She was a successful professional now with an amazing promotion pending and a rent-controlled apartment in downtown L.A. Not the gangly, dorky teen he must remember.

Yet, here she was…falling right back into her old awkward ways.

“Stay still. I’m going to get you out.” He headed back down the stairs, and less than thirty seconds later, he returned wearing his tool belt, which would normally be a sight fit for a fantasy, but he was also holding an ominous-looking tool in his hands.

Her eyes widened. “What’s that?”

“A skill saw.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“Do you want to live in the stairs?”

“Maybe there’s another way to get me out.” She’d always been deathly afraid of anything sharp. The sight of needles made her feel faint. This saw thing brought an instant rush of sweat and had her mouth salivating as though she were about to throw up. It was going to require a shit ton of trust on her behalf to let him use that thing so close to her body—and trust was not something that came easily to her.

Especially not with him.

“Do you have another idea?” he asked.

“How about you stand beneath me and I’ll let go?”

He looked amused by the idea. “Serve as a crash mat?”

“Or, more heroically, you could catch me.”

“Tempting, but no. We’ll do it this way.” He started the saw, and her palms went slippery against the wood, making it even harder to hold on.

“Fine.” She squeezed her eyes shut as she heard the loud buzzing of the death machine draw nearer and he carefully cut the wood around her. Pressure at her upper body eased, but so did the grip of her forearms on the wood. “I’m slipping,” she said, opening her eyes. It would be just her luck to survive the saw just to fall anyway.

Wes grabbed her arms. “Ready, on three… One…two…” He pulled, and her body lifted from the hole. Wood shards scraped against her stomach, but at least she was free, with just a few scratches and deep embarrassment to show for her ordeal.

He quickly shifted his weight between two lower stairs as he settled her in a safer spot at the top landing on the third floor. His hands on her body seemed to burn into her flesh, so she brushed them away and quickly moved out of reach.

She did not need him touching her. In her somewhat fragile current state, who knew what she’d do next? Cry on his shoulder, maybe? Those broad, muscular shoulders…

Nope. She was a strong, successful, independent woman. She could handle this latest disaster fine on her own. Now that he’d freed her from the stairs, anyway. “Thanks,” she mumbled, avoiding his gaze.