Sweet Romance15 min read
A Hot Towel, a Kiss, and the Ring He Couldn't Keep
ButterPicks11 views
I told myself Dali was about work.
"I came to check a site," I said the first night, the words flat and sensible, like a marker line I could stand behind.
Emanuel Blanchard looked at me for a long beat. "And the hot springs?"
"Part of the research," I said.
He smiled once—small, like the corner of a photograph curling—and I felt something loosen inside me.
We reached the guesthouse after a long day on the road. The beds sighed when we collapsed into them. I closed my eyes, grateful for the quiet hum of the heater and the way the pillow held my head.
"Are you okay?" Emanuel asked, leaning over with a damp towel in his hands.
"It feels like a wet tea bag," I muttered, and then I let him touch me. The towel was warm and soft. He dabbed at the back of my neck, gentle, as if he was handling a skittish bird.
"Better?" he asked.
"Mm."
He folded the towel again and again, the smell of minerals faint and clean. He kept at it without fussing, returning with more hot towels as if it were the most natural work in the world.
"Let me help," I offered after a while. "You must be tired too."
Emanuel hesitated only a fraction. "All right."
I slid behind him on the bed and put my hands on his shoulders. His muscles were tight at first, then loosened under my palms. I pressed a little harder, found a knot. He made a sound—an involuntary small sound—and I smiled.
"Don't rush me," I said.
He didn't speak. He let his eyes close. I moved my hands up behind his neck to rub, and his body went still, like a stringed instrument that had suddenly been tuned.
"Stop," he said, huskier than I expected.
I blinked. "Stop?"
"Don't press there," he said. His voice was low and the way he said it made my chest heat.
Before I could process it, his long arm circled me and he caught me as if I had slipped. I toppled forward into him, and the world shifted. I hugged his neck automatically.
He laughed quietly. "You could have fallen."
"I—"
He steadied me and, almost casually, guided me to sit on his thigh. His palm on my waist steadied me, and I noticed how warm his hand was, how broad his leg felt under me.
"Let's eat first," he murmured against my ear. The breath there was hot and familiar.
Embarrassment rose like a blush. "Okay."
At the restaurant the staff were bustling. Emanuel took care of everything with quiet competence. He passed food to me as if he were introducing me to small, deliberate kindnesses.
"You didn't eat much today," he said, adding peeled shrimp to my bowl. "Eat more."
"I will," I said. He watched me like that—attentive and composed, as if my consuming or not consuming had gravity in his small universe.
When we left the restaurant night had slid across the lake like ink. He suggested, almost offhand, to try the hot springs at the back of the restaurant.
"It would be useful," he said. "We need to evaluate everything."
"It was supposed to be tomorrow," I replied, surprised.
He shrugged. "Plans change."
He kept his hand on my back in the long wooden corridor. It was the kind of touch that asked nothing and offered everything—steady, careful.
We picked a small private pool. Steam rose and wrapped us. I sank in and felt an immediate surrender of a tired body and a bristled mind.
"Emanuel," I said, half asleep.
He called my name back, long, like he was testing the sound.
"My eye got water in it," he said, blinking up at me.
"You want me to—?" My voice came out smaller than intended.
"Could you blow?" he asked, squinting playfully.
I laughed and leaned forward, blowing gently at his face to clear the droplets. He shifted, hands sliding from the shoulder he'd rested on. His palm found my waist and he lifted me forward just enough for our lips to meet.
The kiss was first like a question and then an answer. Heat spread through me. He pressed his forehead to mine when we pulled back, and the steam smelled like flowers and something faintly of mineral and him.
We were not careful. We were both careless and safe, breath coming too fast. Then a bell rang at the far door—some stranger's entrance—and we both jolted.
"Who is it?" I whispered, absurdly small.
Emanuel blinked, calm. "Probably someone looking for the men's pool." He smiled, no trace of apology.
We left the pool hand in hand. The night air was cool and bright. He leaned his shoulder against mine as we walked.
"I saw him at the restaurant," he said suddenly.
"Who?"
"Gavin Brady."
My mouth made a sound like a page tearing. "You saw Gavin?" I kept my voice steady.
