Expecting the Boss's Baby / Twins Under His Tree: Expecting the Boss's Baby. Christine Rimmer
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together while she stitched him up.
She still wore her fake engagement ring. During the crash, the stone had scratched up the fingers to either side of it. She was clearly the lucky one. A few bruises, some scratches. A goose egg on the back of her head. No gash so deep the bone showed—and really, they were both lucky.
Lucky simply to be alive and in one piece. She had to remember that.
She yanked off the silly ring and shoved it into a pocket of her shorts. Then she rubbed disinfectant on her hands and laid out what she was going to need: the butterfly strips, tweezers, more disinfectant, sterile gloves, absorbable thread, scissors, the creepy little curved needle, the dressing she would use after, along with a tube of antibiotic ointment—and extra gauze. There was nothing to dull the pain of what she was about to do to him. Nothing stronger than acetaminophen—wait.
There was codeine. She almost kissed the little bottle of pills before she screwed off the cap.
“Dax, did you get knocked out, even for a few seconds during the crash?”
“Huh?”
“I’m afraid to give you a serious pain killer if you’ve been unconscious.”
“No,” he said. “Something sharp flew by and sliced my head open, that’s all.”
“Excellent.” She took his free hand, dropped two of the pills into his palm, and closed his lean fingers around them. “Here.”
“What are they?”
“Codeine.”
“I don’t think so. It doesn’t hurt that much. Head wounds usually don’t.”
If it didn’t hurt now, it would when she went to work on it. “Dax. Take the pills.”
He blew out a breath, opened his mouth and tossed them in.
“Perfect. Thank you.” She grabbed for one of the water bottles that had escaped the baggage area, and gave him a sip.
“More,” he said low. She let him have the bottle. He drank half of it, then handed it back. He was eyeing the other seat: the scissors, the needle, the pile of white gauze, all so carefully laid out. “You’re actually going to try and sew me up, huh?”
“That is the plan—and I’m going to do much more than try.” She cleaned her hands again, then put on the gloves. “Okay, let’s take another look …”
The console between the seats was in her way, but she lifted one knee and braced it on his seat to get in close. He tried to scoot over a little, to give her room to work—and gasped.
She frowned. “What? Your leg, too?”
“My ankle …” He hissed through his teeth, panting, getting through the pain. He reached toward it but got nowhere, with her practically on top of him. “I think it’s just a sprain.” He let his head drop to the seat rest again and swore low. “What a screwup. Bleeding all over the place—and I don’t think I can walk.”
“It’s okay,” she told him, not because it was true, but because there was nothing else to say. “The codeine will help with the pain and we’ll deal with the ankle once we take care of your head.”
He grunted, tried a grin but didn’t quite make it. “Nurse Bravo, I’m at your mercy.”
“Hmm. Could this be the right moment to hit you up for a raise?”
“Always working the angles.”
“A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. Now, let me see what I’m dealing with here….”
He lowered the bloody shirt from his forehead.
The blood flow had slowed, which was good. But then she had to clean and disinfect the injury thoroughly and that got the bleeding going again. She dabbed and poked and pressed at the gash and the surrounding tissue until she had it clear enough to work on.
The sewing-up took way too long. Each stitch had to be separate, so the whole thing wouldn’t come apart if one happened to break. At least she found she did know what she was doing. During that delightful survivalist weekend, they’d made her practice doing stitches on a round steak, which she’d found thoroughly gross at the time. Who knew that someday she would be grateful for the experience?
Dax sat still beneath her hands. She knew it had to hurt, but he didn’t make a sound.
She was sweating bullets by the end of it—from the stress, from the concentration, from the increasing sticky heat in the cabin. It was a great moment, when she finally set the scissors and needle aside. The dressing came next and that took no time at all.
“There,” she said, snapping off the disposable gloves. “Done at last.”
He tried to smile. “How do I look?”
“Rakish. All the girls will be after you. The scar is going to really wow them.”
He grunted. He was probably thinking that he didn’t need any more girls after him. But he didn’t say it. He only whispered, “Thank you, Zoe.”
She handed him the water bottle. “Drink.” She grabbed one for herself, too, and took a big gulp.
He screwed the lid back on his slowly. “Don’t know why I’m so exhausted.”
She was repacking the first aid kit by then. “Maybe the crash landing. Maybe the loss of blood. Maybe the twelve stitches in your forehead.”
“Maybe the codeine.”
“Hmm. Could be that, too—I need to look at your ankle now.”
His lower lip had a mutinous curl. “It’s okay for now. I think the codeine is kicking in. I can hardly feel anything.”
“Still, we can wrap it, for support, and you should get it elevated. Too bad we don’t have any ice …”
“You’re a pain in the ass, Zoe, you know that?”
“Flattering me will get you nowhere.”
He grunted. “There should be a six-pack of instant ice pouches in the first aid kit—good for a whole twenty minutes each.”
“Twenty minutes is better than nothing—and times six, that’s a couple of hours. Every little bit helps.” She dug out the box of cold packs, put the unzipped first aid kit on the cabin floor at her feet and sat in her seat again.
“Just shake one,” he said, “and it gets cold.”
For the moment, she set the box aside. “Okay. Can you hoist that foot up here?” She patted her lap.
He bit back a hard groan as he lifted his right foot and cleared the console. Very slowly, he stretched out his leg and gently laid his foot in her lap. He wore lightweight, low-cut hiking shoes.
She pushed up his pant leg. “It’s swollen.”
“No kidding.” He winced as she gently probed at it.
She untied the lace and eased the shoe off and the low-rise sock as well, dropping them both to the floor beside the first aid kit. “Yep. Swollen. But probably not broken.”
“And you know this, how?”
“I don’t. But let’s think positive, okay? Can you wiggle your toes?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Don’t they always ask if you can do that when you hurt your foot?”
He laughed—a laugh that got caught on a moan. “Some nurse you are.” He wiggled his toes. All five of them. “There. What do you think?”
They were very handsome toes, actually, long and well-formed. No weird bumps or bunions.
And what was she thinking? They’d just crashed in the jungle. How good-looking his