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Sean McDonald was a single parent, just like her. He’d been married before and knew what he was getting into. Just like her. Sean knew about marriage and relationships.
Austin was a guy who'd played the field, never settling down in a serious relationship. He had no idea what it was like to be a husband or a father.
So why couldn't she find a way to get him out of her system?
Lindsey was exhausted by the time she returned to Austin’s house just before midnight, but that didn't stop her from immediately heading down the hall to the master bedroom to check on him.
He was still awake, glancing up at her when she walked in. His chest and shoulders were bare, but he had the covers pulled up for modesty. “How was your shift?”
“Wicked.” She was happy to see he appeared back to normal. “There's a full moon so you know what that means. Lots of behavioral health patients.”
He grimaced in sympathy. “Bummer. I'm sure that wasn't easy.”
“It's worth it for time and a half. Are you ready for your dressing change?” She glanced at the small stack of sterile dressings on his dresser.
“Sure.” He didn't move right away, though, but continued to hold her gaze. “I really appreciate your help with this. If I could reach behind my back to do these dressing changes myself, I would.”
“I know.” She really did understand. “I don't mind.” After the way he had rescued her from her neighbor’s fire and brought her here to live with him, she was glad the shoe was on the other foot for once. It felt good to be the one helping him, rather than the other way around. “Turn over so I can reach your back.”
He quirked a brow but did as she asked, flipping over onto his stomach and scrunching the pillow beneath his chest. The muscles rippled in his arms and she had to swallow hard and avert her gaze to focus on the reason she was here.
His wound. Dressing changes.
Wiping her hands on her scrub pants, she gingerly sat on the edge of his bed. “Peeling tape off,” she warned as she gently stripped the old dressing off his back. She didn't have a vast experience with burns, but they oozed a lot and the thick dressing was soaked.
He didn't make a sound but she could tell his muscles were tense as he braced himself. He was fortunate the burn wasn't worse—the pink area looked relatively healthy, without any sign of infection.
“This looks really good,” she told him.
He grunted. She stood and went to his adjoining bathroom to wash her hands and fetch a washcloth, soap and water. After cleaning the area, she patted it dry and then drew on gloves to apply the Silvadene cream.
Throughout the entire procedure, Austin didn't say a word. She wasn't sure if it was because the dressing changes hurt worse than he let on, or if he just couldn't think of anything to chat about.
She'd just finished taping the new dressing over the cream when he let out a low groan.
“What is it?” Then she saw his right shoulder was quivering and she put a hand on his heated skin. “Muscle spasm?”
“Yeah,” he said in a low gravelly voice. “It'll go away soon.”
She wasn't sure that was true, the way the muscles looked to be jumping out of his skin. She stripped off her gloves and quickly ducked into the bathroom to wash her hands then came back out to sit beside him. No way could she just sit there and watch as he writhed in pain.
All nurses were taught some simple massage techniques. She wasn't an expert by any means, but she figured anything was better than doing nothing. When she began to knead the sore muscles he groaned again, but this time she could tell it was a murmur of appreciation.
Massaging his neck and shoulders was awkward while sitting on the side of his bed. Her own back muscles began to scream in protest, so she got up and climbed on the bed, bracing her knees and either side of his waist. The position was a little embarrassing, but she decided to maintain a professional attitude.
She was helping to relieve his muscle spasm, nothing more.
Of course, she would have had to be dead not to notice his muscles. The breadth of his shoulders. The firm flesh of his biceps and the musky scent of his skin.
As he relaxed, her kneading strokes became longer, smoothing over his muscles with less pressure than she'd applied before.
“Lindsey,” he croaked in a low voice. “You're killing me. Don't stop.”
She had to laugh at the way he'd contradicted himself. His muscles were better, and she knew there was no reason to keep touching him.
Full of regret, she pulled her hands from his skin and climbed off him. He reached out to snag her hand. Then he rolled over to look up at her. “I’d like to kiss you.”
“I—uh, we can’t.” She wanted to but knew that was only asking for trouble. Deep trouble.
