Page 26 of Fool Me (Timberline Peak #1)

CHAPTER

SIXTEEN

HARLOWE

His breaths are even, less labored than they were before.

He’s still as he lets me take him in. The longer we lie here, the more at peace he seems, all his muscles uncoiling as the tension leaks from him.

The weight he was carrying seems to have eased enough that it’s merely heavy but no longer crushing him.

“Let’s gear up,” I say, standing from the towel I intended for him to use before we ended up sharing.

He takes my outstretched hand but lifts himself from the ground. We walk over to where I set the backpacks and unpack the gear, checking everything over as we do.

I put my harness on first and then hand him his, watching as he fits it over his narrow waist. He fumbles with the harness for a minute.

“I swear I know how to do this.”

“It’s a newer harness than what you’re used to. Here, let me help.” I step closer, reaching for the waist, my finger slipping under it and brushing against his hard stomach. “This one’s auto-locking—no need to double back.”

He exhales a quiet laugh but doesn’t try to take over or correct me. It’s refreshing.

“Right. Muscle memory.”

His fingers brush mine as I tighten the strap, checking the fit and sending a hot tingle up my arm. “Snug, but not cutting off circulation,” I say, giving the waistbelt a firm tug. “Leg loops good?” I ask, stepping back before I cross a line and try to check those, too.

He runs a finger under them, then nods. “Not too tight.”

“All right, you’re set.” I step back, but not before noticing the way his gaze lingers—a mix of amusement and something else.

We sit side by side on a rock and put on our shoes before I grab the chalk bag, clipping it to my belt. Then we walk over the coiled ropes. Taking the end of the rope, I loop it through my harness, tying the figure eight.

“Damn, you’re quick at that,” Atlas comments, watching my hands work the ropes.

I throw him a playful wink. “You should see what else I can do with them.” I mean it to sound like a joke, but the words stick to my tongue, making them sound like something else entirely.

His jaw goes slack and his hand comes up, rubbing down his face. “Harlowe, you can’t say shit like that or I’m going to end up with a situation.” He glances down at his crotch.

And lord help me, I look too.

It’s not that I didn’t notice before, but I was looking at the harness to make sure it was secure. Now that he’s put that in my head, I can’t not notice it. And apparently, I can’t look away because I’m still staring at the impressive bulge in his shorts.

“Not helping.” His laugh is rough and pained.

“Sorry,” I squeal, spinning around to put my back to him.

“Marilyn Franklin, dog breath, Ray’s bunions, expressing anal glands, shoveling donkey shit,” he murmurs.

“Are you?—”

“Reciting all the unsexy things I can think of? Yes. It worked when I was a teen and I’m counting on it to work now.”

I snort out a laugh. “Do you need me to . . .” I point back toward the trail we came from.

“No. I’m a full-grown man; I can get my shit under control. Maybe just don’t stare directly at it and drool.”

I spin around on my heels, making every effort to keep my eyes on his face even if I want to take a little gander and see if he really did get his situation under control. “I did not drool.”

“Are you sure about that?” he teases.

“It would be a real tragedy if my hands slipped and I didn’t tie off your slack fast enough.”

He steps closer, twisting and fanning out the end of my braid. “You would never.”

I roll my eyes because he’s right.

I take the belay device from him and clip it to his harness, giving it tug for good measure. His brow furrows as he threads the rope through the carabiner and locks it off.

“Look okay?” Atlas asks.

“Looks great,” I tell him. “You know all the calls?”

“Yeah. That part I’ve got.”

We go over the calls together as a refresher, like I would with any climbing partner. He joins me as I survey the route, my fingers brushing over the rope. I give Atlas a quick nod. “All set.”

His eyes flick over my harness one more time, though I can tell he’s still running our earlier situation through his mind by his smirk. “You’re good to go.”

I shake out my arms, looking up at the rock face in front of me. The holds are mostly vertical, a few slopers sprinkled in. Nothing too difficult, and nothing I haven’t done before, but my mind needs to be sharp. With one hand on the wall, I give him a grin. “On belay?”

He steps forward, locking eyes with me, a soft confidence in his voice. “Belay on.”

“Climbing,” I call out, stepping onto the first hold.

“Climb on,” he responds immediately.

I calculate each move, moving quickly until I get to the loose bolt.

Using a small ledge as a resting point, I grab the wrench.

The bolt just needs tightening—an easy fix—but I still tell Atlas, “Maybe avoid this one,” before moving on.

I’ll feel better if we replace it, so I make a mental note to talk to Travis about it.

