my whole goddamned name instead of just my handle,
Playne_Jayne.
Scott's smile was slow; it was deliberate, and it held a spark of pure, unadulterated amusement that sent a jolt straight to my core, bypassing panic and landing somewhere much,
much
lower.
Fuck, I was
hot
for him.
"Jayne," he said, his voice a low, familiar rumble that vibrated through me far more intensely than any chat message ever had. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you in person."
"I was telling Scott about your connection to music," Mark said, but it all felt like just extra noise.
Scott extended a hand yet my own felt clammy.
"Scott," I managed, or I thought it was me because the voice that came from my face was unnaturally high.
"What a... surprise. Are you here for-?"
I mean, what was he here for?
- And please, okay, please,
please
don't say,
"I am here for a secret rendezvous with a married woman I met online."
"Just a weekend getaway," he said smoothly and I waited for someone to notice his thumb brushing up against my palm during the handshake or even the jolt, electric and terrifying, that shot up my arm because I felt it.
"Needed to unwind. Small world, isn't it?"
Mark and Chloe, those Benedict Arnold bitches, where were they, huh?
They'd wandered off towards the promise of mini-quiches, and it left us standing in a bubble of crackling tension.
Shit, Chloe had only given him a nod of her celestial head.
"Small world?" I hissed under my breath as I risked a glance around, but I felt I was pretty safe.
Brenda was keeping everyone at bay.
Mid-description of her recent colonoscopy to a horrified-looking man near the hot tub, we were all safe for now.
"Scott, what the hell are you doing here?"
His blue eyes twinkled and I already hated that he was going to be as much of a charmer in person as he was online.
"I believe the technical term is 'unwinding,' but I was also hoping to escalate things beyond pixels with a certain high school music teacher?"
"'Escalate'?" I repeated his word because, shit, my carefully constructed fantasy world was colliding with my beige reality--and the potential explosion was terrifying.
I, by the way,
am
the high school music teacher, yet another mistake since college.
"What if someone I know here reports this to, you know,
other
individuals?" I panted because Chloe could act all yoga-ish, but that bitch had narc'ed out half of freshman seminar once upon a time and I could see her narc'ing me out, too.
"Relax," he murmured and he leaned slightly closer, his scent hitting my nose.
I could smell orange, maybe mint, and what could've been aged barrel, and just that hint of knowing him beyond those pixels made my body flush.
"No one knows me, Jayne Marlowe, and besides," his gaze dropped meaningfully, and yep, it lingered for a fraction of a second too long, "isn't the risk part of the fun?"
Ah, Jaysus, there was thudding behind my eyeballs because he knew I liked it. He knew I liked the idea of the risk, and damn him, but I could see his tongue in his mouth as it rested on the back of a goddamned tooth.
"And was that
Marlowe
with or without an -e?"
My left eye closed. Talk about compromised.
He gave a subtle nod towards the darkening pathway leading away from the main building, towards the less-used, supposedly "meditative" pools, and my stomach clenched.
That potent cocktail of fear and irresistible anticipation only added to my Serenity Sunset that pooled in my belly, yet I counted to five before I slipped away.
Scott was waiting in the shadows behind the ridiculously oversized poolside bar, the scent of hot springs sulfur mixing with his cologne, and the moment our eyes met?
Shit, that carefully maintained facade crumbled like it was nobody's business.
He pulled me against him--hard.
"Jayne," he breathed, his mouth crashing down on mine before I could form a protest--
Hell, before I could acknowledge and accept whether or not I wanted his mouth on mine.
Which I--
Well, fuck it, but which I very much did even though it was nothing like the tentative explorations I'd imagined.
This was desperate; it was fueled by a year of digital foreplay and the sudden, shocking reality of his presence. His hands were big; they mapped the curves of my back, and as his tongue slipped into my mouth, his fingers slipped under the thin fabric of my shirtdress and every part of my being felt the electricity of his touch.
I gasped into his mouth, my own hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.
It was-?
Insane? Stupid? Reckless?
Shit, it was all of the above because fuck it, we were maybe fifty feet from where Brenda was still holding court.
Anyone could wander past.
He backed me against the cool, tiled surface of the bar, his knee pressing between my thighs, his mouth devouring mine.
Anyone
.
One hand slid up, cupping my breast through the thin cotton of my dress and bra.
Anyone
could find out, too.
A low moan escaped me.
Suddenly, footsteps and laughter on the path nearby, and we froze and then sprung apart like startled teenagers, hearts pounding.
