Page 17 of Fool Me (Timberline Peak #1)

“Considering what I know about the guys you date, I’m not surprised. But I’m not about to be just another guy that didn’t give you the things you deserve.” He clears his throat and drops his voice. “No matter what.”

This is fake, I remind myself, because he’s making it easy to get carried away.

Once I recover from my shock, our conversation starts flowing again. Getting to know my fake boyfriend is nothing like I thought it would be. I figured we’d run through a list of boring questions ranging from our favorite color to the first concert we went to.

Instead, I learn how close he is to Ray after years of mentorship.

He tells me about Kate’s diagnosis and I see the sadness in his eyes for his friend.

I laugh when Atlas tells me he’s afraid of geese.

He laughs when I tell him I was once attacked by an overly friendly chipmunk in a high traffic area on a rescue.

When we take a breath and look around, the crowd at the restaurant has dwindled, the two of us lingering like the heavy tension that hangs in the air between us. Neither of us seems to want to be the one to end the night.

But when the waitstaff stops over to ask about dessert or drinks for the second time, we both sink back into our seats, accepting that the night is over.

I reach for my purse, but Altas glares at me from under his furrowed eyebrows.

“Not a chance.”

I’m still wracking my brain for how to reply as he signs the check and stands, holding his hand out to me. “Thank you,” I finally say, taking his hand and letting him lead me out into the cool night.

“Maybe for our next date we can go climbing,” Atlas says, pausing on the patio of The Game Room. He’s stalling and it’s cute.

“And I’d love that . . .” I bite my lip, looking from him to the bar across the street.

“But I’m not ready to go home yet, can we extend this date first?

” I nod toward the door of the bar. The lights from the Tips Up sign—a skier on their ass and their skis crossed—glows like a beacon across the street.

It’s a busy night. I could lie and tell him I want to be seen together, but truthfully, I’m having fun with him and don’t want to cheapen that.

“Just can’t get enough of me?” he teases as we walk toward the bright lights.

“With that kind of cockiness, how can you blame me?”

“Believe me, I can back it up, Clover.”

There’s that nickname again, and damn, it turns me into a pile of mush, same as the last time. Atlas holds the door for me, momentarily dropping my hand.

Indistinct chatter floats above the crush of bodies inside Tips Up.

It’s mostly locals, but summer tourists dot the rowdy crowd as well, all blending together out on the floor where couples swing together.

In the winter, it takes on more of an Après-Ski vibe, but in the summer people come here for the views out back, and the dancing.

It’s nothing like the intimate dinner we just shared, but being here will certainly get us seen. Which is the goal, after all.

Next to me, Atlas seems to assess the dimly lit bar with the same weariness I am. He wraps his arm around my back, his big palm giving my hip a squeeze.

His warm breath fans over my temple when he dips his head, his lips just a whisper away from my ear, “We’re in this together. Just let me know when you’re ready to leave.”

Something about the reminder that we both have just as much to gain—or lose—makes it easier to slip back into enjoying his company.

“Can you still dance, city boy? Or have you lost your Wyoming roots?”

The first notes of “Adios Cowboy” start up.

“Why don’t you take me for a spin and find out?”

My thighs clench involuntarily. Why is it so dirty when he whispers deeply and gravely into my ear?

“Try to keep up.” I turn my head to face him and pat his chest placatingly.

His stubbled cheek dimples when he grins. “I moved to Houston, not L.A. And I was raised on western swing.” Our faces are so close all it would take is a stretch of my neck to press my lips to his again.

Cocky arrogance looks different on this Kane brother. It’s colored with a playfulness that’s less entitled, but more of a self-assured certainty in who he is. And damn, it’s hot.

Spinning out from under his arm, I give myself as much space as I can without hurting the story we’re supposed to be weaving. Grabbing his hand and trapping it between both of mine I walk backwards, dragging him toward the dance floor. “Better be ready to back that talk up.”

The moment his boot hits the beat-up wooden dance floor, he yanks me forward, catching me against his hard chest.

We’ve kissed, we’ve held hands, I’ve been pressed up against him before, but this is the closest we’ve been—my palms flat against his pecs, my hips fitted against his, our eyes locked. It’s intense. He’s intense.

I swallow, instantly more aware of the palpable current between us as the hand that’s holding the back of my neck brushes down my spine. His fingers sweep over the top of my ass, and my dress is too thin and too thick all at the same time.

