The unaccustomed weight of the dense, fluffy cotton on your body, the subtle naughtiness of having nothing on underneath a garment that can be removed with a single strong tug. Not that there’s anyone around to tug my robe off right now. I’m lolling on my bed at Jamie’s investor’s Dallas hotel, in the middle of a two-day trip to photograph and measure her new spa spaces here and in Houston. Noah was supposed to Skype me at 10:30, but he’s late. I’ve been dying all day to fill him in on the new Balm site, which is even better than I’d hoped when Jamie told me about it a few weeks back, but so far all I’ve done since dinner is give John a webcam tour of my swanky hotel room and paint my toes—bright grass green, the signature color of Balm’s logo. Finally, at 11:12, I hear the familiar beep-boop noise of the Skype call coming through on my computer. Noah is propped against the leather headboard of his bed in Buenos Aires, eyes blurry with fatigue. I hate seeing him so tired all the time.
What do You think about The One That Got Away (2015)?
