Not quite as experienced as Henry, and lacking his way with words… although judging by this message, Henry’s way with words has just escaped him.

I check the daily appointments screen and see that Henry’s in the Sage Room, on the spa level, second floor. Then I’m out the door, running for the elevator.

In four-inch heels, this is more like speed-walking on tiptoe.

As I “run,” I call the spa manager and explain the situation. Not that I understand the situation.

Zeke and I arrive at the door of the Sage Room at the same moment. He taps gently, giving me a look with green eyes that glitter with mirth. After a slight pause, the sliding door opens and Henry slips out.

Poor Henry has a towel wrapped around his head like a turban, hiding his curly ginger hair. Although the treatment rooms are maintained at the optimal temperature, he is sweating profusely.

“What’s wrong?” Zeke asks urgently. “Should we call security?” I love his English accent. So do the clients.

“Barnacle!” Henry hisses.

Zeke and I exchange a glance.

“A skin condition?” I am at a loss.

“Professor Barnacle! My bio-ethics professor! Naked! Moaning!” Henry is distraught.

“Zeke, are you free now? Can you take over?” I ask. “Her information should be on the iPad screen, right?”

He nods and disappears into the darkened room, the music pulsing and then silenced as the door slides open and closed.

Inside the staff lounge, I pour Henry a glass of O’s signature passionflower-infused iced tea. Counter-intuitively, passionflower is supposed to be calming. With a shot of vodka, it might be. Members can order it that way, too, but of course the O team must not indulge. Until their shift is over, that is.

“When I entered the room, I smelled a familiar perfume, but that happens all the time. And the lights were low, and she was lying face down, covered with the sheet. The client info screen showed that she requested the Tantric Touch massage, ninety minutes. I put my music on, and I started warming and mixing the oils. Then I noticed the wild black hair.” He shudders. “And that purple nail polish she wears. But still I wasn’t sure.”

“Did you say anything?” I ask because Henry has a distinctive voice, surprisingly soft for a man of his power and size. That voice would identify him, even in the dark.

“No, the idea is to be as silent as possible. As if my hands were unconnected to anyone. Just floating touch.”

I reflect on this for a brief moment. Money actually can buy happiness.

“So I began the massage,” he continues. “In Tantric practice, everything proceeds very slowly. Thank god for that. If it went any faster, I’d have violated every faculty-student interaction policy on record by now. It wasn’t until she turned over that I knew for sure it was Professor Barnacle. And by then she was begging me to ‘move to the center of her chakra’ and ‘release her inner flood.’”

“That’s a new phrase for female ejaculation,” I mutter.

“I thought that was a myth?”

I don’t even dignify that with a response.

“Poor Zeke.” Henry shudders and motions for me to make another cup of tea. This is a role reversal. Part of his job is to serve me. But we’re friends, and I’m compassionate, and I’m curious.

I want to know what the hell happened in the Sage Room, and if I’m already being nice, I might as well pump him for info.

“Did she touch you?”

Before Henry can answer, a loud moan that rises along three octaves takes up all the available decibels in the room.

“Oh, dear,” I whisper. We do have some rather enthusiastic clients who fully embrace their sexuality and aren’t inhibited in expressing pleasure. Generally, though, they manage not to shatter all the wine glasses in the tasting room.

“I hope she tips well,” Henry mumbles, then looks at me. “And I swear, if it were anyone but my advisor, I’d be fine with the basics.”

Another moan.

“Is that what Zeke’s doing? Basic Tantric Massage?” If that’s “the basics,” we need to up our prices.

Henry shrugs.

“We do need to walk a fine line. I’m sure Zeke’s not crossing it.”

“Oh, God,” Henry’s professor cries out. “You have divine hands.”

“That’s it,” Henry announces, elbows on his knees, fingers threading through his hair in frustration. “I can’t continue working here. This was way too close a call.”

An alarm buzzes through me. Clients request Henry at a rate three times higher than our other masseurs. That’s why his fee is so much higher, and the profit margins are fabulous. With a presentation for investors coming up this week, I have to have the financials in a solid place.

Henry’s too valuable to let a horny barnacle scare him off.

“Go home. I’ll talk to management and make sure they’ll cover your base pay for the day. You’re rattled. Understandably rattled,” I add, as Henry glares at me.

“Can you imagine finding someone from your personal life suddenly invading your work space?”

“No.” I shudder. I have one rule: no mixing business with pleasure. Okay, so I broke that when I met Joe, but that was it. One time only. Joe was the exception.

“Who’s the moaner?” asks Ryan, walking into the lounge carrying a Kylo Ren costume and a light saber. He hangs the costume in the staff closet and turns around, hands on hips, ears perked.

“Client,” Henry snaps.

“Duh, it’s a client.” Ryan shoots him a pissed-off look. Ryan is our resident “Bad Boy” masseur. Liberally covered in real tattoos, he’s sleeved and looks just enough like Charlie Hunnam when he dyes his hair blonde to make him the second most popular masseur at the spa. “But damn, she’s wicked loud. Chloe, you need to upgrade the soundproofing in those massage rooms.”

“Duly noted.” Now that is one operations item a mystery shopper would never, ever document.

“Why the hell are you sitting in the lounge sipping tea in your shoelace?” Ryan asks Henry. His hair is his natural chestnut brown, short but longer at the bangs, and he wears a slight beard, just scraggly enough to make him look dirty, but not so long as to evoke Duck Dynasty. Like all the O men, he’s tall, muscular, and makes Joe Manganiello’s abs look like Pillsbury biscuits.