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I step to his head and begin working his taut muscles. Rhett closes his eyes, and I can’t help but let my gaze wander down his chest.

My God, but the man looks like an ad for sin and self-control—broad chest and a furrow between his brows that says he doesn’t let go of anything easily.

I mean, his body is a testament to that.

The air hums as my palms glide over his shoulders and back to the base of his throat. His pulse jumps beneath my fingers, and I slow down until his pulse evens out.

I work my way down each side of his neck and gently massage the tight cords of muscles. Damn, but he’s knotted there, too. “Inhale and hold your breath a second. When I tell you, exhale.”

“Why?”

“Can’t you just be a good client and do this without asking?”

He opens one eye. “What if I’m not a good client?”

There’s a flirty lilt to his voice that makes my cheeks heat. “Tell you what, if you promise to try, I’ll make you a Bitty Being.”

He barks a laugh. It’s such an open, soul-releasing sound that I smile. Only because it’s the professional thing to do—let’s be clear.

“Okay,” he relents, his Southern drawl sounding all velvety again, in a way that makes certain girlie parts of mine sit up at attention.

“Inhale.” I find a knot and press on it. “Exhale.”

As he empties his lungs, I gently work the knot to loosen. It does a teensy bit. “Let’s do it again.”

I continue with his neck for a couple more minutes. Every time I find a knot and tell him to exhale, he does so like he’s releasing more than tension—like something’s breaking loose.

I shouldn’t care, but I do, because there’s so much pain packed inside this man’s muscles that it feels like I’m massaging grief itself.

“You hold a lot,” I murmur, pressing my thumbs into the line just under his collarbone.

He looks at me, and I notice how long his lashes are—they almost brush his cheeks. I would kill for lashes like his.

Rhett smiles slightly. “Is that your professional opinion? I hold a lot?”

“It’s my human opinion,” I say quietly.

He huffs a breath that could almost be a laugh, but it’s too tired to make it that far.

We settle into a steady rhythm—press, inhale, release. His chest rises and falls, slower now. I reach for the next knot, one deep between his shoulder and neck, and he tenses.

“That spot’s bad,” I whisper. “Let’s see what we can do about it.”

I push my thumbs deeper. The knot gives a little, and he makes a low, strangled sound that throws me off balance.

My fingers stumble over his chest, and his body follows the movement, arching slightly toward my hands like it’s not sure if it wants the pain to end or last forever.

His eyes pop open. “Stop,” he rasps, voice rough, and for a split second panic flashes in his eyes.

I lift my hands. “Too much pressure?”

His breath catches—a ragged sound that vibrates in the air between us. Then he’s up, and his palms close on my wrists before I even realize he’s moved.

“No,” he says, breathing hard. “Just . . . I need a moment.”

For a second, we’re both still. My pulse drums in my ears, and his thumb slides once, accidentally, over the inside of my wrist.

My breath hitches as our gazes lock. The room is silent except for the jungle rain in the background and the sound of two people who’ve forgotten how to breathe.