The heat of the sticky bar seems to pulse around us, and the beat of the music picks up. Atlas’s palm curls around my waist, his other hand finding mine. I’m not ready for the distance between us when he spins me away. We move around each other, finding our space within the thrumming dance floor.

Atlas doesn’t hold back, leading us as the room spins around me, my skirt floating up with each turn. Every time we get close, it’s cut short by another twirl, or push. It’s infuriating and fun. By the time he’s pulling me back into his arms, I’m breathless and laughing so hard my cheeks hurt.

“I want to bottle that sound up.” He breathes, his heart pounding hard under my hand.

I can feel the blush on my cheeks, because who says that? It feels too real—dangerously close to something a real boyfriend would say. “You’re full of surprises, Doc.”

Atlas brushes a strand of hair away from my face. His fingers linger and a shiver races over my skin as he traces my jaw, tilting my chin up.

“Give me another dance?”

I lick my lips as the music shifts to something slower—a song for lovers.

“After that, a girl can hardly say no.” My hands go to his shoulder, looping around and toying with the curled hair at the nape of his neck.

His chocolate locks slip between my fingers, unfairly silky. “Where’d you learn to dance like that?”

“Aside from growing up here? My ex in Houston was a ballroom dancer.”

“Like, as a job?” I ask.

“No, as a very serious hobby. She was a dentist.”

He talks about her so casually, but there’s no malice or spite. It’s entirely unlike the way I feel about Canyon. “Why did you guys break up?”

He pauses for a beat, our easy steps faltering. “Lots of reasons. But it came down to one thing, I wanted to move, and she didn’t.”

“Were you two together long?”

“Five years.”

My thoughts must be written all over my face, but he recovers for me, chuckling warmly.

“We were one of those couples that looked like we had it all together, but in reality we were just really comfortable and too stubborn to quit.”

“And you think she felt the same? Or is she cursing your name to her girlfriends back in Texas?”

“I know she did—she was the one that ended things. Before I mentioned the move to her, I’d already made up my mind, and that told us both everything we’d been ignoring about our relationship.”

“Do you . . . um . . . have any regrets?” I have to push that last question out, not entirely sure why it’s hard to ask.

“About moving and the breakup? No, only that I neglected her without realizing it. She assured me it was two-sided, I just feel shitty about it.” He studies me like he’ll find the answer on my face.

“That’s because you’re a good guy.”

A deep groan vibrates in his throat. His nose wrinkles adorably like the word good stinks as it hangs between us.

I wince. “Did I just find your version of being called cute?”

“Depends. Is good synonymous with boring?”

I think about that as the hand on my waist wraps around me tighter, like he’s afraid I might say yes and bolt.

“There’s nothing boring about you. Good is steady and kind.” What I don’t say is that after dating Canyon, good is the sexiest thing a guy can be. Steady. Trustworthy. Reliable. Atlas seems to be all those things.

His eyes drop to my lips, and I’m silently begging my fake boyfriend to kiss me. Not because we’re surrounded by people and it would help our cause, but because I want to taste those pillowy lips again. He dips his head right as someone calls out my name.

His chin drops to the top of my head and I feel the sigh leak out of him. I need a second to get it together before I turn and find Aspen looking like a coyote in a henhouse.

With her standing in front of me, it strikes me that I might be the worst friend ever because not only have I failed to tell her the truth about Atlas and me, I haven’t told her anything.

Her hand waves up the length of us. “What’s going on here?” she asks, but the look on her face tells me she knows exactly what this is. The power of the Timberline Peak gossip mill is working.

“I was dancing with Atlas.”

She nods along, because, duh, she can see that.

“Atlas, this is my friend Aspen. She’s annoyed that I haven’t told her about us yet.”

“It’s nice to officially meet you. You’re the flight nurse, right?”

“And you’re the new vet.” She eyes me even though she’s talking to him.

“Well, I grew up here, but yeah, I just moved back.”

“I know. You went to school with my brothers.” She winks at him.

Recognition spreads across his handsome face and he turns toward her, still keeping me close to his side with an arm draped over my shoulders. “Shit, I didn’t recognize you the other day. Sorry.” He pushes a hand through his hair, mussing it. “Do your brothers live in Timberline Peak?”