3. Imogen
IMOGEN
D inner in the dining hall is like stepping into a lumberjack convention where everyone hit the genetic lottery. It smells like cedar, marinara sauce, and testosterone.
I swipe a plate of lasagna and garlic bread from the buffet line and scan the room—log beams overhead, picnic tables packed with rugged men shoveling food into their faces like it's a competitive sport.
I’d like to find a place to sit that won't have me drooling over broad shoulders and corded forearms.
Ha! Good luck.
"Imogen!" Sky, the camp’s social media manager and a sustainable travel influencer, waves me over to a table where she's sitting with her husband Graham, and Teagan. "Come sit with us!"
I settle in next to Sky, just as Connor, Teagan’s husband, slides onto the bench across from us, biceps testing the seams of his shirt. At least he’s taken. “Saw you worked on Ewan’s rotator cuff this afternoon. Dude’s tossing logs like he’s going to compete for the Highland Games again.”
Before I can answer, Sky launches into a detailed review of the massage I gave her this afternoon as well.
"Oh my god, you guys," she gushes, "I feel like I've been reborn. Like, completely reconstructed from the ground up." She rotates her shoulders demonstratively. "I didn't even realize how tight I was until Imogen got her magic hands on me."
Graham raises an eyebrow. "Better than my magic hands?"
“That’s different.” She winks at him. "Seriously, it was like she found muscles I didn't know I had and convinced them to work again." Sky turns to me. "Where did you learn to do that thing with the trigger points?"
"Practice," I say, stabbing a piece of lasagna. "And a lot of continuing education. Bodies are puzzles—you just have to figure out which pieces are stuck."
"Well, you definitely figured mine out," Sky says. "I'm booking another session before you leave."
The conversation flows easily around the table, and I find myself relaxing despite the intimidating concentration of attractive men.
Connor and Graham have that easy camaraderie of people who've worked together for years, while Teagan and Sky clearly adore their husbands in a way that's sweet without being nauseating.
Suddenly, I look up and Brady appears in the doorway holding his dinner tray.
My pulse jumps when our eyes meet across the dining hall.
He hesitates for a moment, then heads toward our table.
He’s got that controlled grace that I’m beginning to recognize as his armor, carrying his tray like it’s a ceremonial offering.
"Brady!" Teagan calls out. "Come sit. Imogen was just telling us about trigger point therapy."
He slides into the chair directly across from me, and I catch his fresh, rich scent that had me holding back from burying my face against his shoulder during his consultation.
"How was your meeting with Imogen?" Connor asks through a mouthful of cornbread, and I watch Brady's jaw tighten slightly.
"Informative," he says, glancing at me. "She knows what she's talking about."
"Of course she does," Sky chimes in. She rolls her shoulders again. "I feel like I could climb a mountain right now."
“So what’s your secret?” Connor asks. “Witchcraft? Dark rituals.”
“Swedish techniques and spite,” I say, watching Brady methodically dissect his baked potato like a surgeon. “Sky is a champ at taking direction, also.”
“Who?” Graham chuckles as Sky swats his arm.
Sky preens. “She told me to breathe into the pain and I literally cried on her table.”
Brady’s fork pauses mid-air. “You…cried?”
“Happy tears!” Sky insists. “The cathartic kind.”
He blinks at me like I’ve performed actual sorcery. “That sounds…intense.”
“Occupational hazard.” I shrug, but heat creeps up my neck when his gaze drops to my hands. “Sometimes the body needs to reset. Doesn’t make you weak.”
His jaw tenses, but he nods—once, sharp—before retreating into silent potato annihilation.
Brady stays quiet, but I notice him watching me when he thinks I'm not looking. There's something different about his posture, less rigid than this afternoon, but still guarded.
Teagan finishes her lemonade, crunching on the ice. "Are you going to let Imogen work her magic on you, too, Brady?"
Brady shifts in his chair. "Still thinking about it."
"What's to think about?" Connor says.
“Connor, it's a big decision. Some people need time to feel comfortable with the idea," I say, deciding to rescue Brady from the well-meaning interrogation.
Connor raises his hands in surrender. “Fine.”
"No pressure." I turn to Brady and put a hand on his forearm. It flexes under my touch.
But the gratitude in his expression makes my chest warm.
After I finish eating, I excuse myself and say goodnight before cleaning up my dishes. Walking back to my cabin, I hear my name.
