Page 22 of Fool Me (Timberline Peak #1)

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

ATLAS

That fucking moan. If I have to look back at my life someday and pinpoint what made everything unravel, it would be that sweet sound cresting her vanilla-coated lips.

Harlowe likes to tease me about being the good one, the responsible brother, but she’s wrong, because the things I want to do to her right now are anything but good.

Her tongue sweeps her puffy bottom lip, licking away the last of the vanilla ice cream. It’s all I can do not to push her down on this blanket and take everything I want from her. If the shuddering breath that shakes her shoulders is to be believed, she wouldn’t stop me.

“Did I get it all?” she finally asks, her voice a little wobbly when her thumb slides across the pink pout where I want my mouth.

“Uh-huh,” I say, my gaze not budging.

“Then what are you looking at?” My eyes lift reluctantly to find her watching with one brow arched in question.

What am I looking at? “Sorry, you’re just . . .” Do I tell her she takes my breath away? Fake or real, it doesn’t change that she’s prettier than the sunset behind her.

“I’m just . . . ?” she pushes.

I twist a strand of blonde hair that’s fallen forward, letting it slip between my fingers before I hook it behind her ear.

I lift my eyes, snagging hers for a beat before I say, “Summit Square is filled with paintings of mountains and sunsets from the most perfect Wyoming nights. All of them are beautiful, but none come close to the view I’ve got right now. I could stare at you all day, Clover.”

She softens, her body swaying toward me with the smallest shift, closing the space between us until I can feel her hot breath fan across my face. Her lashes flutter closed and her lips part.

My palm cups the side of her neck; her skin is soft under my thumb as it traces the curve of her cheekbone. I lean in, the pull to her winning out over logic when there’s a loud crash that jolts us both.

“Shit,” Harlowe hisses, her hands grabbing for the dish of ice cream between us, but it’s too late. Our sudden movement has the chocolate ice cream toppling—spilling all over her long legs and white shorts.

I glare at the four-legged menace over my shoulder as I twist around to grab the bag with napkins.

Muley Cyrus looks pleased with herself for interrupting our almost kiss by kicking her trough.

And fuck, maybe I don’t know whether to thank her or curse her for the interuption.

Because Harlowe hit the nail on the head when she said I don’t like messy, and things were swiftly heading that direction.

My last relationship was proof of that. It was safe, in hindsight—boringly so. There was chemistry, but we lacked real passion, never venturing deeper than a surface-level desire for each other and the comfort of coming home to a familiar person each day.

At the time, it seemed totally normal. But sharing ice cream and a blanket with my brother’s ex is a far cry from the padded bubble of my last relationship.

Yet, as my knuckles brush against her thigh as I scoop the melted chocolate back into the bowl, that unyielding pull to get closer, to touch her, to kiss her, to make her mine for real is right there under the surface—wilder and more untamed than anything I’ve ever felt.

“Damn. This is going to stain if I don’t get them in the wash right away,” she groans, looking genuinely disappointed as she blots away the excess ice cream. “And they make my legs look too good to let them be turned into fabric scraps.”

Echo huffs at all the chaos and stands, running off to explore the edge of the pen.

“That they do,” I mumble, eyes tracing the length of her tanned, toned legs stretched out in front of her. “Did you want to come in? I can grab you a pair of shorts and you can rinse them out?”

She pulls the sticky denim away from her thighs, scowling at it. But when she looks up, mischief glints in her eyes. “Are you trying to lure me inside and get me naked, Doc?”

Her sultry voice stirs an image I can’t ignore and I go semi-hard in my pants like a fucking amateur. Before I can answer, she stands, shooing me off the blanket. I grab the garbage and stand, watching as she bends to grab the fringed hem.

“Mind if I borrow this?” Dust and dried grass cloud the air around us as she shakes it clean.

“Not at all?” It comes out as question as I look on, perplexed.

She wraps the fabric around her waist without taking her eyes off me. “A gentleman would turn around.”

“And what if your fake boyfriend turned out to not be so gentlemanly?”

