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Authors: Marni Bates

BOOK: Decked with Holly
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Chapter 30
Dominic
 
I
had it planned out to perfection: a whole itinerary that left nothing to chance.
The guys had already given me enough shit about my lack of relationship skills that I was determined not to prove them right. And since Holly had lived up to her end of the bargain, I had to follow through on her “princess treatment” like we had agreed. Although it certainly helped that Mr. Ridgley owed me several large favors and I had no trouble cashing them in.
This was going to be one birthday she would never forget.
And it all started with a knock on the door first thing in the morning.
Too damn early to my way of thinking. I had just started berating myself for stupidly offering to take the couch when Holly rushed over to answer the door. She was practically skipping with excitement.
Freaking morning person.
I blearily watched Holly accept the breakfast tray I had prearranged the night before that featured blueberry pancakes with
Happy Birthday, Holly!
written in whipped cream on top. Nestled in the free area available on the tray were two steaming cups of coffee and a single red rose.
Not bad for a guy who generally avoids big romantic gestures.
“Nick!” The rattle of the dishes on the tray didn't bode well for me. If I was going to be on my best behavior then I definitely needed a strong cup to start me off.
“This is incredible!”
“Mmm,”
I mumbled. “Sleep first. Coffee later.”
Holly tried to tug away the blanket that I was once again using as a barrier between myself and the light pouring in through the sliding door, but it refused to budge.
“Lemme sleep!”
I might have lost some romantic points for growling.
“Nick, this is just . . . it's amazing!”
“Great. Glad you like it. Now let me sleep.”
The warm scent of fresh coffee grew even more potent, and I cracked one eye open to see her blowing the steam at me. Her mischievous grin only widened when I muttered a quiet string of curses, sat up, and accepted the mug.
I wondered if I could make her smile like that again before the day was over.
“I, uh, didn't
actually
expect you to do anything,” Holly admitted around her first bite of pancake.
“So you announced to the American public that I had something planned, fully expecting me to come up short?”
Holly shook her head emphatically. “It wasn't like that, okay? I just . . . didn't think anyone would take what I said seriously, least of all you.”
I didn't know what to think of that, so I chose to give it some more thought later.
“Well, you're completely booked for the day, so it's too late to back out on me.”
Holly set down her fork. “What do you have in mind?”
I stretched. “Yoga at ten, followed by a couples massage, and then you have a full spa day. Manicure, pedicure, facial, the works. It's supposed to be very relaxing.”
“Couples massage!”
she croaked. “Uh, how does that work
exactly
.”
Her expression was priceless, caught somewhere between disbelief, interest, and concern. “It's a normal massage.”
She breathed out a huge sigh of relief.
“Except we'll both be naked in the same room.”
Just as I expected, she nearly shot up off the couch. “Uh, see . . . yeah, no.”
I cocked a brow. “Sorry, was that a yes or a no?”
“It was a . . . no. Definitely no.”
Her long pause suggested that she had to talk herself out of agreeing to it.
Interesting.
“Did I forget to mention that it's underwear optional beneath separate sheets? And that everything else was already booked?”
Holly stabbed at her pancake in indecision. “Fine. But underwear is no longer optional. And if I catch you peeking . . . only one of us will live to celebrate another birthday. Got it?”
I grinned. “Sure. Then you've got a facial and a professional makeover before a personal shopper from the onboard boutique will help you find . . . something.”
“Except for the makeover, which we should cancel . . . that sounds great.”
“All of it stays,” I replied firmly. “I should have planned this three days ago. Then I wouldn't have needed to buy you girl stuff.”
“I didn't ask you to do that!”
Maybe I did suck at this boyfriend thing. If I continued our conversation I'd probably end up buying her apology roses by lunch.
“I know you didn't. But it's still useful to have when you're in the spotlight.”
She nodded begrudgingly. “Maybe. But I'm not about to be groomed like a poodle before a dog show.”
“You wanted the rock star treatment, right? Well, this is it: in or out.”