Emanuel slowed. "I saw him deliberately handing you a ring."
I held his hand tighter. "I returned it."
"I know," he said, eyes gathering like stormclouds. "You almost—"
"We didn't," I said, firming myself.
He let out a short laugh that was unexpectedly soft. "I know."
I squeezed his fingers, and for the first time that trip, I wanted to say something that wasn't about the project. "Why did you seem... different when the door rang?"
Emanuel was quiet for a long moment. "I wanted to see how you would stand when someone tried to test you."
"Test me?"
He nodded. "I thought if I placed myself foolishly in the middle of it—if I let you forget rhetoric and contract language for a heartbeat—I'd see whether you were still the same. Whether this was work or something else."
"And?"
"You answered without thinking," he said. "You came back to me."
He said nothing else for a while. The night wrapped us, private and bright. The rest of the trip stretched ahead like an uncharted map.
The next morning we walked through old streets with baskets of steamed buns between our hands. Emanuel listened when I talked. He laughed at things that weren't funny, and then, when he laughed, his whole face changed—like a mask slipping. I saw him smile in the way you'd see sunlight break through wood slats.
"You're different with people," I said when we sat on a bench looking out at the lake.
"How?" he asked.
"You don't smile like that at the office," I said. "You keep a reserve."
He smoothed his sleeve. "Maybe I save some things for better weather."
"Do you have to hide it?" I asked.
"Not hide," he answered. "I catalog it."
"You catalog laughter?"
"Yes." He tapped his chest. "Deals need finances, people need honesty. Both are recorded here."
My laugh came out like a question. "You're too organized."
"I learned that the hard way," he said. "Do you want to see the site later today?"
"I do."
There were small gestures that day—a jacket draped across my shoulders when a wind came up, a hand to steady me on a steep stair, a quiet correction in our plans that kept me from wasting time. Each one landed like a soft stone dropped into still water.
When we returned to the guesthouse after a long day of interviews and surveys, Emanuel found a place for his phone and wallet with a relaxed, domestic efficiency. It made me feel strangely included.
"You're getting domestic on me," I teased.
He looked at me and smiled, that small, private smile. "Only because someone needs to keep track of the receipts."
There were moments when he was all business.
"Tomorrow we'll meet the developer," he said. "You remember the figures we discussed?"
"Yes," I answered.
He leaned close then, voice low. "Don't let Gavin derail our pitch."
"I won't," I promised.
He didn't touch me, not then. But the intensity in his tone reached without hands.
At the evening's quiet, I found myself resting into the rhythm of his presence. He was a calm harbor and a careful tide.
"Do you ever fall asleep and worry about what comes next?" I asked at midnight.
"Only if it's not worth it," he replied.
I considered that. "Is this worth it?"
He looked at me there in the dim—soft face and hair loose around my shoulders. "You tell me."
When Gavin Brady's name surfaced again, Emanuel's tone was flat, edged in a way I hadn't heard before.
"He came to town asking about our proposal," he said. "He positioned himself well in front of the investors."
"Was he asking about me?"
Emanuel's jaw tightened imperceptibly. "He does that when it's convenient."
"Convenient for him, I mean."
"We have to show the difference between convenience and commitment," Emanuel said.
"Commitment to the project or to me?" I asked.
He stared at me for a long time. "Both," he said simply.
I felt my heart do something awkward in my chest.
The day of the investor meeting arrived like a glass vase placed on a table. The room smelled of coffee and polished wood. Emanuel and I had gone over our notes until the edges of the paper felt soft.
"Remember to smile once at the right time," Emanuel advised, oddly domestic in the bright business room.
"That's your trick, not mine," I replied.
"Half of being convincing is not showing why you really care," he said.
"You're a mystery."
He smiled then, broader than before, and it lit his face like a window.
Gavin Brady arrived late. He had a way of walking into a room with his chin raised like he owned the sunlight. He greeted people with a practiced charm and sat in a way that suggested he had rehearsed his posture for every important chair.
We began the presentation. Emanuel and I played off each other—the formal slides, the precise figures, the vision for the resort. He let me lead some parts and took the technical details.
