The Switch by JC Emery

at her in her underwear and have to turn away quickly before my body has a very unprofessional reaction to her nearly naked form. This woman is trouble on the fast track, and as it is, I’m doing everything I can to keep the lines between professional and personal as clear as possible.
    “Make it work, Guilliot. Whatever you do, just keep that girl in that cabin. I already got one girl to worry about —don’t need the other one hobbling in to the rescue. You get that, son? Victor Abraham is one serious son of a bitch. I trust my team as much as I can, but I still can’t get a read on a few of the newer guys, so we’re going to keep this one close to the vest.”
    “Yes, sir,” I say firmly. “I’ll wait for your call, sir.”
    “Quit kissing my ass, Guilliot,” he says lightly.
    S arge’s demeanor lightens up some, once he knows we are safe. He doesn’t ask where we are. Just as I’m about to tell him, he ends the call. So it looks like now my task is to stay put and make sure she heals. Then we can return home to our respective lives, and I can go on about giving speeding tickets and responding to domestic calls.
    I close my eyes and realize exactly how exhausted I am now. I lean over to flick off the dull light that hangs above the sink and cross the open room to the couch. I pull the gun out of the waistband of my cargo shorts and place it under the middle couch cushion. There’s a small blanket strung over the back of the couch. I grab it and plop down on the couch, letting my body sink in. Muscles I hadn’t realized were tense begin to relax. Forcing my brain to slow down and stop worrying, I allow myself to sink into a much-needed sleep.
    “Chase?” I hear Shelby’s voice, weak and heavy with the exhaustion of trauma, sound from behind me.
    My eyes shoot open , and my left hand pulls the gun out from under the couch cushion. I shoot up from the couch, a sudden fear nipping at my heart. She can’t defend herself in her state. A quick survey of the entirety of the cabin sans the bathroom and I find that we’re still alone. My eyes fall on Shelby, and I relax immediately. She’s not hurt; she’s safe. Her face is pale and covered with a sheen of sweat, and her wounded leg has slid off the pillow I put it on. My already fragile nervous system crumbles at the sight of her.
    I set the gun down and rush across the room, feeling her forehead. I wipe the sweat away from her brow line. She’s clammy, but at least her fever finally broke.
    “I’m cold,” she chatters.
    I look down and her injured leg is swung out of the covers, bandaged up as good as I could get it. I reach down and touch her leg , which is also damp and is hot to the touch. She’s got the chills. Sucking in a deep breath, I take a brief moment to figure out what I’m supposed to do in this situation. If she’s got chills and her temperature’s gone, then she should be well on her way to recovery. I should get the blanket from the couch and wrap her up tight and then return to my station, far away from this bed. But I don’t want to.
    I feel her cheek, neck, and collarbone and sort out part of the problem. She’s sweated through her jacket , which she has yet to take off, and the shirt beneath doesn’t feel much drier. I begin by removing her jacket from her vibrating frame but soon realize it’s not enough. The shirt has to go, too. Shit. The last thing I need is to be holed up in this tiny place with this woman . . . naked.
    “Shelby,” I say, my voice harsher than intended. It does the trick , and her droopy eyes focus on mine. “You’ve sweat through your clothes. Are there are clothes in this cabin?”
    The words fall from my lips much less like a question and more akin to a prayer. My oath to serve, protect, and not be a fucking pervert can only go so far under certain conditions. Thankfully she points to the large trunk at the foot of the bed. I stride toward it , and inside I find a modest collection of