5. Imogen
IMOGEN
I ’m trying to concentrate on refilling my oils, but every scent carries traces of him.
I'm losing my damn mind.
Three days of Brady Tanaka on my massage table, and I'm about as professional as a cat in heat.
Every time those blue eyes meet mine, every breathy sound he makes when I work his muscles, every glimpse of those incredible tattoos—it's like my body's staging a revolt against my brain.
My professional boundaries are fraying faster than cheap massage table linens.
If these massages had been for actual money, I’d have dumped Brady as a client by now…and done his work for free to protect my reputation.
I mean, I’ve had thoughts about my clients, especially all these rugged, muscled lumberjacks here. But I know how to keep myself in check. If I ever felt I was crossing a line, I’d bail.
That’s why this whole thing with Brady is killing me.
Since tonight's Heritage Night, I hope to let off some steam.
The whole camp's gathered around the fire pit for Ewan's storytelling. But it’s more like Mardi Gras for lumberjacks.
Twinkle lights zigzag between the trees as Connor mans the whiskey barrel punch. Fiddle music tangles with laughter as guests weave around displays of antique logging tools and family heirlooms.
Teagan shoves a mason jar into my hand, moonshine sloshing. “Drink. You look like you need it.”
“Thanks,” I say, sipping cautiously—sweetness masking a kerosene kick.
I really should be networking, making connections for my Serenity Springs interview in a couple of days. Instead, I'm focused on Brady sitting across the circle from me, firelight dancing across his cheekbones.
He's had a couple beers. I can tell because his usual rigid posture has relaxed into something more natural—more approachable. And he keeps catching my eye with these little smiles that make my panties damp.
“SUPREME LORDS OF TIMBER!” Rourke, the log-roller, bellows from the ale cask, shirtless and glistening. “Guests go home with a free bottle of our signature punch if you beat the staff in arm wrestling!”
Chaos erupts. Guests cheer as a couple of beefy Canadian men challenge Rourke and Connor.
Teagan slaps her head. “Oh no. Not again. Rourke, we can’t do that!” She heads toward them as I chuckle.
When the challenges die down, Ewan kicks off an animated tale about selkies and lost love, his Scottish brogue thick.
Brady gets up and moves around the fire.
"Mind if I sit?" he asks, even though he's already settling onto the log bench right next to me. “I wanted to hide until the arm wrestling was over.”
"Oh, darn," I say, watching the way his flannel shirt pulls across his shoulders. “I was hoping you’d want to arm wrestle me.”
“Hell no. You’d take me. Easily.”
I giggle like a silly girl talking to her crush.
Oh geez, Imogen.
"Great story," he says with a smile, nodding toward Ewan.
"Mmm, yeah," I reply, but I'm too distracted by his proximity to follow the plot. He smells like the smoke from the fire, and I’d like to lick him to see if he tastes like it, too.
The story ends to applause, and Ewan launches into a haunting melody on his fiddle. Couples start pairing off—Connor pulling Teagan closer, Graham's arm around Sky's shoulders. The atmosphere turns intimate and romantic.
Brady shifts beside me, his thigh brushing mine. "Want another drink?" he asks, gesturing to my empty jar.
"I’d love a beer. This moonshine is crazy strong."
“You got it.” He returns with two fresh beers and he sits as close to me as before, close enough that I can count his long eyelashes.
"So," he says, taking a sip of his beer. "Your interview with the spa’s coming up soon, right?"
“Uh-huh.” I take a drink.
Something flickers across his face. "How are you feeling about it?"
"Confident. But still nervous.”
“Why? You’re a shoe-in. You know your stuff, have excellent skills, and are great with people.”
I smile. “Well, thank you for that, Brady.” I sigh, looking out at the fire. “I’d love to stick around here, put down some roots.” I glance at him sideways. “This place is growing on me.”
"The camp?"
"The camp. The people." I pause meaningfully. "The scenery."
His cheeks flush, and he looks down at his beer. "Montana's beautiful."
"It is." I'm not just talking about Montana, and I hope he knows that.
The evening progresses with more music, more drinks, more stolen glances. Brady’s quiet laugh becomes more frequent, his smiles lasting longer. When Sky drags Graham up to dance to Rourke's guitar playing, Brady shakes his head in amusement.
"Never seen him dance this much before," he says.
“Before when?”
“Before Sky.”
"They're cute together." I watch the couple swaying to the music, completely absorbed in each other. "How long have they been married?"
"About a year. Ewan and Hazel have only been married a few months. They’re both in that honeymoon phase. It’s kinda annoying."
I laugh. "Cynical much?"
"Realistic." But his expression softens. "But Teagan, Sky, and Hazel, have been good for the guys. They’re a nice balance to each of them."
"Is that what you think makes a good relationship? Balance?"
He considers this, rolling his beer bottle between his palms. "Maybe. Or maybe it's finding someone who sees your broken pieces and stays anyway."
The words hang between us. I turn to study his profile, the way the firelight plays across his features.
"You're not broken, Brady."
He meets my eyes, and something stirs in them. "I’m heading that direction.”
"Oh come on ," My voice comes out on a groan. "You’re in excellent shape for your age. Outstanding shape. Better than any man I’ve ever worked on. Strong, inside and out.”
His jaw tics. "Imogen, you really don’t know me."
“Hmm, well, from what I’ve seen so far…you’re kind, thoughtful. You care about your work, your friends, and preserving your family’s legacy.”
He rubs the back of his neck, and I press on.
