I drag a hand through my hair, and then I catch my reflection in the mirror. And I realize I’m smiling like a damn idiot.
For a split second, I consider forcing myself to go to bed.
But I know she’s over there in that oversize PBR championship T-shirt that drives me absolutely crazy.
And knowing that is all it takes.
I grab a beer from the fridge and head for the door.
Lecturing myself the entire way.
Jovie
Isnatch 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.
