Read A Killer Retreat for Free Online

punctuated my point by leaning back in one chair and putting my feet up on another.
    Michael pursed his lips in a lopsided grin. “Fine. No hike then. We can start with the hot tubs.”
    Now he was talking. Hot tubbing was my kind of vacation. Sleep in until noon, hang out in the spa, practice some yoga, maybe get a massage or two …
    He handed me a full-color pamphlet filled with warm, inviting pictures. Happy-looking adults relaxed in four hot tubs that had been sunken into an expansive cedar deck. Puget Sound’s blue waters sparkled in the background. According to the flyer, the wooden building behind the deck housed bathrooms, showers, a steam room, and sauna. I turned the page over and read the section titled “Spa Rules and Regulations.”
    â€œClosed for cleaning from eight to ten each morning.” No problem there. We could start at eleven. “No lotions, oils, or cell phones allowed.” I could live with that. I’d check the Yoga Chick before we left. She probably wasn’t waterproof, anyway. “No glass containers or alcoholic beverages allowed.” Bummer. But who drank before noon, anyway? “Patrons must sit on a towel at all times.”
    Huh?
    The final line leaped off the page, searing my eyes. “Parents take note: All of our spa facilities are clothing optional.” I shuddered from the roots of my hair follicles to the tips of my toenails.
    â€œMichael, these are naked hot tubs!” I dropped the offending pamphlet, as if it had scalded my fingertips. “I can’t hang out in some naked hot tub, especially not with future yoga students.” I pointed down at my legs, which appeared to have tripled in size. “Believe me, no one wants to see these thighs naked.”
    â€œDon’t be silly, Kate,” Michael chided. “I love your chunky thighs.”
    Was that supposed to be a compliment?
    â€œBesides,” he continued. “It’s not a naked hot tub. It’s clothing optional . Wear your swimming suit.”
    I rolled my eyes. “Great. Then I’ll be the only puritanical prude covered up in a towel, while everyone else gets their jollies by letting it all hang out.” I shuddered. “Nope. No way. I’ll only be naked with total strangers.”
    Michael snorted so hard that coffee came out of his nose.
    I swatted him on the rear with a towel. “Knock it off. You know what I mean. Now stop mocking me and clean up the dishes. I’ll get Bella’s food started, and we can take her for a walk while it incubates.”
    Michael stopped arguing, picked up the plates, and haphazardly stacked them next to the sink. I grabbed the first of my thirty dog food containers and began the chemical experiment that was Bella’s food preparation. I opened the eco-friendly, compostible vessel and confirmed that the mountain of powdered medicines I’d added at home was still on top. Then I poured the contents into a large mixing bowl and vigorously stirred, envisioning each separate molecule of kibble being coated with powder.
    Next up was adding the water. I carefully measured twelve ounces from the tap and tested it with my finger. Satisfied that the temperature was appropriately warm—not hot—I poured the water onto the powdered food and stirred exactly one hundred times, until the disgusting-looking concoction was the consistency of overcooked oatmeal. I stepped back, assessed my artistic creation, and frowned. Something was off. I stirred some more, then frowned again. “This doesn’t feel right. Maybe I should do it over.”
    Michael—who had finished piling the dishes next to the sink five minutes before—drummed his fingers on the counter impatiently. “Kate, come off it. How hard can it be? I’m beginning to think Rene is right. I know you love Bella. I love her, too. But seriously? You’re becoming dog food obsessed.”
    Six months ago, I’d have