Brady’s voice pins me in place. I turn to find him under a flickering light near the path, hands jammed in his pockets like he’s containing a live grenade.
“Hi. Escape the inquisition?"
His mouth quirks up. "Something like that. They mean well, but..."
"But pushy friends are still pushy, even when they're right."
"Exactly." He clears his throat a little. “I've been thinking about this afternoon. What we talked about, I mean."
I bite back a smile.
“Tomorrow, if you’re not booked. Could you…?”
“Squeeze you in?”
A muscle jumps in his jaw and he nods.
My heart does a little skip. "Of course. When were you thinking?"
"After lunch?"
"How about two o'clock again?"
He nods stiffly, turning to leave, then hesitates. “Sky said something. Earlier. About breathing into the pain.”
“Yeah?”
“What was she talking about?”
The question feels bigger than anatomy.
I step closer, tilting my head back to hold his gaze. “One of my massage mentors taught me that pain’s a conversation. If you fight it, it screams louder. If you breathe with it, you can negotiate, and work on relieving it.”
He swallows hard. "How should I dress…or what do I need to do…logistically?"
The nervousness in his voice is endearing. This big, capable man who scales trees is anxious about a massage.
"It's pretty straightforward," I say gently. "Wear whatever is easiest to remove. You'll undress to your comfort level and lie on the table under a sheet. I'll only uncover the area I'm working on at any given time."
"Okay."
"I promise I'll take good care of you." The words come out more intimate than I intended, and I see his cheeks go pink before he looks away.
He nods and starts to walk away, then pauses. "Imogen?"
I turn back to him.
"Thank you. For being patient with me about all this."
“Of course, Brady.”
He gives me a smile that makes my knees weak, then disappears into the pines like a shadow.
* * *
I spend the next morning massaging Hazel, Ewan the sawyer’s wife, then preparing the room for Brady.
Fresh linens, the right lighting, my selection of more robust-scented oils within easy reach. I want Brady to feel as comfortable as possible for what's clearly going to be a big step for him.
He arrives five minutes early, knocking like he’s interrupting a funeral.
"Come in!" I call, wiping my suddenly damp palms on my yoga pants.
He steps inside, shoulders nearly spanning the doorway. It’s as if he’s entering a minefield, gaze darting to the table, the oils, the Himalayan salt lamp casting a warm glow over his inked forearms.
He glances around. "This looks..."
"Professional?"
"Relaxing," he finishes. "Very relaxing."
“I’m glad.” I gesture to the massage table dominating the center of the room. "That's the idea. How are you feeling? Nervous?"
"Yeah, maybe," he admits.
"Completely normal. Your first massage can be intimidating.
" I hand him a towel. "Okay, so here's how this works. I'm going to step out while you get comfortable. Most people undress down to their underwear, but it’s all up to you. There’s nothing I haven’t seen before.
Then lie face down on the table and pull the sheet up to cover your lower half. "
His Adam's apple bobs as his fingers hover over his shirt buttons. “Is this usually…”
“Awkward?” I shrug. “Maybe at first, but soon you’ll be a pro,” I tease. "Take your time getting situated, then just call out when you're ready."
I retreat to the bathroom, giving him privacy while my heart hammers against my ribs. The rustling of fabric makes me very aware of Brady Tanaka stripping twenty feet away from me.
Professional. Boundaries. Ethics.
"Ready," he eventually calls out, slightly muffled.
I open the door and nearly forget how to breathe.
He’s a mountain under crisp white linens, positioned perfectly on the table, face buried in the cradle. The sheet clings to his hips and glutes like it’s begging for mercy.
Jesus Christ.
His entire back is exposed, the tattoos I saw yesterday displayed in their full glory: traditional Japanese waves and clouds, and vibrantly colored dragons, flowers, and koi fish flowing across his shoulders, arms, and down his back—a storybook on skin.
But it's the musculature underneath that has me speechless.
As I told him yesterday, years of climbing have sculpted him into a work of art.
His lats create this beautiful V-shape that narrows to his waist, while his rhomboids and traps are defined in a way that speaks to serious strength.
Every muscle group flows into the next with the kind of development you only see in athletes who've dedicated decades to their craft.
"Everything all right?" he asks, and I realize I've been staring.
"Sorry, just...admiring your artwork again." I approach the table, warming oil between my palms. "Your tattoos really are incredible. How long did they take?"
"About five years, on and off," he says. "My grandfather's designs, mostly. Stories from our family history."
