“Take off your shirt.”
He unbuttons his flannel, and I can see where blood and sweat have seeped into the fabric of the T-shirt underneath.
I point at him. “The undershirt too.”
He quirks a brow. “I like this bossy side, Doc.”
I glare at him impatiently.
Sighing, he hooks his fingers beneath the hem and pulls it over his head.
I immediately wish I hadn’t looked, but now I’m looking, and that’s a problem—a very big problem—as I try to maintain my composed professional demeanor.
I saw his chest that first night, but it was dark outside. And then again at the river, but I was too cold to really pay attention.
It’s broad and powerful. Muscles chiseled from years of strength training and rodeo competitions. Covered with just enough dark hair to make my mouth go dry.
I want to run my hands through it.
Before I can control my thoughts, Axle notices, and his grin widens.
Oh God.
I want to crawl under the exam table and die.
“Doc?”
I blink.
Focus, Jovie.
“Should I remove my jeans too?”
The question snaps me out of it.
“No. I think we’re good. Unless the bull kicked your balls into your chest?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. My balls and all other equipment below the belt are working perfectly.”
My eyes drop lower for just a second, but quickly come back up when I notice the injury.
An ugly red mark stretches across his side, and a dark purple is already blooming around the edges.
Definitely not a tap.
I move closer. “Axle.”
“What?”
I gently press near the impact site, and he hisses through his teeth.
“There it is.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“You almost jumped off the table.”
I probe again, and he winces.
