2. Brady
brADY
I stare at my phone, my stomach knotting up each time I read the text Teagan sent me yesterday:
I huff.
The rational part of my brain knows I need help. My back's been spasming since yesterday’s demo where I did an extra long drop with the rig, showing off, trying to prove I could still climb like I was twenty-five instead of forty-three.
My muscles pulse in disapproval. Sharp. Insistent. “Old man,” it mocks.
The irrational part of me keeps flashing back to that much-too-young woman I bumped into with sexy pink hair and whiskey-brown eyes—some random visitor passing through who keeps popping into my fantasies.
Damn, she was beautiful.
My phone feels like a brick in my hand.
Teagan's been trying to get me to see a massage therapist for weeks, and suddenly there’s one on site? Coincidence? Doubtful. More like suspicious.
A stranger’s hands on my body.
I shudder, thumb hovering over the text box. Twenty-five years of logging, climbing, hauling timber, and the idea of lying still while someone pokes and rubs at my muscles makes my shoulders creep toward my ears.
Traditional Japanese stoicism runs deep—my grandfather’s voice echoes in my head:
Endure. Adapt. Do not show weakness.
But Teagan’s right. The crew needs me functional.
This is Brady. Teagan said you might have time for a consultation about my back.
I hit send before I lose my nerve.
Imogen’s response is almost immediate.
Absolutely! I'm free this afternoon if you'd like to stop by Cabin 7. We can just talk - and only hands-on diagnostics if you're comfortable.
The word “hands-on” makes me pause. But “diagnostic” is a clinical word. A safe word…and it brings me back to reality.
I have to get over this.
2 PM work?
Pride will not intervene.
It does. See you then, Brady.
I shove the phone in my pocket and try to focus on this tree health assessment I'm supposed to be doing. Instead, I’m worried about someone who’s supposed to make me feel better.
Zen, Tanaka.
But when 2 PM rolls around, I'm standing outside Cabin 7 wondering if I’ve made a mistake in agreeing to this.
I knock twice.
"Come in!" her voice calls from inside.
I push open the door and freeze.
Recognition hits me like a felled tree.
It’s her.
The little sprite from yesterday—all cotton-candy hair and dark eyes and the soft ‘oh’ when my hands gripped her shoulders to steady her. The woman who’s been haunting my periphery for hours, smirking at me.
She's sitting cross-legged on the couch, laptop balanced on her knees, wearing ripped jeans and an oversized T-shirt that's sliding off one sexy shoulder. Her pink hair is cropped short except for the bangs that flop into her eyes when she looks up.
“Oh geez, it’s you.” She closes the laptop and uncurls from the couch in one fluid motion. “The guy from yesterday. The one I made a complete ass out of myself in front of." Then her cheeks turn as pink as her hair. "And you're Brady."
"Yeah." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "And you're the massage therapist.” I take a deep breath. “You know, I should probably go. I think this is a mistake."
"Wait," she says, and I stop despite every instinct telling me to go. "Why? Because we bumped into each other? Surely we can get past that.”
I rub the back of my neck, trying to find words that don't make me sound like a basket case. "It's just...complicated."
"How so?" She tilts her head, studying me with the kind of attention that makes my skin feel too tight. "Is it me? Am I not what you expected in a massage therapist?”
"No," I say quickly. "Nothing like that. Not really."
“Then what's complicated about a consultation? We're just talking." She gestures to the chairs by the window. "Come on. I may be clumsy, but I don’t bite."
I swallow that image down, stepping inside.
The cabin’s all soft lighting and linen sheets, earthy and feminine. She gestures to a chair. “Sit. Stand. Whatever’s comfy. This isn’t a dental exam.”
I stand. Military stance. Shoulders back.
She tilts her head. “You’re comfy like that?”
“Yes,” I lie. As comfortable as I can be right now.
She shrugs. "So you're the mysterious high-rigger Teagan mentioned," she says, settling into one of the arm chairs. "The one who's too stubborn to admit he needs help."
My mouth twitches. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
She accepts that. "Tell me about your back issues."
There's something about the way she asks: direct but not pushy, that makes it easier to talk than I expected. “Think I pulled something yesterday during a demonstration. Lower back. It's happened before."
She circles me slowly, and I swear I feel her gaze like sunlight through leaves—warm and persistent. “Which side do you favor when it acts up?”
“Left.”
“Any numbness? Tingling?”
“No.”
"How long have you been climbing?"
"Twenty-three years professionally. Longer if you count growing up around the family business."
Her eyebrows raise. "That's a lot of repetitive stress on your back. Do you do any regular maintenance? Stretching, strength training, bodywork?"
"Of course…some stretching, weight-lifting, calisthenics." I shift on my feet. "Look, I know you probably think I'm being ridiculous with being hesitant about the whole massage thing."
"Actually, I think you're being smart," she interrupts. "Therapeutic touch is intimate, even when it's professional. You should be comfortable with whoever's working on you."
The way she says 'intimate' sends heat shooting down my spine.
"The thing is," she continues, "climbers like you develop very specific tension patterns. Your lats, rhomboids, the deep muscles around your spine—they're probably locked up like Fort Knox. That demonstration yesterday probably just triggered something that's been building for months."
She's right, and we both know it. I've been waking up stiff for weeks, taking longer to warm up before climbs, favoring my left side without really admitting it.
She steps closer, and I register her height—or lack thereof. The top of her head reaches my sternum.
