Chapter 1: The Client
The water was a liquid bruise, deep indigo under the night sky, churned to a steady simmer by the jets. Bindi’s leg slid against Will’s under the surface, a slick, continuous pressure. Her toes traced the firm line of his quad, a silent code.
“Stop thinking about quarterly projections,” she murmured, her voice barely carrying over the burble and hiss.
“I’m not.” He was. The LED lights in the tub cycled from blue to a soft purple, washing over her face. She looked like something carved from antique gold in the moonlight.
“Liar.” She smiled, sipping her gin and tonic. The ice clicked a quiet rhythm. “I booked the surprise client. For next Thursday.”
“Finally. Do I get a name now, or is the mystery part of the therapeutic process?” He leaned back, letting the heat work into his shoulders. The salt air off the Pacific was cool on his face, a contrast to the submerged warmth.
Bindi set her glass on the wet limestone edge. She turned slightly, the water sloshing, and looked at him. The city hum was a distant, fuzzy baseline. “You know how we’ve talked about a flagship client. Someone whose testimonial to other celebrities,,, discretely of course... could… elevate us. Beyond the tech CEOs and the bored second wives.”
“A unicorn,” Will said, a hopeful smirk on his face. “Rich, discreet, and wildly influential. Mythical.”
“Emma Watson.”
The name didn’t land. It floated there between them, mingling with the steam. Will blinked. “The actress Emma Watson?”
“Is there another?”
He laughed, a short, disbelieving puff of air. “Come on. Really?”
“Really.” Bindi’s expression didn’t waver. It was her professional face, the one she used when outlining a sensitive somatic exercise. Calm, assured, slightly challenging. “Her people reached out. A confidential referral from the Hendricksons. She’s in town prepping for a film, staying privately in La Jolla. She has… specific goals. Performance anxiety. A disconnect between intellectual understanding and physical sensation. She’s read the books, done the meditation. She wants practical, guided application.”
Will’s mind tripped over itself. Images flickered—a DVD case for a childhood Harry Potter film, a red-carpet smile, a UN speech. The disconnect was absurd. “Emma Watson is going to come to our house. And we’re going to… guide her.”
“Yes.”
“To orgasm.”
“That’s typically the core of the breakthrough work, yes.” Bindi’s foot found his again, pressed. “You’re tense, Will.”
He looked down. His grip was tight on the textured edge. He forced his fingers to relax. “It’s just… unexpected. She’s a client. Just a client.”
“She is.” Bindi drifted closer, the water parting around her. She put a wet hand on his chest, over his steadying heartbeat. “And it’s a huge opportunity for Pacific Awakenings. For us. This is what we built. This level of trust.”
He covered her hand with his. Her skin was always so warm. “I know. It’s just… my teenage self is having a stroke somewhere.”
“Your thirty-year-old self needs to be a professional.” Her tone was gentle but firm. “She chose us because we’re the best. We’re discreet, we’re scientific, we’re empathetic. And we work as a team. She specifically requested a couple. Feels safer, more balanced.”
Will nodded, absorbing it. The initial shock was receding, replaced by a slow-rising tide of pragmatic considerations. Logistics. Security. Tailoring their approach. The business part of his brain clicked on, a calming relief. “NDAs. I'm sure her lawyers will send a packet. The suite needs to be perfect and clean - I’ll handle all of that.” The entire second floor of their mansion was their dedicated workspace for high-privacy clients - it contained two bedrooms, a lounge area with full bar, two full bathrooms, and a connected veranda with its own hot tub.
“See?” Bindi’s smile was real now, proud. She leaned in, her lips close to his ear. Her breath was warm against the cool night. “That’s why I need you. To keep us grounded. To handle the world.”
“And why do you need me otherwise?” he whispered back, turning his head so their mouths were almost touching.
“For the hands-on part.” She kissed him, slow and deep, tasting of lime and gin. The water cradled them, weightless. When she pulled back, her eyes were dark. “She needs to see a real connection. A functional, joyful sexual partnership. That’s the model. That’s what we show her.”
“We’re good at that part,” he said, his voice rough.
“We are.” She rested her forehead against his. “No hero worship, okay? She’s just a woman who can’t come. That’s our job. That’s our specialty.”
“Right.” He took a deep breath, the jasmine from the planted borders sweet in the air. The enormity of it, the sheer bizarre normalcy, began to settle into something like excitement. A challenge. A peak for their business. His wife’s ambition had always been their engine. “Okay. Emma Watson.”
“Emma Watson,” Bindi echoed, sealing it.
They sat in silence for a while, listening to the ocean’s distant sigh, the water bubbling around them. The moon was a clean slice above the black water. Will’s mind, finally quieted from spreadsheets, began to wander into Thursday. The theory, the practice, the careful choreography of touch and trust. He felt a thrill, professional and deeply personal, tangled together. Bindi’s hand slid down his chest, beneath the waterline.
He caught her wrist, not to stop her, but to feel the pulse there. “We’re going to have to be perfect.”
“We don’t do perfect,” she said, shifting her weight to straddle him in the buoyant water, her skin slick against his. “We do real. That’s better.”
And as she kissed him again, the city lights blurring into stars behind her, Will knew she was right. This was just another client. Another body, another mind to help unlock. The name attached was just noise. The work was the same.
He almost believed it.