“Your shirt, sir,” I manage, approaching him with the garment held out like a shield.
He turns, presenting his back to me, and slides his arms into the sleeves as I hold it open. The simple act feels strangely intimate and oddly familiar, as if we’ve done this a hundred times before.
I step around to his front, keeping my eyes fixed on the buttons as I begin to fasten them. My fingers brush against the warm skin of his chest, and I hear his breath catch.
Or maybe that’s my breath. It’s hard to tell when all my senses are overwhelmed by his proximity.
“You’ve done this before,” he observes.
I shake my head. “Not for a man. But I used to help Mom get dressed when she was too weak from the chemo.”
His expression shifts. Something that might be respect flickers in those ice-blue eyes.
“