My muscles flex as I push upward, the grip of my shoes finding purchase on the rock. I feel the familiar burn in my calves, my focus sharpening with every inch I gain. The rope runs smoothly, and I hear the slight click of the belay device as Atlas adjusts the slack, keeping me safe.

“Looks good,” he calls from below.

I glance down, catching the way the sunlight hits his face, casting shadows that make him look rugged—handsome. Focus, Harlowe. I force myself back into the climb. My hands are already sweaty from the effort, and I dip into the bag for some chalk.

“Almost to the next ledge,” I call, giving him a quick glance down below.

“Take your time,” Atlas says, his voice soothing but still filled with the underlying tension of watching me climb. His eyes never leave me, but I can’t quite place what he’s thinking.

I reach the ledge and steady myself, pulling myself up to stand on it before I relax for a second and enjoy the view—both of them. “Made it. I’ll be ready to rappel down once you get me set.”

“Got it.” He adjusts the slack as I take a quick breather, letting the rush of the climb sink in.

Once I’m back on the ground, Atlas wraps me in a one-armed hug. “That was unbelievable. You make it look so easy.”

“You seem like the type that’s good at everything, so I’m sure your climb will be equally impressive.”

He grins, tugging at the rope and checking his harness one more time.

I watch him move into position, his muscles flexing as he plants his feet and pulls up.

Not much distracts me when I’m out in the field, but Atlas’s glistening muscles are a beacon for my attention.

The rope tightens, and I adjust to the rhythm of belaying him, keeping my eyes on the rock face, ready for whatever he needs.

His first few footholds are a little wobbly. A stone face is different from the gym holds he’s used to, but his grip on the rock is sure and his movements are deliberate. I’m impressed. Even after years away, he’s still got it.

“Not bad for a city boy,” I call to him with a teasing smile.

“Just getting warmed up,” Atlas replies, his voice carrying down to me. His words are confident, but there’s an edge of concentration in his tone as he climbs higher.

Just as Atlas reaches the next ledge, I see something flicker out of the corner of my eye as his foot dislodges a small rock.

It bounces off the face, and before I can brace myself, it catches me on the forehead.

I stumble back a little, the sudden sting of the impact taking me off guard. Instinctively, I tighten my grip on the ropes. Using my forearm I wipe my face—there’s blood. Everything tilts as the warm liquid trickles down my forehead, blurring my vision.

“Shit!” I mutter, stepping backward to steady myself, half-aware of Atlas’s voice calling down.

“You okay?” His voice cracks with concern, and I hear him starting to descend toward me.

“Yeah, just a little scratch,” I call back, trying to sound like it’s no big deal, but the throbbing in my head tells me otherwise as I focus on keeping him safe.

Atlas reaches the ground and I feel his eyes on me, assessing the cut on my forehead. His face is tight with worry, creating a deep crease in his forehead. “This is not a little scratch.”

I nod, wiping the blood off again. Crimson streaks the back of my hand. “It’s not that bad.”

He doesn’t seem convinced. He gently cups my face, his thumb brushing over the spot where the rock hit.

“Harlowe . . .” He trails off, still unsure.

“You need to get that looked at. It’s deep.

” He fights to pull his shirt free from where it’s trapped under his harness and over his head, pressing the fabric to my brow. If I wasn’t dizzy before, I am now.

I take a deep breath and try to shake off the heat rising up my body, but it’s hard to ignore how the world feels slightly off-kilter. “I think I need to . . .”

Before I can finish the thought, Atlas eases me to the ground.

“Let’s pack up,” he says, voice soft but firm, his eyes flicking back to mine. “I’m not taking any chances with you.”

“Yeah, all right,” I relent, my stomach lurching. “That’s probably a good idea.”

“Don’t move. And keep this on your cut.” His gaze lingers on me, making sure I’m steady before turning to grab my pack. “Where’s your first aid kit?”

“What makes you so sure I have one?” My attempts to sound playful are foiled by the pain in my voice.

He gives me a blank stare, unzipping the small outside pocket where I keep it for easy access.

He spins back to me, his lips pressed into a thin line. Fingers gently wrap around my wrist as he pulls the wrecked shirt from my face.

To his credit, he keeps his expression neutral as his finger prods the skin around my cut.

He presses into a painful spot and a whine slips out before I can stop it.

Remorse flashes across his features. “Sorry. This should get stitches.”

“Butterfly it and take me home, Doc.”

“Harlowe.” He searches my face for a way to convince me.

“Butterfly,” I assert.