Chapter Twenty-Eight
Jovie
The crunch of tires over gravel pulls me out of the haze I’ve been floating in since tequila shot number … honestly, who knows?
I laugh at something Royce said from the front seat of the truck as he twists around to look at me. Or maybe it’s Micah. They’re both blurry right now.
“Text us when you’re inside,” one of them orders as the truck stops in front of the row of cabins.
“I’m a fully functioning adult,” I inform them.
The silence that follows tells me nobody believes that.
Rude.
The truck door swings open, and cold Wyoming night air slaps me right in the face. I suck in a sharp breath and wobble sideways in my stupid heels.
Okay. Maybe not fully functioning.
I catch myself on the doorframe and glare down at the brown leather sandals currently trying to murder me.
“Dammit,” I mutter.
Royce snorts from the front seat as Cabe’s door opens, and he rushes around the hood of the truck.
“I forgot what a sloppy drunk you are,” he says as he grabs my arm and steadies me.
“I am not. These shoes are just stupid,” I say as I kick them off into the gravel.
“Okay,” Cabe says. “Let’s get you inside.”
“I’m fine now. I can walk inside by myself.”
He gives me a skeptical look.
I reach down and pluck my sandals from the ground and wave them in his face. “All good now.”
“Night, Jovie!” Micah calls out the open window.
“Night!”
“You sure you’re okay?” Cabe asks again.
“Positive.”
I fish my keys from my purse. Then I go up on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek.
“I’ll call you in the morning,” he says before getting back behind the wheel and pulling away.
I stand there for a second in the moonlight between the cabins, clutching my purse against my chest while the world tilts ever so slightly beneath my feet.
The music from the bar still hums in my bloodstream. My skin is warm from dancing. My cheeks ache from smiling too much.
And somewhere in the middle of all that tequila and laughter and flirtatious texting, I decided to tell Axle Trust I wanted to run my fingers through his chest hair.
Oh God.
I press my lips together, trying not to giggle like an idiot all over again.
The gravel shifts under my heel.
“Shit!”
My ankle rolls hard, and I yelp just as my body pitches sideways.
Before I hit the ground, a pair of strong arms catches me clean around the waist.
“Easy there, Doc.”
Deep voice. Warm chest. The scent of cedar, leather, and fresh male soap.
I inhale deeply.
I blink up at him beneath the porch light of his cabin. He’s barefoot, wearing sweatpants slung low on his hips and a black T-shirt stretched across a broad, rock-hard chest.
Fantastic.
I lift the hand holding my shoes. “Stupid shoes,” I inform him.
His mouth twitches, and I narrow my eyes at him. Or try to. My eyes may not be cooperating at the moment.
He glances down at my shoes. “Those do look dangerous.”
“They are dangerous,” I say seriously. “But they make my legs look phenomenal.”
His gaze flicks to my legs before jerking away again. Then, before I can process what he’s doing, he bends and scoops me straight into his arms.
I squeak, “What are you doing?”
“Preventing any other accidents,” he says as he starts toward my porch.
“I can walk!” I squirm, instinctively grabbing at his shoulders as he carries me up the steps to my door. “Axle, put me down.”
“Nope.”
“I’m fine.”
“You hurt your ankle. And the gravel is jagged.”
“And you have cracked ribs!”
“Bruised ribs.”
I smack his shoulder. “You should not be carrying me!”
He doesn’t even grunt. “Doc, I’ve ridden two-thousand-pound bulls with worse injuries than bruised ribs.”
“Because you’re an idiot.”
“Never claimed to be smart.”
“Stubborn,” I mutter.
His chest vibrates with laughter against mine. The sound rolls through me in a way that feels intimate. I squirm again, mostly because if I don’t, I might accidentally melt into him and beg him to stay with me tonight.
Unfortunately, all the movement does is make his grip tighten.
One arm under my knees. The other around my back. Solid. Steady. Safe.
“Quit fighting me,” he says into my ear, and I still instantly.
“I am not fighting you.”
His eyes flick down to mine, and I wrap my arms tighter around his neck. Closing my eyes, I run my nose along his jaw and inhale deeply.
“Mmm.”
“Doc?”
I peek up at him. His warm breath brushes over my lips, causing them to part slightly, and his gaze drops to my mouth.
“Unlock the door,” he says hoarsely.
I blink.