Halfway through, a hush that wasn't the room's fell between us. Gavin cleared his throat loudly enough to be heard and then stood.
"Excuse me," he said, smiling a predatory smile. "I thought I'd share something personal. I wanted—from affection—" His eyes flicked to me. "—to give a token."
He produced a small box. The room's air shifted, uncomfortable like a dropped plate.
I felt a cold hollow open under my feet. The investors' eyes slid over, hungry for theater. People leaned forward. Gavin opened the box as if revealing a jewel in a movie.
"Is this necessary now?" Emanuel asked, voice low but clear.
Gavin didn't answer him. He went on. "I think public gestures show genuine intention."
"You think very little," Emanuel said.
Gavin's smile didn't falter. "Don't be dramatic, Emanuel. I simply wanted to show Julia—"
"Gavin, stop," I said sharply.
He turned to me, offended, theatrically wounded. "I thought you'd appreciate it."
"Appreciate what?" I asked. "Being showcased like a prize? Being put on display in front of people who believe money makes consent?"
The room shifted. There were murmurs from the circle of investors. Emanuel's hand found mine under the table and squeezed, steady and solid.
Gavin's face flickered: charm, confusion, then a brittle laugh. "You're making a drama out of kindness."
"Kindness that comes with expectation isn't kindness," I said. "And you know that."
He blinked, searching for another move, a flatter smile.
Emanuel rose slowly, every motion careful, and walked to the front. "I think there are other matters to discuss." His tone didn't raise, but the room grew silent as if a conductor had put down a baton.
He looked at the investors. "Before we go on, I need to correct the record."
"Correct what?" Gavin asked.
Emanuel set a thin laptop on the table in front of him and opened a file. "Gavin has a vested interest in a competing proposal," he said. "He also has been communicating privately with a subcontractor about undermining our bids. Those messages were sent from the account Gavin uses."
A ripple went through the room. Heads turned. Papers rustled. Gavin's composure stiffened.
"You're lying," he snapped.
Emanuel clicked to a screen that showed a series of messages—dates, times, and a tone of collusion that was clinical and ugly.
I felt a sudden cold relief bleeding with surprise. "Gavin," I said. "Is this true?"
Gavin's smile had vanished, leaving something raw. He stammered denials that sounded new, not rehearsed.
"They're forged," he said. "This is a setup."
"Do you deny the meeting we had last month?" Emanuel asked, quiet now. "The one where you discussed the vendor list and what margins to offer to undercut ours?"
Gavin's jaw worked. "I was—"
"You were trying to secure the contract by removing competition," Emanuel said, hands steepled. "Our investors deserve to know."
One by one people in the room shifted. Some began murmuring. One of the investors, an older woman with an exact haircut, folded her arms and leaned in. "If this is true, Gavin, you've been acting in bad faith."
"I—" Gavin's voice crumpled from defense to pleading. "I didn't mean for—"
"We have more," Emanuel said.
Gavin's face flashed through shades of color—red, pale, then a tremor of something I hadn't expected: panic. "You're ruining me," he hissed.
"You're exposing yourself," Emanuel corrected.
"You're lying!" Gavin shouted. His volume startled the room. People flinched and took out phones.
"This is not a performance," Emanuel said. "We will provide these messages to the board and the vendors. You chose to act on profit rather than integrity."
Gavin's mouth opened and closed. He swiped at the table like a child trying to catch a falling toy. "Please," he begged. "Please, Julia, forgive me. It was a mistake."
"Don't you dare use my name," I said. I could feel my pulse in my neck. "You used my presence as a backdrop for your plan. You offered a ring as if it were an apology, as if jewelry could buy my silence."
He made a noise that might have been a laugh or a cry. "You always choose him," he said suddenly. "Why him? He's just—"
"Enough," Emanuel said, flat and final.
Gavin's face collapsed into something pitiable and furious at once. "You think you can take everything from me?"
"I think you should face the consequences of your choices," Emanuel replied.
The investors murmured louder. Phones were out now, not only to record but to search. Someone found an earlier post by Gavin with boasts of cutting competitors' margins. Another message confirmed contact with the subcontractor. The room reeled under the weight of evidence.
