Chapter Eighteen
Jovie
I snatch a hand towel from the counter, pull the glass bowl out of the microwave, and carefully place it on the platter I found in the cabinet.
Then I grab the bag of tortilla chips and carry them to the makeshift spot I created on the floor with the quilt, pillows from my bed, and extra blankets from the linen closet.
That seemed safer than us curling up together on the bed. Not sure why.
I pull up my streaming account on the TV and cue up a doc about a killer NFL player just as Axle knocks on my front door.
“It’s open,” I shout as I return to the kitchen and open a bottle of wine.
The door swings wide, and he walks in, carrying a beer. His eyes go straight to the pallet on the floor before coming to me.
“This really is like a fucking teenage girl sleepover,” he mutters more to himself than to me.
The cork pops free with a satisfying sound. I set the corkscrew on the granite and tip the bottle over my glass.
The cabin is warm and cozy, lit mostly by the soft lamps I turned on earlier.
I pour myself a generous amount of wine. “Sleepovers can be fun.”
“Oh, I know. This just isn’t the kind I’m used to enjoying.”
I shake my head. “You don’t say.”
His eyes sweep over the mountain of pillows again. “Comfy.”
I take a sip from my glass. “It seemed like a safer option than the bed.”
His eyes find mine. “Probably a good call, Doc.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks. “Um, make yourself at home. There’s chips and dip.”
Axle walks over and sets his bottle beside the lamp. Then he plops down onto the makeshift pallet.
The sight shouldn’t affect me.
But somehow, the big, ornery cowboy fluffing pillows, stuffing them behind his back, and covering his legs with my fuzzy pink blanket is hot as hell.
It’s annoying.
He catches me staring and flashes a smug smile.
I carry my wine over and settle beside him. Not too close. Not too far. The normal amount of space.
Except nothing about this feels normal anymore. Not since the river.
I tuck one leg beneath me and reach for the chips.
The queso is still warm and creamy.
I plunge a chip into the gooey perfection and shove the entire thing into my mouth, closing my eyes.
“Oh my God,” I moan as I chew and swallow.
Axle’s eyes are on me. “Good?”
“So good.”
His eyes heat as they flick to my mouth. It’s the kind of look that makes my stomach flutter.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen chips make a woman moan like that.”
“Then they’ve never had good queso.”
I reach for another chip, but Axle suddenly leans toward me, and I freeze.
His hand comes up.
For a dizzying second, I completely forget how to breathe as his thumb brushes the corner of my mouth.
He pulls away, holding a tiny smear of cheese. “There.”
My pulse short-circuits as he casually sucks it off his thumb.
He looks entirely too pleased with himself.
I grab another chip before I say something embarrassing. I dip it into the cheese and scoop up a massive bite.
Then hold it out toward him.
His gaze drops to the chip.
Then lifts to mine.
The room instantly feels much smaller. I don’t know why offering someone a chip feels so intimate. But somehow, it does.
Axle leans forward. Never taking his eyes off me. Then takes the bite directly from my fingers.
My pulse does another stupid little kick as he swallows and then licks his lips.
“Good, right?” I ask.
His smile turns lazy. “Delicious.”
“There’s this food truck that sits in the parking lot across from our apartment building back in Aurora, called La Cocinita de Abuelita, which I learned means Grandma’s Little Kitchen in Spanish.
It stays open from noon to, like, two in the morning.
My roommates and I can’t pronounce half the stuff on the menu, but everything is cheap, authentic, and incredible.
Better than anything you could get in an expensive Mexican restaurant.
My favorite order for late-night study sessions or true crime binges is the tacos de birria, elote, and … ”
“Queso,” he guesses.
I nod. “Abuelita’s Queso Fundido. I love it so much that I order it every single night.
So, when one of the guys found out I was going to be away all summer, he gave me his grandmother’s secret recipe.
He even gave me a tutorial on how to make it.
It’s usually served with warm tortillas instead of chips, but I had to compromise. ”
He grins. “Sounds like someone was trying to impress the pretty college girl.”
Pretty.
Axle Trust thinks I’m pretty.
I let out a nervous laugh and sink further into my pillows.
The wine settles warmly in my stomach, and I reach for the remote perched on the edge of the bed and hit Play. Then plump another pillow behind my head and stretch out beside him.
The bag of chips lands between us.
Axle settles deeper against the wall. His shoulder brushing mine for a brief second.
Neither of us moves away. We just stare at the television.
The familiar deep voice fills the room, and I sigh.
Instant comfort.
I’ve seen this particular doc many times.
Some people rewatch old movies.
I rewatch the crime shows.
Axle glances at the screen.
Then at me.
“Aaron Hernandez?”
“The world’s hottest killer.”
His brow furrows. Then he snorts. “Murder turns you on, Doc?”
“No. The six-two, two-hundred-fifty-pound tight end with dimples turns me on. The murder part is just fascinating. Besides, I’m not completely convinced he is guilty.”
“Could’ve been an accident,” he says.
“Not sure you could accidentally shoot someone multiple times in the back and chest, but he could have been set up,” I say. “Because why would a handsome, rich, famous, talented athlete with a beautiful new baby girl risk all of that?”
I glance over, and his lips are pursed as he tries not to laugh.
I ignore him.
At some point, I stretch out, and my bare legs brush his. Instead of pulling away, I curl into his side, our feet entwining.
The steady rise and fall of his chest, combined with the warmth of the wine flowing through my veins, makes my eyelids heavy.
The episode ends.
And I hear the next one automatically start as I drift off.
The next thing I know, I’m being lifted, and my head leans against something hard and warm. My eyes blink open and try to adjust to the dark as I’m gently laid down on the mattress. I curl onto my side, and a big hand lifts my head, tucking a pillow beneath it before covering me with a blanket.
“Night, Axle,” I whisper, my voice thick with sleep.
“Sweet dreams, Doc.”
A second later, I hear the soft click of the door shutting behind him, and I drift back to sleep, dreaming of strong arms and sexy tattoos.