“You make these sexy little sounds when I work the knots out of your muscles that make me think incredibly dirty thoughts.”
His face flames red. "Christ."
"And I know that despite what you think, you're not too old, or too set in your ways, or too anything to deserve good things."
The music around us fades to background noise. Brady's staring at me, his breathing slightly uneven.
"You should stop," he says quietly.
"Stop what?"
"Looking at me like that."
"Like what?" I touch my face, wondering what it’s doing besides heating up.
"Like you want to climb me like a tree."
Did he just say that? In that low, rough-edged voice that has my belly somersaulting?
He grins and I laugh, pushing at his rock hard bicep. “Is that some liquid courage?”
“Maybe.” He chuckles and sets down his beer with deliberate care. "It's getting late."
The party's still going strong, but I nod anyway. "Yeah. Another long day tomorrow with more massages."
We wave to the group, Brady's hand finding the small of my back as we walk toward the cabins. The touch is light, probably him being gentlemanly, but it still gives me goosebumps.
The forest path swallows night sounds—our footsteps crunching pine needles the only rhythm. Fireflies blink between trees like wandering stars.
"I'll walk you back," he says when we reach the fork.
My cabin's only fifty yards away, perfectly safe, but I don't argue. We walk in comfortable silence, the sounds of laughter and music fading behind us.
On my porch, I turn to face him. The moon's bright enough to see his expression clearly—conflicted, held back by something I can't quite identify.
"Thanks for the escort," I say.
"Of course."
He should leave. Because I don’t know how much longer I can hold myself back.
And yet, he lingers, wrapping an arm around the porch post, looking at his feet.
"Brady," I say softly.
"Yeah?" He raises his eyes to meet my gaze.
"What are you afraid of?"
The question clearly catches him off guard. He opens his mouth, closes it, and then runs a hand through his hair. "I'm not afraid."
I step closer. "No, you're terrified. Why?"
He looks down again and shakes his head. “Of everything…fucking this up,” he admits. "Of being too old for you, too inexperienced, too?—"
"Too inexperienced?" I interrupt.
His jaw tightens. "With relationships. And with..." He gestures vaguely between us.
Oh. Oh. I had no idea.
I climb up and sit on the porch railing, bringing us closer to eye level, my legs dangling. "The superficial stuff doesn’t matter to me."
"You're this incredible woman—confident, successful, edgy. I'm just some guy who climbs trees and overthinks everything." His voice is rough, vulnerable.
"You're not just some guy." I reach out, my fingers finding the front of his flannel shirt. "You're the guy who's been driving me completely insane for three days."
His eyes darken. "Imogen..."
"Whose smile makes my stomach do flips. Whose body responds to my touch like you were made for it."
"You gotta stop." But he doesn't step away. If anything, he moves closer.
I tug gently on his shirt, pulling him between my knees. "Because it scares you? Or because you want it too much?"
"Both," he groans, one hand on the post beside my head, the other caging in my hip.
He crowds me, his breath hot against my face.
Then his gaze drops to my mouth, and I see the exact moment his control starts to fray.
"I want to kiss you," he whispers.
“Why don’t you then?”
“Because we shouldn’t?—”
“I know.” I slide my hands up his chest, feeling his heartbeat thundering beneath my palms. “Do it anyway.”
For a heartbeat, he hesitates. Then he mutters something in what sounds like Japanese and his mouth crashes into mine.
And holy shit.
If I thought Brady was intense during massages, it's nothing compared to this. He kisses like he's been starved for it, like he's memorizing the contours of my mouth and the taste of me. His fingers thread through my hair with a desperate groan that steals my breath.
I moan into his mouth, my legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer. He's all heat and lean muscle and barely restrained power. His tongue slides against mine, and I want to devour him whole.
This is what I've been craving—not just the physical contact—though I can’t complain about that. But this raw and real connection. The way he clings to me like I'm precious and dangerous at the same time.
I bite his lower lip gently, and he growls, the sound vibrating through both of our bodies. His hips thrust forward, and I feel his thick, hard cock against my inner thigh.
"Fuck," I breathe against his mouth, and he immediately stiffens.
"Shit. Shit." He jerks away from me like I've burned him, stumbling backward. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—we can't?—"
"Brady, wait."
"This is wrong." He's backing away, shaking his head. "You're too young, too sweet, and I'm your client, and I just—god, I'm sorry."
"You don't need to apologize."
"Yes, I do." His voice is thick with self-contempt. "I completely crossed the line. I shouldn’t see you for massages anymore."
He's spiraling, right before my eyes.
The kiss that felt like coming home to me has apparently spooked him into full retreat mode.
"Brady, please, listen to me."
"I need to go." He's already turning away. "I'm sorry, Imogen. Really sorry."
And then he's gone, disappearing between the cabins, leaving me sitting on my porch railing with kiss-swollen lips and a heart that feels like it's been put through a blender.
I sit there for a long time, replaying every second of that kiss, trying to understand how something so perfect could end so badly.
The taste of him lingers on my lips, the memory of his hands in my hair making my entire body tingle.
But the look in his eyes when he pulled away—panic, regret, shame—that's what I can't shake.
I should be focused on preparing for my interview, getting a good night's sleep.
Instead, I'm obsessing over a man who just ran away from the best kiss of my life like his hair was on fire.
Professional boundaries. Right. Those things I used to have.
I laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.
But as I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, all I can think about is the way Brady said my name against my lips, like a prayer and a curse all at once.
And how badly I want to hear it again.