Neither of us moves.
The wrap hangs forgotten between us.
I swallow hard, and his gaze drops briefly to my mouth. Then lifts again.
One inch, maybe less, is all that separates us. One tiny inch.
“Axle …”
His eyes darken.
My pulse pounds so loudly that I’m convinced he can hear it.
My lips part.
Then his hand rises and slowly brushes a loose strand of hair that escaped my ponytail behind my ear.
The touch is brief, but it feels like lightning.
My breath catches.
“Lie back, Axle.” My voice comes out throatier than intended.
His eyes flash before he obeys, slowly lowering himself onto the exam table. Breaking the spell.
Air returns to my lungs.
Thank God.
I finish securing the wrap and step back. “Stay there.”
His grin returns.
I point toward the ice pack. “No moving.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I want you to ice it for fifteen to twenty minutes a couple of times a day for the next few days to keep the swelling down. Other than that, no wrapping or taping. Take over-the-counter pain relievers. You’ll probably be sore for four to six weeks.”
“Probably.”
“No arena.”
His grin grows.
I narrow my eyes.
“I mean it, Axle. No bulls. If you get hit again before it heals, it could do some serious damage.”
He looks entirely unconvinced.
“Axle.”
“I’m listening, Doc. No arena. No bulls.”
I grab the chart. “I’ll get you some ibuprofen samples in case you don’t have any at home.”
“Thanks. I’m feeling better already.”
