Page 61 of Saved By the Boss

“Thanks,” I say, my voice quieter than I intended, and I’m unsure if she hears me as she stalks toward a room I can’t see.Her bedroom, I assume, or a bathroom.

Once the door clicks shut, I let out a long breath and open the duffel bag. My fingers are stiff from the cold, but I manage to pull out a clean sweatshirt. I make quick work of changing out of the wet one and tug it on. The shirt smells faintly of cedar, a reminder of my cabin up the road, which I realize I probably won’t see for the next couple of days, thanks to this storm.

How could I be so stupid? I shouldn’t have spent so much time on those damn window shutters, but I didn’t want her to be unprotected during the storm.

I’m halfway through folding my discarded shirt when I hear the door open, and Jade steps back out. She’s changed into thick pajamas, fleece, maybe, with a loose top that falls just below her hips. The outfit is as modest as it gets, not an inch of skin showing, and it hides any shape she may have. Yet somehow, it doesn’t matter. My eyes betray me, drifting to the curve of her waist, the way the fabric clings to her hips. I catch myself and look away, but the image is already burned into my mind.

“Feeling any better?” she asks, crossing over to me. She sits down beside me and gives me a once-over. “You look less frozen, at least.”

I nod, clearing my throat. “Thanks to you. I’d probably still be out there freezing to death in my truck if you hadn’t pulled me out.”

She waves off the comment, but there’s a faint blush on her cheeks that I doubt has anything to do with the cold.

“Or you might have frozen to death walking to your cabin if I hadn’t insisted you stay,” she teases, just as a sharp pain shoots through my ankle.

My eyes slam shut and I hiss from the unexpected jolt. When I open my eyes, she’s looking down at my leg, frowning.

“Do you need more time to change?” she asks, her voice tinged with embarrassment. “I didn’t even think, it’s not like you have a door you can shut. I can go back to my room and you can shout when you’re done.”

“Oh, no, that’s okay,” I respond in a rush, not particularly wanting her to leave. “As much as my ankle is hurting right now, I think the pants will have to stay on for a little longer. I need to mentally work up to it.”

“I could help you change,” she offers hesitantly, the red on her cheeks deepening. “Sorry, that was a stupid idea. You’re a grown man. You can obviously change your own pants.”

I can’t help but laugh, because truthfully, I’m not sure that I can right now. Not without a significant amount of effort anyway. I can’t even shift my foot without the pain radiating through my whole leg.

“Yeah, I’ve got it,” I say quickly. The last thing I want is to make this more awkward for her. Or for me. “You’ve already done enough.”

“Okay, but I think you should try to change as soon as you can. The last thing you need is to get a cold from wet clothes.”

Her tone is so earnest and a bit demanding, and I suddenly feel like I’m being chastised by my mom, God rest her soul.

“You’re right,” I concede. I try to stand, but that’s immediately proven to be a bad idea. A throb in my ankle as I shift slightly shuts me up.

“Just let me help you,” she says, her tone taking on the same level of frustration she had when she was talking with the 9-1-1 operator. “You clearly need help. Stop being such a baby about it.”

“Fine,” I mutter, leaning back in the chair. “But you don’t have to if—”

“Relax,” she says gently, cutting me off. “It’s not a big deal. I used to help my bedridden abuela change all the time as a kid.”

I nod and unbutton my jeans, pulling them down as far as I can without moving my foot. I try to pull either leg out of the pants, but it’s impossible to do without aggravating my foot. She watches me struggle for a moment, then fixes me with a look that finally makes me stop moving.

She kneels beside me, her hands moving carefully as she helps untangle my jeans from my injured leg. She’s focused, her brow furrowed in concentration, but I can see the way she’s trying not to look, trying not to let her gaze linger anywhere near my crotch. It’s almost amusing in a way, but the humor is lost beneath the awkward tension hanging between us.

When my legs are both finally free, she grabs the sweatpants from the bag and helps me slide them on, her fingers brushing against my skin briefly. She pulls back quickly, her cheeks flushing, and I pretend not to notice. I scoot back down the chair the way I did before, managing to pull the pants over my hips.

The whole experience couldn’t have lasted more than a couple of minutes, but I feel breathless and exhausted. The air between us has inexplicably changed, becoming slightly more charged, but I’m willing to ignore it if she is.

“There,” she says, standing and brushing her hands against her thighs. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

I shake my head and give her a faint smile. “Definitely easier than catching pneumonia,” I joke.

She snorts, shaking her head as she grabs the first aid kit from the table. “Alright, let’s see what we can do about that ankle.”

I lean back in the chair as she kneels again, her hands moving with surprising confidence as she wraps the gauze around my ankle. Her touch is gentle but firm, and I can tell she’s trying to be careful. The firelight casts a soft glow over her face, highlighting the determined set of her jaw and the way her dark hair falls over her shoulders.

“There,” she says after a few minutes, sitting back on her heels. “It’s not perfect, but it should hold for now.”

“Thanks,” I say again, the word feeling inadequate. “You’re pretty good at this.”

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