Melanie pulled her closer. “Breakfast,” she breathed. “Definitely breakfast.”
“We don’t have to tell anyone,” Marie whispered against her lips. “Or we tell everyone tomorrow over breakfast. Your call.”
The temptation wasn’t a lightning bolt. It was a slow, deliberate melting—like the ice Melanie had poured over the stones minutes ago, surrendering to steam. She could say this is a bad idea (boss-subordinate, age gap, the retreat’s thin walls). Or she could lean in.
Melanie laughed, too quick. “The sauna.”