Oh, right. The keys. I’m still holding them in my hand, so I unravel my arm from his neck, place the right one in the lock, and turn.
He steps inside the door and finally sets me carefully onto my feet.
The second he lets go, the world sways sideways again.
I catch myself on the kitchen island.
Axle raises one dark brow.
Heat floods my cheeks.
I blow a strand of hair out of my face and smooth both hands down the front of my dress, thinking that somehow makes it less embarrassing.
“I’m good,” I announce.
“Uh-huh.”
“And I have to pee.”
He folds his arms across his chest, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe. “Do you need assistance with that too?”
I blink. “What?”
His eyes go to the hallway. “Walking to the bathroom?”
“Nope. I can manage.”
The corner of his mouth lifts.
Stupid, handsome cowboy.
“Careful.”
The amusement in his voice makes me scowl.
But the urgency in my bladder has me half running, half drunkenly dancing toward the bathroom without another word.
I hear him chuckling behind me.
“Shut up!” I yell over my shoulder.
A few minutes later, I emerge from the bathroom, feeling significant relief.
Axle is still standing in the doorway. His hands clutching the frame.
The man came outside when he heard me get home. Like he was waiting for me. Then he carried me so I wouldn’t hurt my feet on the rocks even though his ribs hurt.
And now he doesn’t want to come inside.
Something tightens low in my chest.
I walk past him toward the armchair near the window, where I threw my T-shirt earlier this morning.
My dress suddenly feels too tight. Too clingy.
Without really thinking about it, I hook my fingers beneath the straps and pull the dress down my arms.
Axle goes completely still.
The fabric slides down my body until I’m standing there in nothing but a strapless bra and panties. I reach behind me and undo the bra, and it falls to the floor as well.
Oops.
I grab the oversize Pbr T-shirt off the chair and yank it over my head quickly.
When I glance back up, Axle’s eyes are fixed firmly on the ceiling.
A smile threatens at the corners of my mouth.
“You okay over there, cowboy?”
His throat bobs once before his gaze finally drops. It lands directly on my bare legs beneath the oversize shirt.
His expression shifts, and heat curls in my belly.
Then he clears his throat roughly and drags his eyes back to mine.
“Drink some water,” he says. “And go to sleep.”
Wait, what?
He reaches for the doorknob. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Doc.”
Then he steps outside and pulls the door shut behind him.
I stare at it.
Blink once.
Twice.
“That’s it?” I shout at the empty cabin.
I spin dramatically and face-plant directly onto my mattress and groan into the quilt.
Unbelievable.
I roll onto my back and glare at the ceiling fan.
Maybe I imagined it. Maybe Axle flirts with everybody.
I sit up abruptly. “No.”
If he thinks he gets to flirt with me and carry me like some sexy savior, then act like I’m a kid sister he has to tuck safely into bed, he has lost his damn mind.
Fueled by tequila and wounded pride, I shove off the mattress.
Still barefoot and wearing only a T-shirt, I march to the back door. The cold night air slaps me again as I storm across the deck toward the neighboring cabin.
I stomp over and pound my fist on his door.
“Axle!”
A moment passes.
I start beating on it again.
“Axle!”
Finally, the door swings open.
And holy hell.
He’s standing there in nothing but his boxer briefs.
I forget every single thought in my head as I drink him in. That chest. The defined abs. A strip of dark hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his briefs. Down to the outline of his massive cock.
Geezus, the man doesn’t look real.
Axle braces one forearm against the doorframe and stares down at me in frustration.
“Doc,” he says slowly, “why the fuck are you on my deck?”
I open my mouth, and nothing comes out. Because apparently, my brain short-circuited at the sight of his body.
His nostrils flare. “I told you to go to bed.”
I stare at his chest for another second too long. Then force my eyes up to his. “Why did you leave like that?”
His jaw shifts slightly, the frustration turning into something more dangerous. Like barely restrained anger. “You want an honest answer?”
“Yes.”
“You doing that little striptease and then standing there, looking at me expectantly, half naked, wasn’t helping my self-control much.”
Oh.
Every coherent thought leaves my brain.
Axle exhales slowly and rubs a hand over the back of his neck.
“And you’ve been drinking,” he says. “Which means I was trying to do the decent thing and leave before I forgot how to be decent.”
The butterflies in my stomach turn into a tornado.
Before I can second-guess myself, I rise onto my toes and press my lips to his.