“It's just . . . okay, you're right. I guess I was curious to see how point one percent of the population lives. But you have to admit, it's pretty insane.”
I shrugged. “You should see what Tim goes through for his magazine close-ups.”
“They don't do the same for you?” Holly asked in disbelief.
“Yeah, but Tim tends to be the focus. Chris and I prefer it that way, actually.”
“You know”—Holly's smile widened—“if you hadn't panicked with the pepper spray, I would've bought your laid-back rock star image just like everyone else. So I get all dressed up and then what?”
“It's a surprise.” I glanced down at my watch before she could protest. “And our yoga class starts in ten minutes.”
Okay, more like twenty minutes, but I wanted to keep the rest of my plans a secret. I decided that if Holly was preoccupied getting ready she might be too distracted to ask any more questions. A great plan in theory. I just hadn't anticipated that Holly would be ready in half that time and kicking me out of the suite before I managed more than a hasty gulp of coffee.
Note to self: Not all girls take forever in the morning.
But getting there on time appeared to be the only aspect of yoga where Holly naturally excelled. I half expected her to mutter something about still being sore from horseback riding or being off balance because of the ship . . . but she didn't. Instead she wobbled throughout the session, nearly knocking down an elderly lady, as she tried to find her center of balance. Which left me struggling to hide my laughter as well as my appreciation for her stretchy sweatpants when she lurched into downward-facing dog.
Holly's casual attitude lasted all the way through yoga only to disintegrate the instant we reached our massage room and were instructed to remove our clothes.
“Uh, hold please,” Holly replied like an automated call-waiting voice. “Nick. A word.”
She grabbed the front of my shirt and hissed, “I'm
not
getting naked with you.”
“Well, damn. That's really going to mess up my plans for later tonight.”
“Not funny!”
I turned to the professionals who were busily moving around the room, placing towels on tables and lighting candles. “You wouldn't happen to have privacy screens you could set up, do you?”
One of the masseuses nodded. “Absolutely. Just one moment.”
Holly didn't look reassured.
“Once they get going, trust me, it won't be an issue.”
She rolled her eyes. “You just want the massage, don't you?”
I didn't even try to deny it. “Horseback riding yesterday really hurt!”
“That's why you were supposed to relax into the motion.”
“Thanks. I'll be sure to keep that in mind for the next time an old man interrogates me on horseback.”
Holly grinned. “You're just lucky I didn't start a race. No way you would've been able to keep up with me.”
I felt like I had enough trouble keeping up with her without the horses.
But I decided to keep that bit of information to myself.
Chapter 31
Holly
 
I
was naked with one of America's hottest rock stars.
Okay, slight exaggeration, since I had refused to take off my underwear and the privacy screen had been wheeled in . . . but still. We were both wearing next to nothing in a small room that smelled of vanilla and lavender candles.
Now
this
was how to celebrate a birthday.
Jen would be so proud of me for sticking with Nick's plans, especially since I had nearly bailed several times on yoga. I'm sorry, but balancing on one foot isn't exactly easy when you happen to be
on a moving ship
. I have no idea how everyone else managed what was absolutely
not
beginner yoga. It should have been called an advanced course on the art of Twister instead.
But even though I felt foolish staring at the floor mat with my butt up in the air, I toughed it out. I told myself that the ridiculous stretches would probably make my very first massage feel even better . . . only to panic when I was told to get naked. I'm not even sure what about it scared me. I'd been sharing a suite with the guy for the past five nights and he hadn't made a move. So it wasn't like I thought one glimpse at my underwear-clad figure would turn him into an unstoppable pervert. Not that most girls wouldn't
love
to have that effect on him. Hot, young musician with a competitive edge and a snarky sense of humor . . . plenty of girls would swoon if he so much as gave them a second glance.
And yet I had frozen with my aunt's advice playing in an endless loop. Suck in your stomach. Avoid carbs. Stand up straight. No desserts. You need to join a gym. Definitely not a bikini body.