"What’s this consultation involve?" I ask.
"Just assessment. I ask you to move in certain ways, maybe do some basic range of motion tests. If you’re okay with it, I can do some diagnostic palpation—just feeling for areas of tension or restriction.” She smiles. “No oils, or Enya, or pressure to do anything you don’t want to do."
I smile, despite nerves.
"It’s only to try to understand what's going on with your body."
What's going on with my body is that it’s attracted to her in a way that goes beyond a professional consultation.
But I need help, and she clearly knows what she's talking about.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "What do you need me to do?"
Her face lights up. "Just some basic movement first."
She has me bend forward, twist left and right, reach overhead. Her eyes track every movement like the pro that she is, but I can't shake the feeling that she's seeing more than just muscle mechanics.
But that’s probably just wishful thinking.
"Your left side is definitely restricted," she says. "Hip flexors are tight, probably compensating for whatever's going on in your lower back. Would you be comfortable if I did some light palpation? Just through your shirt?"
"Would it be easier if I took my shirt off?" I ask, then immediately wonder where that came from.
She blinks. "Yes, actually. But only if you're cool with that."
It's just a professional assessment, right?
Before I can reconsider, I pull the Henley over my head and fold it, setting it on the chair. When I turn back, I watch her gaze travel over my torso.
“Those tattoos are beautiful,” she says, eying the traditional Japanese artwork that covers me. For a heartbeat, her lips part, fingers flexing like she wants to trace the ink curling over my shoulders.
Then she shakes her head, and it’s back to business. “Okay, turn around for me.”
I do as she says. The air’s cold on my bare skin.
Her silence prickles.
“Holy shit,” she breathes.
“What?”
“Your latissimus dorsi. They’re…Jesus, they’re art .”
“They’re muscles,” I reply, but some pride creeps in.
“ Masterpiece muscles. Development in those is really rare. Amazing work.”
“Thanks,” I say, unsure how to respond to that kind of compliment.
Her fingertips brush my trapezius, and I nearly gasp in a full-body shiver.
“Wow,” she mutters. “You are wound tighter than a fiddle string.”
“Duh.” I chuckle, and she laughs. “Okay, wise guy.”
Her following touch is warm and sure, fingers moving along the edge of my shoulder blade with practiced deliberation. I work to keep my breathing steady, to stay neutral, but there's something about her tiny hands on my back that makes it hard to think straight.
"Just breathe normally," she says, working down my spine. "Tell me if anything feels tender."
She begins rolling her thumbs into muscle knots I didn’t know existed.
Pain blazes, sharp and bright, but her voice softens: “That’s tender, huh? Tell me these things. Now, breathe into it for a second. Don’t fight me.”
Her hands are strong. Small but relentless, working a little deeper with each breath. My eyes drift shut against my will.
“There you go,” she murmurs. “Your Erector Spinae are pissed. It’s all these muscles that run along the length of your spine.
” She continues her movements. Her touch is clinical but reverent, tracing the topography of my back.
“Your years of climbing show. The angular fibers here—” her thumb slides over a sensitive spot near my spine, “—indicate repetitive overhead engagement. Your rhomboids are compensating.”
Her fingertips chart territories no one’s mapped before.
I swallow hard.
She kneads a knot near my scapula. “Do you ever stop working?”
“No.”
“Shocker.” She prods a tender spot. “This hurt?”
“N-no.” I bite back a groan.
Her hands still. “Hey.” Softer now. “You’re allowed to feel things, you know.”
My jaw flexes. “I’m fine.”
She spends a moment exploring the area, and every touch sends heat racing through me despite the professional nature of what she's doing.
"This is definitely inflamed. And these muscles up here—" her hands move to my upper back"—are doing double duty. You're probably getting headaches too."
I am, but I don't want to admit how right she is about everything .
She sighs but resumes working, quieter. Her thumbs press waves into my lower back, each stroke pulling tension like rotten roots from soil. Against my will, my body succumbs—shoulders dropping, breath deepening.
I panic.
Too intimate. Too close. Too much.
“I think that’s enough.” I step away abruptly out of her reach and turn to face her.
She blinks, hands frozen mid-air. “Did I hurt?—”
“No, I…” I keep my head down and start pulling on my shirt. “Should get going.”
Her brow furrows but she nods. “Okay, then.”
She busies herself with notes while I dress, my fingers trembling on my buttons. My skin smells like her now—eucalyptus and jasmine clinging to me.
When I'm dressed again, she turns to me. "You need help," she says simply. "The good news is that most of this is soft tissue restriction. Very treatable with the right approach."
"And the bad news?"
"It's going to get worse if you ignore it. You're already compensating in ways that are putting stress on other areas. Give it another month and you'll be looking at more serious issues."
I believe her. Everything she's said so far has been dead-on.
She studies my face. "Look, I know this is...difficult. Knowing your body isn’t functioning like it used to.”
“You mean because I’m getting old,” I say, with a huff.
“I didn’t say that,” she replies. “But with the wear and tear you’ve put your body through over your years of climbing, I really want you to think about all of this."
"Think about it," I repeat, and she gives me a smile.
"If you decide you want to work with me, we can set something up. If not, that's okay too. I can always recommend someone else."
The idea of someone else working on me doesn't appeal at all, but I appreciate she's giving me space to decide.
"I will," I say, heading for the door. "Think about it, I mean."
But as I walk back to my own cabin, I know I've already made up my mind…despite my fears.