Gavin's demeanor changed through the sequence Emanuel had predicted: smugness, confusion, denial, collapse. He went from a man who had planned the spotlight to a man under it, burning.
He gripped the edge of the table. "You set me up," he said to Emanuel.
"I didn't set you up," Emanuel answered. "You set yourself up."
There was a long, public minute where Gavin tried to bargain and then tried to deny. Investors who had leaned forward now recoiled. Someone whispered loudly, "Fraud."
A woman across the table clicked her pen and stood. Her voice was sharp. "We can't risk talent who manipulates the process. We're withdrawing Gavin's portion of the bid."
Gavin swore under his breath. He started to shout that he'd been framed, that no one understood the industry and the... the complex realities, but the words had no purchase. One by one, alliances evaporated.
A young project consultant took a photo and then another, hands shaking. "This will go online," he said simply.
Gavin's face crumpled as if he'd been exposed to acid. "No," he said. "Don't."
"Too late," someone answered.
He looked out at the circle of faces and saw them change expression—some disgust, some pity, some a withdrawn smile now turned cold. The sound of hands shaking and papers being collected filled the room.
He lunged for me suddenly, grabbed at my wrist in a clumsy attempt to turn things personal. I jerked away, and two investors rose like a wall.
"Don't you dare touch her," Emanuel said. The tone in Emanuel's voice was a low command. People in the room turned visibly, and a buffet of onlookers—employees, consultants, assistants—assembled into witnesses.
Gavin's face shifted again. From bravado to pleading to rage to shame. "Julia," he cried. "Please."
"Not here," I said. "Not ever."
He made one last attempt to posture—loud, angry, performative—then suddenly his knees buckled. I watched him physically sink, eyes turned inward. He staggered toward the exit, then stopped, and turned as if to shout, then simply fled into the corridor with the sound of the door closing behind him like a final, sharp clap.
People in the room were stunned into conversation. Phones were already typing. Some were watching Gavin's receding silhouette through a doorway. A few brave ones followed, to plead or to see if he would return.
I stood there with hands cold from adrenaline. Emanuel's fingers tightened around mine with grounding pressure.
"Are you all right?" he asked, voice softer now.
"I am," I whispered. "Thanks to you."
He let go of my hand and leaned in close enough that I could feel the warmth of him. "I didn't want you to be used."
"You didn't have to do that in public," I said, breath catching.
"I did," he answered. "Because some things need witnesses."
I nodded. The room had shifted around us, and for the moment, the world outside our small circle didn't matter.
That night the news of Gavin's incident circulated. People who'd been at the meeting posted comments and photos. My inbox filled with messages—some of support, some of gossip. Emanuel sat with me on the small balcony that overlooked the water, the lights mirrored there like scattered coins.
"You did it to protect me," I said again.
"I did it because you deserved the chance to stand without being a backdrop," he replied. He reached for my hand and held it.
"Did you ever fear I wouldn't choose you?" I asked.
He chuckled lightly. "I feared you might not pick us over being safe and practical. But you did."
I heard the silly heaviness of a laugh that isn't purely amusement. It made my chest ache with something simple and good.
The next morning, the town felt smaller and kinder. People gave us polite nods. Emanuel's coordination with local managers smoothed our next steps, and we finished the site visits without another dramatic interruption.
On the last night, we returned to the same hot spring where everything had wavered and then settled. I slipped into the water and watched Emanuel approach, every motion slow and sure.
"Do you regret exposing him?" I asked.
He sat at the edge and sighed, letting the warmth touch his calves. "Not for a second."
"Will his reputation recover?"
"Maybe." He paused. "But not with the people he betrayed."
The steam rose, and his profile looked softer in the haze. He reached for me and this time there were no bells nor clangs nor crowds to interrupt us. He leaned forward, kissed me, and smiled in the way that showed he was entirely present: "You are not a prize to be shown off. You're the center of my attention, whether anyone watches or not."
A warm peace settled in my chest like a lantern being lit. I answered him not with words but by resting my hand on his knee. In that small, simple contact, there were uncounted futures.
We returned to the guesthouse with the feeling of having survived something together.
Before we left Dali, Emanuel handed me a small notebook.
