Rapture. Lynne Silver

thought about it briefly, but turned it down. “No thanks, I’ll just shower at home.”

      “We will see you next Saturday, October 2 at ten in the morning,” she confirmed and hung up.

      My week flew by as it usually does with legal cases piling up on my desk. I’m a real estate attorney, and in New York City that means I know who paid what for multimillion dollar pads. I deal in seven-figure properties only, which means I rub elbows with some of the city’s finest and most notorious residents. Well, strictly speaking, my boss does the talking. I’m the helpful grunt in the corner of the room reading over legalese and highlighting where to sign.

      One of Manhattan’s preeminent CEOs was voted down by his board this week and needed to off-load his apartment, ASAP. That meant I gained tired eyes every night poring over documents and disclosures, but at last it was Saturday: massage day.

      I needed a map or a GPS device to find Rapture. A single wooden door and discreet gold plated sign were the only markers of the supposedly high-end spa in the heart of the Upper East Side. I missed the door at least five times in my quest to find the spa near 60^th and Madison, and I had walked by here a zillion times on my way into the Anya Hindmarch store to satisfy my handbag addiction.

      When I finally found my way into Rapture, I felt soothed by the place’s appearance. Comfort and luxury surrounded me as soon as I stepped off the elevator. Soothing classical music chimed harmoniously with the tinkling of a waterfall that fell in a sheet along one wall from the ceiling into a stone pool on the floor. I made my way across the natural mosaic ceramic tiles to the desk.

      Heidi Klum-clone had the day off, because, rather than a five-ten blonde goddess working the reception desk, there stood six feet of muscular, masculine perfection. He smiled at me crookedly and pushed his chestnut hair out of his eyes. I noticed well-groomed fingernails and large, tan hands. Hands I envisioned running all over my naked body. I stood dazed, smiling at him like an idiot until he spoke.

      “Please, come all the way in. Despite my formidable appearance, we’re very friendly here at Rapture. I’m Hunter.” He gestured to his immaculate suit and tie, an outfit I was not expecting at a day spa.

      “Hi,” I answered. “Sorry for my delay, your suit did rattle me for a second. I feel a bit underdressed.” I indicated my yoga pants and oversize sweatshirt.

      Handsome Hunter, as I dubbed him, laughed; a genuine, show-your-teeth laugh. Pleasure whispered through me that he appreciated my zany sense of humor.

      “You’re funny. I love funny,” he told me. “I’m dressed like this since I attended a meeting before heading here, but you don’t want to hear about me. You need to get ready for your treatment. What is your last name?”

      I really, really do want to hear about you, I thought but answered his question. “Schilling, Catherine reporting for duty.” I mocked saluted him, acting silly to hide my total and instant infatuation with him.

      He grinned and moved the mouse to read the computer monitor. “According to the calendar, this is your first time visiting Rapture.”

      “Sir, yes sir,” I answered, still goofing around.

      “Private Schilling, if you could take a moment to fill these waivers and questionnaire out by oh-four-hundred hours, I would appreciate it.” Hunter handed me a long clipboard filled with ten point font and multiple spots for my initials.

      Yay, he got my humor and played along. The man was a keeper. I accepted the clipboard and scanned it quickly, something every lawyer excels at. I wrote in the date of my last health exam and signed the waiver confirming I had no communicable diseases. I promised on the nondisclosure to maintain discretion about fellow spa guests, and then I was ready. I handed over the clipboard and waited for the next directions.

      He accepted my offerings, and then he looked up and smiled.

      “Let me walk you back to the women’s dressing room.”

      He emerged from behind the desk and held open the frosted glass door. His hand gripped mine to guide me, but then he pulled away and looked with bemusement at his hand then led the way down the hall.

      I followed and nearly walked into the door due to Butt Admiration Disorder. He had a prize ass, and I don’t consider myself a bum-connoisseur. A great smile is usually all it takes to cause belly flip-flops for me. Taking care to project my eyes upward, I trailed him down a lushly carpeted corridor leading to another frosted glass door. He handed me a key with a little number on it.

      “Locker forty-two. You will find a robe and slippers waiting for you in the locker. Slip them on and come out to the waiting room here.” He indicated a small circular room off to the left I had not noticed before. “Your technician will come find you. Enjoy!” He walked off down the hall leaving me to enter the locker room.

      As soon as the door shut behind him, I inwardly cursed. Damn it, I should’ve asked for his number or something, anything to keep talking to him. I sighed and chalked up one more loss for Team Catherine.

      My hand reached out to open the door a crack before lowering it again. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, I pushed the door all the way open and stepped inside. A flowery aroma wafted over me on a cloud of steam emanating from the hot tub to the right of the room. To the left of me stood two rows of dark wood lockers and chocolate-brown leather benches. A cloud of steam parted, giving me better viewing into the hot tub, but then I quickly averted my eyes. I sneaked a glance again at the hot tub again, because, much to my surprise, two naked women floated in the water, locked in an embrace.