"They're stunning," I reply. "I'm going to start with some general warming strokes, then work deeper into the problem areas. Let me know if anything feels too intense."
The moment my hands make contact on his upper back, his entire body tenses.
"Try to breathe normally," I murmur, beginning with long, flowing strokes across his shoulders. "I know it might be weird having someone touch you like this, but I promise it'll feel better once you relax into it."
My thumbs sink into corded muscle, and I swear the room’s oxygen evaporates. He’s radiating heat like a forge—and the low groan he muffles into the cradle makes my knees weak.
“Breathe,” I remind him again, but as I work down his spine, I wonder if I need reminding, too.
Gradually, I feel some of the tension ease out of his shoulders. His breathing deepens, and I catch the occasional soft sound when I hit a particularly tight spot.
He gasps when I hit a knot near his scapula. “ Fuuuuck .”
“You okay?” I ask, grinning when his shoulders inch down.
"Yeah," he groans when I work a knot near his shoulder blade. "That hurts in the best way."
Heat swirls low in my belly.
Watch it, Imogen.
I work systematically down his back. His body tells a story of hard work and dedication, but also of accumulated stress and compensation patterns.
"Your right side is definitely overworking," I tell him, pressing my thumbs into his erector spinae. “Compensating for whatever's going on with your left side."
He lets out a sound that's almost pornographic when I hit a particularly stubborn knot. "Sorry, I?—"
"Don't apologize. Your body's releasing tension it's been holding onto for a long time. Those sounds tell me I'm doing something right."
The next hour is equal parts torture and revelation.
His body speaks in shudders and hitched breaths—resistance melting into surrender beneath my hands.
I map every ridge of scar tissue, every ripple of ancient tension, and when I work the oil into his lower lumbar region his choked noise has my lower parts clenching.
“You’re…thorough,” he rasps, voice wrecked.
By the time I finish, he’s putty…cheek smushed against the cradle, fingers limp near the floor. I cover him with a heated blanket and step back, dizzy from whatever pheromone cocktail his unbelievably hot body excretes.
"How do you feel?" I ask, stepping back.
"Like I've been taken apart and slowly rebuilt," he says, his voice drowsy and content. "I had no idea how much tension I was carrying."
"Most people don't, until it's gone." I wipe my hands on a towel. “Now stay there for five minutes,” I order, fleeing to the bathroom.
I run the water and wash up, taking my time. I splash water on my face, staring at my flushed reflection.
My god, this man.
I want to climb up onto the table naked and just rub my body all over him while biting, kissing, and licking every inch of his skin.
Massage him with my mouth.
He’s a client. He’s a client. He’s a ? —
“Imogen?”
I jump. Brady’s leaning against the doorframe, sheet wrapped around his hips like a bath towel. His hair’s mussed, eyes heavy-lidded, and his chest— Lord —I’ll never get over that roadmap of ink and muscle I want to explore with my teeth.
“You’re supposed to be horizontal,” I manage to say. “I said five minutes.”
He rubs his neck, adorably sheepish. “It’s been eight minutes and…I forgot where I put my shirt.”
I walk out to the main room with him and point near his boots.
I should turn to give him privacy, since he hasn’t finished changing. He shrugs on his flannel as he looks at me with something like awe. "That was...incredible. Thank you."
"Good. You did great."
Finally, I turn to clean up my supplies, and let him get dressed properly.
I know this was about more than just professional obligation. There's something about him that gets under my skin.
"Could you do the same time tomorrow?" he asks, after he’s clothed and tying his boots.
I check my schedule.
Hallelujah, I’m open.
"I’m free. But are you sure?” I chuckle. “You might need a week to recover.”
He looms in my space with that crooked smile that hits me lower than it should.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
A loud knock on my cabin door makes us both jump.
“Imogen! I have a tension emergency!”
Oh geez.
“Come in,” I tell her, smiling at Brady.
Sky opens the door and freezes, seeing us standing close together. “Oh. Should I come back… after the sexual healing?”
Brady’s entire face, including his ears, turns crimson. “I was leaving.”
He brushes past me, all heat and shame, leaving me alone with Sky’s shit-eating grin.
I stomp my foot and give her a friendly swat on the butt. “You scared him away. He was doing so well.”
She smiles and flops onto the table. “He’ll be back.”
God, I hope so.
Even if my professional boundaries are eroding faster than a clearcut hillside.
Because Brady Tanaka, half-naked and wrecked under my hands, is impossible to ignore.