L.A. Spa

Chapter Three: Another Encounter

Emma's POV:

"I.D. Miss," the security booth asks as I pull up to the guard shack to enter the gated community. I look up and back at my phone, ensuring I have arrived at the correct place.

"Emma Dempsey, I'm a massage therapist for a Mr..."

"Mr. Williams," the guard says, handing my I.D. back to me. "Where is Delaney tonight?" He asks, sounding too fond of her.

"She double booked tonight."

The guard raises his eyebrows. "And she sent you?"

"Apparently, I can keep a secret" I shrug my shoulders at this, not knowing if it is true or not.

The guard laughs. "I guess that is a good thing. His house is the last house on this road; you will want to drive around to the back."
I nod, telling him thanks, and drive on.

"Holy crap," I say inside my empty car. I look up at the house in front of me. It was a mansion, not a house. Whoever lived inside could throw away five hundred dollars daily for a massage. I didn't know what door to go to; I would need a map to get around.

I step out, bending over to tie my all-white shoes.

Every worker at L.A. Spa had to wear white shoes, tan khakis, and a bright pink polo that had L.A. Spa embroidered on the front. I would wear whatever I needed to if it would make me money.

I hoist the massage table out of my back seat and carry it to the front door; I ring the doorbell as I look back at my beater of a car sitting in the driveway.

"It's you," I said, disdain in my voice. It was the man from the club. And then it hits me why he seemed so familiar; he is Jordan Ryan.

I had seen his newest movie the weekend before. I wouldn't have known who he was until I saw Breaking Hearts. It was a novel turned into a movie; otherwise, I would not have spent the money to see it. The book turned out to be better than the movie, even though Jordan Ryan was precisely how I would have pictured Heath Cliff, who had been the character in the novel. Jordan Ryan was tall, I was guessing five inches taller than me, but if I added high heels, we could be a mere three inches different. His hair was ruffled, and he had a suit on; I wondered if he always wore suits while he was at home. Did he have to look so perfect?

"Who are you?" He didn't remember me. Unbelievable.

"Is this Mr. Williams' house? Delaney sent me." I stutter, taken off guard; I assumed Delaney would have filled her client in.

The man, who is undoubtedly one of the prettiest men I have seen, takes a step back, looking at me. "I am Mr. Williams."

"Oh." I exhale. "I thought I had the wrong place." I extend my hand in his direction. "I'm Emma," I smile, my most professional smile in his direction, trying not to remember the night I first met him.

As soon as his hand touches mine, it's as if a live wire is running through him to me. I retracted my hand faster than I should have, but the energy was unnerving.

"Come in. You are late," he says as he shuts the door and turns sharply, walking faster than I can carry my massage table.

We make it to a set of marble stairs. He is up ten stairs when he turns to look at me. "You don't need that," he gestures toward my portable table as I step onto the third step.

I grumble as I move down the three stairs and lean the table against the wall. He waits until I am next to him to walk briskly up the stairs. I follow him down a hallway and another to the left until we arrive at a large wooden door. The house seemed more like a museum rather than a house someone lived in.