Jan Week 3: Spa Day with Samantha...Leah doesn't Flirt Back (Luck:+10)

Leah wasn’t stupid. She recognized the way Samantha’s voice went a tone lower and her eyes lingered a microsecond too long on her face, on her collarbone, on the way Leah’s breasts floated like islands just under the jets. Sam’s flirtation was as soft as a ripple—never enough to break the surface tension, but always there, a little tidal pull, waiting for Leah to respond in equal measure. The old days, before adulthood and engagements and the ever-fucking-loom of shame, Leah would’ve volleyed back with something quick and razor-sharp. Maybe even let her hand graze Sam’s thigh under the bubbles, just to see her squirm. But now--at least in this moment...Leah held herself in check.

Not because she wasn’t tempted. It was more like her desires existed in two separate rooms: the one she locked tight, and the one Samantha always managed to sneak into anyway, like a cat nosing open a door. Leah sipped her mimosa, forcing her knees to stay demurely pressed together under the water.

Their conversation drifted effortlessly between wedding drama and Samantha’s endless parade of romantic disasters. Sam regaled her with the highlights: the “Sensitivity Coach” who wept after sex, the Hungarian tennis instructor with a foot fetish, the night she got high with two vegan twins and wound up ghosting both after they asked for her blood type. Leah’s stories were tamer, mostly about school: a fellow teacher's passive-aggressive memos, the chronic inability of teenagers to do anything literally on time, and how her she could simply not wait until summer break.

"Hey, at least you have your life together. Career, a wedding on the horizon." Samantha almost snorted, "Five kids with your nerdy Jonathan and a white picket fence is in your future, I suspect."

Leah rolled her eyes, but it was true—Jonathan was steadfast, safe, a sweet boy in a grown man’s body. The thought of him made her feel both warm and boxed in.

“You think I’m boring,” Leah said, not quite a question.

“I think you’re repressed,” Samantha replied, nudging Leah’s hip under the water. “But only because you’re afraid of what’ll happen if you aren’t.”

The words hung between them, buoyant and dangerous. Leah changed the subject back to wedding plans, keeping it painfully generic because the real wedding drama was all about her mother, and that was private hell she wouldn’t wish on anyone. But even as she recited vendor details and argued about cake flavors, she felt Samantha’s gaze like a hand at her shoulder, steadying, insistent, always ready to push.

They talked about work again—Leah’s endless paperwork, Samantha’s gig as a “trauma model” for a local med school, where she faked injuries and screamed for future doctors. “You know, I’m really good at playing dead,” Sam said, fluttering her lashes. Leah caught herself staring at Sam’s lips and quickly looked away, focusing on the intricate tile pattern at the bottom of the spa.

“Stop flirting with me,” Leah said, but it came out too soft to have any real bite.

“Can’t. It’s either this or sexually harass the wait staff and I don't think we want that.” Sam grinned, then lounged back, arms spread wide and chest thrust up just enough to be obvious.

“You’re just trying to get in my bridal lingerie party.” Leah laughed.

“Oh I know I can't wait for ALL the fun. Don't worry I won't steal you away from Jonathan.” Samantha whispered, then laughed, a bright, bracing sound that made Leah’s stomach clench.

A spa attendant's sudden appearance stopped whatever Leah was about to say in response; they were wearing a powder-blue uniform and bowed slightly with dutiful formality.

“Ladies, your spa room is ready. Whenever you are,” she said, voice soft as a feather pillow.

"Oh what kind of massage was it again?" Leah turned to Samantha and cocked her head with an inquiry.