Chapter 1: The Cake
The box in Harry’s hand felt heavy, though it only contained a slice of vanilla cake. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, listening to the scuff of his shoes on the worn welcome mat. The door swung open before he could knock a second time.
“You’re late,” Anne said, but a smile played on her lips. She leaned against the doorframe, a blur of blonde hair and grey leggings.
“Traffic was a beast. I come bearing sugary apologies.” He lifted the box.
“Okay, you’re forgiven. Get in here.”
Her apartment was a familiar landscape of cozy chaos. A wool blanket was tangled on one end of the sofa, a laptop glowed on the coffee table beside a half-finished glass of water, and the faint, sweet scent of the vanilla cake from yesterday still hung in the air, layered over the crisp note of lavender from a candle. She moved to clear a spot for him, her body a study of lean, athletic lines.
“How’s the hip?” he asked, setting the cake down.
“Stiff. I pushed too hard on my run this morning, I think. It’s just a dull ache.”
“You need to stretch more. I’ve told you.”
“I know, I know. Doctor’s orders.” She flopped onto the sofa, tucking her feet underneath her. “So, how was work? Any interesting injuries?”
“The usual. Rotator cuffs, lower back pain. Mr. Henderson tried to pay me in tomatoes from his garden again.”
Anne laughed, a sound that always hit Harry right in the chest. “You should take them. You never eat enough vegetables.”
“I eat vegetables.”
“Frozen peas don’t count.”
He watched her talk, the way her hands animated the air. He knew the exact curve of her shoulder beneath the thin fabric of her tank top, the subtle definition in her arms from countless hours at the gym. He knew the freckle just below her left ear. He knew a lot of things he shouldn’t dwell on. His eyes dropped to the swell of her hip, the fabric of her leggings stretched taut over the bone. The thought of seeing her naked, of his hands on that skin, was a sudden, sharp heat in his gut. He forced it down.
“How’s Mark?” he asked, the name tasting like ash.
“Fine. Busy. He called from the airport before his flight. Another crisis with a client.” She shrugged, a gesture that seemed to dismiss the entire boyfriend. “I’m bored of talking about my boring hip and my boring boyfriend. I want that cake.”
She unfolded herself from the couch and stood, taking a step toward the coffee table. Her bad leg buckled with a sickening suddenness. She let out a sharp gasp, her balance gone, and pitched forward.
Harry was on his feet in an instant, his reflexes honed from his work. He caught her before she hit the floor, his arms wrapping around her torso, hauling her back against him. She was light, all tense muscle and startled breath.
“Shit! Anne?”
“My hip,” she gritted out, her face contorted in pain. “I just… it gave way.”
“Okay, easy. I’ve got you.” He helped her back to the sofa, his hands firm on her sides. She sank into the cushions, breathing heavily, one hand pressed to her hip.
“God, that hurts. Like a hot knife.”
“Let me see.” The professional in him took over, a useful mask. “Can you tell where the pain is most acute?”
“Right here.” Her fingers pressed into the joint, the fabric of her leggings indenting. “It’s deep.”
“It might be your gluteus medius. It’s a common spot for runners. When it’s inflamed, it can cause that kind of sharp pain and weakness.” He knelt on the floor in front of her, his gaze level with her injured hip. The air in the room felt thicker, the lavender scent suddenly cloying. “I could… I could work on it. A massage. It would help release the tension. Increase blood flow.”
She looked down at him, her blue eyes wide with a mixture of pain and uncertainty. “A massage?”
“A professional one. I know what I’m doing.” He tried for a reassuring smile, hoping it didn’t look like a grimace. His heart was hammering against his ribs. This was a very, very bad idea.
“I don’t know, Harry…”
“It’s either that, or you’re looking at a few days of serious pain. Maybe a limp. You won’t be running for a while.”
She bit her lip, her gaze flickering from his face to his hands. He kept his expression neutral, open, safe. Just a friend. Just a therapist.
“Okay,” she said finally, the word soft, almost a whisper. “Okay, do it.”
“You’ll need to… uh, the leggings have to go. I can’t work through the fabric. I need to feel the muscle.”
A silence stretched between them, taut and humming. He could see the pulse fluttering in her throat. This was the line, and he was asking her to cross it.
“Right. Of course.” She shifted, her movements hesitant. “Turn around.”
He stood and turned his back, staring at a framed poster of a mountain landscape on her wall. He heard the rustle of fabric, the soft sigh of elastic being rolled down. His mouth went dry. This was professional. This was help.
“Okay,” she said.
He turned back. She was lying on her stomach on the sofa, her face turned away from him, buried in a cushion. The grey leggings were pooled around her ankles. A simple pair of black cotton panties covered her, but the rest of her back and the full, perfect curve of her right hip and buttock were bare. Her skin was pale and smooth, and in the dim light of the room, it seemed to glow.
He knelt beside her again, his hands hovering inches above her skin. He could feel the warmth radiating from her.
“This might hurt a bit at first,” he said, his voice rough. He cleared his throat.
“Just do it.”
He poured a small amount of the lavender-scented oil from the candle warmer into his palms, warming it. The first touch of his hands to her skin was electric. She flinched, a tiny intake of breath.
“Sorry. Cold.”
“It’s okay.”
He began to work, his thumbs finding the tight, knotted rope of muscle along her hip bone. She groaned, a low, muffled sound into the cushion.
“Breathe through it,” he instructed, his voice low. He pressed deeper, his fingers learning the landscape of her body in a way he had only ever imagined. He could feel the tension surrendering under his touch, the muscle beginning to soften. His own body was a coil of want. Every sigh she made, every shift of her hips, was torture. He focused on the anatomy, the insertion points, the fascia. It was the only way to stay sane.
“How’s that?” he asked after a long silence.
“Better,” she murmured, her voice drowsy. “Much better. Your hands are… magic.”
He allowed himself a slow, deliberate stroke, his palm sliding from the small of her back down over the curve of her hip. It was barely professional. It was possessive.
She didn’t pull away.
His control, so carefully maintained, began to fracture. His fingers traced the elastic band of her underwear, a dark line against her pale skin. One tug. That’s all it would take. To see what he dreamed about. To finally know.
His breathing was shallow. He leaned closer, his shadow falling over her. The air crackled.
“Anne?” he whispered.
She didn’t answer. She had gone very, very still.