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.
Axle
Yesterday, twenty-four new students rolled through the gates of the Raintree-Storm Rodeo Academy.
Twenty cowboys.
Four cowgirls.