Her hands disappear through the slit where the fabric overlaps on her narrow waist. There’s a split second of white lace before I spin around out of self-preservation. Her laughter seems to reach out and wrap around me. I hold up my middle finger, hating that she has me pegged so easily.

“So damn respectful. And here I thought for a second that maybe you were a secret voyeur.”

“That joke about being a gentleman put us in murky water, and I don’t fuck around with consent,” I grit out.

Her laughter fades, melding with a sharp inhale. It’s like a bomb detonating and I don’t need to see her face to know she likes the idea.

“In that case, I give you my explicit consent to turn back around.”

“Brat,” I huff out. Turning, I find her with my blanket wrapped around her waist and her white jean shorts dangling from her finger by the belt loop with a smirk firmly on her face.

There’s nothing low stakes about what we are doing. We both stand to lose a lot if things go wrong. Harlowe might think she’s just giving me a backstory to help the town trust me again and a little revenge on my brother, but I can’t help but feel like there’s more to it than that.

It’s been over a decade since I felt this free—this much like the guy I used to be. And I don’t know how I’ll repay her for that gift.

Those pieces of me were lost long ago, stolen before I was ready. After everything that happened with my brother, I never wanted to be that na?ve again. I became serious to a fault, about everything, always on the lookout for the monsters hiding in plain sight.

I turn around and tongue my cheek, holding back my chuckle as she stands there, trying her best to look sassy, one hand on her cocked hip. It’s fucking adorable on her.

“That’s a mighty fine blanket skirt you have there. You know, my shorts would’ve been easier.”

Her mouth falls open in a mock gasp. “And deny me the right to rock this very stylish frock? Besides, what would the neighbors say if they saw me coming out of your house wearing your clothes instead of my own? The walk of shame before sunset—the gossip mill would run rampant.” She fiddles with the fringe of the blanket at her hip, almost unnerved.

When her hand brushes mine, she pulls it away, locking it behind her back, and I can’t tell what’s going through that pretty head of hers.

Is she nervous because we almost kissed, or trying to hide disappointment because we didn’t?

“Isn’t that kind of the point, Clover?” I step closer, two fingers slipping into the makeshift waistband of her blanket skirt and tucking the end, holding it together—tighter. “To make everyone think that we’re together, happily on our way to falling head over heels in love with each other?”

Her blonde hair bobs as her head wobbles and what I think is supposed to be a nod.

“Well then, there’s no shame in your boyfriend fucking you so thoroughly, so completely, that you limp out of his house wearing his clothes .

. .” I lower my lips to the side of her head, brushing an innocent kiss across her temple. “Smelling like him. Tasting like him.”

Her hand comes up to grip the neck of my shirt, twisting the fabric, but not pulling me closer, just using me as an anchor to tether herself to this reality for a moment as her lashes flirt with the flushed apples of her cheeks.

“No shame in that at all.” My fingers band around her wrist and I untwist her hand from the materials and place a soft kiss on her knuckles.

“Just try not to get pulled over in that skirt. If Sheriff Evans pulls you over, coming back from my house like that, he’ll find a reason to give you a ticket. ”

I drop our hands but keep them linked, giving hers a squeeze.

“Thanks for the ice cream.”

“I’ll see you this weekend for our rock climbing date.”

“I know we want to be seen, but I wouldn’t be sad if we made it through this one without bumping into Canyon.”

“Me either,” I admit. She squeezes my hand in return, and I reluctantly release her. “Drive safe.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for Evans,” she teases, before turning and walking away, that ridiculous blanket skirt thick and covering her long legs.

She calls for Echo and he trots over, slowing to match her pace as she crosses the yard toward the front of the house, where she’s parked.

Her sure steps falter when she gets to the corner of my house and she slows, glancing over her shoulder before she waves and disappears around the front.

I keep my feet firmly rooted, waiting on the sound of her engine starting because watching her leave and not chasing after her to claim the kiss that slipped away nearly cracked my resolve to not make this messy.

Because with Harlowe, it’s easy to convince myself that making a mess of all this might not be terrible.