38 OLIVIAI check in at the spa to discover that Noah has booked me for the works. I’m being treated to a European facial, a French mani/pedi, a hot stone massage, and finally a blow-out. I’m briefly annoyed that Noah booked my appointment under “Mrs. Tate” instead of “Miss Cane.” But I shrug it off. Whatever . . . it’s a free spa day, and after everything that’s happened in the past week, I badly need some downtime. If this is his way of groveling, I’ll take it.
But I’m so tense that I don’t even begin to relax until the massage, over an hour into my appointment. Even while I’m lying on my front, my eyes closed, the tiny blond masseuse rubbing my sore, knotted muscles, my mind can’t help wandering back to the same dismal ground I’ve been mentally pacing for days now.
Releasing a heavy si