How exactly was I supposed to relax on a table if I knew that Nick would have an excellent view of my less than toned stomach? The guy was used to hanging out with
actresses
and
supermodels;
talk about unrealistic standards of beauty. Even with the privacy screen in place, it took a few minutes for me to relax enough to enjoy the massage . . . but then it's quite possible I turned boneless. Timothy Goff could have strolled into the room with scorecards rating my various body parts and I wouldn't have flinched. My every muscle was letting me know that it had never felt
this
good before.
I think the massage put me in a trance-like state, because even after I was clothed my manicure, pedicure, and facial just felt like an extension of the pampering.
Then again, I think that was the point.
This must be what life was like for those women in Beverly Hills who could afford the boutiques on Rodeo Drive without so much as batting their perfectly mascara-coated eyelashes. And even though I had specifically
asked
Nick for this, I was more than a little worried about the bill he was racking up at my expense. Manicures, pedicures, massages, makeovers, shopping expeditions; all of it must have serious price tags attached that I couldn't afford to repay. Which left me with two choices: I could either obsess over the obscene amount of money Nick was dropping and whether or not I deserved it (answer: not. Definitely not)
or
I could enjoy it.
I knew which option Jen would support . . . and I found myself in agreement with her. I was cruising the Mexican Riviera with a rock star on my eighteenth birthday—time to indulge and enjoy.
So I chose a deep reddish-purple called Plum Lovely for my nails and imagined making a grand entrance. I wanted to shimmer under the chandelier lighting while my grandpa kissed my cheek and said something impossibly sweet like: I'm so proud of the woman you've become. Then Aunt Jessica's water would go down the wrong pipe while her daughters scrambled for an insult that never emerged.
Not bad for a fantasy.
And now that I was surrounded by a swarm of women (technicians and clients) who kept admiring my choice in nail polish and complimenting my various features . . . the fantasy didn't seem ridiculous. I thought it was almost
plausible
. Then again, I was also munching on complimentary cookies with a pair of elderly ladies who declared they wanted to adopt me—my perspective might have been slightly off. I just didn't care. And when it was time for my private consultation session in the boutique, Hannah Bronstein, a high-spirited woman in her seventies, and her best friend, Deborah McLean, invited themselves along.
I didn't have the heart to tell them that private was supposed to mean . . . private. Especially since I thought the boutique ladies might be insect-thin fashionistas like my aunt. I'd much rather go shopping with Hannah and Deborah and hear, “Lovely girl like you should be showing off those gams while you've got 'em!”
Best of all: I knew they didn't count cookie calories.
The three of us were in the process of waddling carefully into the boutique, to preserve our pedicures, when I spotted the bratty girl who had informed me that I was just a three trying to pass as a four in front of Nick. I couldn't resist giving her a little finger wave. Maybe Jen's right about my trouble connecting with people my own age, but I don't have patience when it comes to unwarranted nastiness. Plus, I'd much rather hang out with an eccentric pair of ladies who reminded me of Betty White than a stuck-up brat. Not that the girlfriend of a rock star had to justify herself to anyone—except perhaps to the personal shopper who suddenly found her workload tripled.
Thankfully, Lindsay, a glamorous woman in her early forties, had no trouble finding items for everyone and was able to steer Deborah away from a stretchy sequin top that made her look like an aging hooker.
And when I found
the
dress, the other women started crowing, “That's
it! That's the one!
” before squabbling over credit for finding it.
I kept twisting in front of the mirror to make sure that the delicate one-shouldered black creation really did look good on me from all angles.
But if there was a problem, I couldn't find it.
The dress fit me to perfection.
For the first time I wasn't afraid to face the spotlight. I didn't worry that Nick would realize his mistake in asking me to be his fake girlfriend. Apparently, I'd been selling myself short. The silky material hugged my upper body then tapered downward until it swirled and stopped mid-thigh. I actually looked like one of those LA starlets who can get into any club before sliding into a limo and heading to an even more exclusive party.
Nobody was going to say that Dominic Wyatt could do better than me after tonight.
I hoped.

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