"For receipts," he said, deadpan.
"For our receipts?" I asked.
"For memories," he corrected, hiding a grin.
I flipped it open. On the first page was a neat line in his handwriting: "Hot towel, one. Kiss, many. Ring, returned."
I laughed. "Is that how you'll remember this trip?"
He shrugged. "It was a good day for testing."
He leaned toward me and kissed my cheek. "And you passed."
I tucked the notebook into my bag and felt a lightness like a held breath expired.
On the plane home, I watched Emanuel sleep for a long time. He looked peaceful. I reached over and smoothed the hair from his forehead. He opened an eye and smiled that small private smile that had become ours.
"Do you ever worry you did too much?" I asked him quietly.
He blinked, then turned to face me. "I worry about numbers, contracts, and whether I remembered to bring extra socks. For the rest, we make our choices."
"Do you ever wish you had chosen differently?" I asked.
He considered. "Not with you."
It was a statement so plain I almost missed the depth. I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his temple. "Good," I said.
He took my hand and held it like a promise. For once, I didn't catalog anything. I let it simply be.
When we unpacked at our respective apartments, I found myself opening that little notebook and rereading the line about a returned ring. It felt like a puncture turned into punctuation.
Sometimes, when the office hum died and the city blurred into night, I would reach for my phone and reread the messages of the investors: thank-yous, astonishment, relief. There were also a few barbed articles online about Gavin Brady. There was the unavoidable gossip, yes, but the sharpest thing was the pang of watching someone I once knew move out of the center of my life.
Emanuel and I kept working together. We kept our meetings and our private tea breaks on odd afternoons when the office cleared out. He smiled more now, that predictable corner of his mouth unfurling unexpectedly. He grew fond of useless trivia about spa systems; he bought a small tool kit and learned to fix a leaking kettle.
There were smaller moments that threaded through the months:
"You always know when I'm cold," I said one evening.
"I watch," he replied.
He draped a cardigan over my shoulders and his fingers brushed my neck. I felt a familiar quickening.
"Do you remember the first towel?" I asked.
"How could I forget?" he said.
He bent and adjusted my scarf and then, when our eyes met, there was no barrier between us. "I don't like you used as scenery," he murmured.
"I prefer being in the picture," I said. "Next to you, maybe."
He laughed softly, then kissed me on the mouth. "Next to me," he repeated.
We learned that being careful didn't mean being small. We learned that a ring could be a kind thing—or a tool to claim ownership—and that the difference mattered. We discovered how an act performed in private could ripple outward if performed with courage and how a public exposure could relieve a private hurt.
Once, when I was packing to go out, he stopped me. "Close the door, will you?" he said. "And don't forget your jacket."
"You're always telling me what to do," I teased.
"It's called caring," he said.
He kissed me quickly. "Come back early," he added, voice earnest.
"I will," I promised.
The day I resigned from worrying over expectations, I walked through our office corridor and felt lighter. Emanuel joined me at the elevators.
"You're not leaving the project?" he asked, pretending surprise.
"No," I said. "I'm just leaving this weight."
He looked at me. "Good."
At the project's opening, as the pool's steam curled in the evening air and investors applauded, I stood next to Emanuel on the platform. A hot towel lay folded at the side—a silly token, but it had become our small emblem.
"Do you regret anything?" he asked quietly.
"No," I said.
He smiled and picked up the towel as if to hand it to me, but instead draped it across my shoulders like the first night.
We laughed then, quietly and together, a small sound that filled the space behind the applause.
When the crowd thinned and the lake lay black and reflective, Emanuel held my hand and then leaned in to kiss me. The kiss tasted like steam and the faint mineral of hot springs, and it felt like home.
Later, long after the noise settled and the investors left town, I sat with the little notebook on my lap. I opened to the first page. The line about the hot towel and the returned ring seemed to wink at me.
I wrote beneath it in my own neat script: "Stayed."
Emanuel looked at what I wrote and nodded, that private smile blooming.
"Good choice," he said.
"Yes," I answered.
We folded the notebook closed, and outside, the hot spring's steam rose like a small, warm cloud. It was a noise that had become ours.
The End
— Thank you for reading —