Chapter Two: The Weight of Hands
The air in Huntsville still held the heat of the day even as dusk crept over the horizon, tinting the sky with bruised lavender and soft gold. Eddie leaned back in his truck, letting the engine idle. His hands rested on the steering wheel, fingers loose but tense at the same time. He stared at the house in front of him. Brittany Monroe's house. Bigger than he expected. A wide driveway. Brick path that curved up to a set of double doors with etched glass panels. Tennis court tucked behind tall hedges, gym equipment visible through the side windows. The CNO of WellSouth had a good setup.
It was her reward for a half decade of no-nonsense nursing leadership--and now, maybe, for knowing exactly which strings to pull.
The front door opened before he even killed the engine.
"Come on in, baby," Brittany called, her voice rich and sweet like molasses on cornbread. She wore a loose gray tank, sweat clinging to her chest and the creases of her arms. Her braids were up in a wild bun, curls escaping at the sides like they'd staged a soft rebellion. No makeup. Just skin--full, dark, glistening--from what she claimed was an intense workout.
Eddie stepped out of the truck, the duffel with his gear slung over one shoulder. The driveway still radiated warmth through the soles of his sneakers as he made his way to the door.
Inside, the air smelled like eucalyptus and something more personal--amber, maybe, or vanilla. He followed her past the foyer, the floors gleaming like they'd just been mopped. Everything was neat, curated. The walls were lined with framed credentials, family photos, and abstract artwork in bold colors.
"You sure you're okay?" he asked, voice low.
Brittany flopped onto the couch and groaned dramatically. "Nothing those magic hands Evette brags about can't fix."
Eddie gave a small, humorless smile. "Evette told you too much."
Brittany chuckled low in her throat. "She brags on you like you're some massage god. Abdominal work, back relief, tension release... said you used to fix her up when she couldn't even stand upright from cramps."
"She exaggerates," Eddie muttered, kneeling beside the couch. His voice had a gravel to it, like he didn't quite want to be heard.
"I hope not."
Her tone was flirtatious--but light. There was an undercurrent, though. Like everything Brittany said, there was power beneath the charm. She didn't ask for things. She stated. Assumed. Expected.
He pulled out a small bottle of oil--teakwood mahogany, smooth and dark, almost masculine in scent--and rubbed some between his palms to warm it. She shifted, laying forward, pulling her hair out of the way. The muscles in her shoulders were tight beneath the damp fabric. He started there. Slow. Focused. Professional.
"You've got farmer hands," she muttered.
"Grew up in Tuscaloosa County."
"I know. Evette told me. Said you used to throw hay bales like basketballs."
"Guess I got practice lifting heavy things."
She hummed. "You callin' me heavy?"
He didn't answer. She laughed, a soft burst of amusement.
"Good," she said. "I like being solid. Means I don't blow over when the wind changes."
They were quiet for a while. His hands moved with skill, tracing the edge of tension and slowly unwinding it. Her breathing deepened, evened out. The only sound was the hum of the air conditioning and the occasional sigh that escaped her lips.
He asked her to shift position, and she did, rolling onto her back. The tank top slid up slightly, just enough to reveal the smooth plane of her lower abdomen. Her eyes locked with his for the first time since he arrived.
