Page 49 of Fool Me (Timberline Peak #1)
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX
HARLOWE
Tessa has been back from Chile for three days, and it took exactly one of them for Drake to sign up for the bake-off, surprising everyone.
Now, they were two tables apart and refusing to look at each other like they hadn’t just spent a week as teammates sharing the podium and insults in equal measure.
“The tension in here is thicker than the frosting Drake’s piping on his cupcakes,” I say, watching Tessa flick powdered sugar over her tartlets with surgical precision.
Aspen and Sloane are working, but Briar and Denver are here showing their support for Tessa and Drake at Founder’s Day. The four of us stand under the tent, mesmerized by the spectacle unfolding.
Atlas hands me a coffee. “I think if you put them in a room unsupervised with an oven, only one of them would make it out.”
“Drake’s cupcakes might spontaneously combust with the way he’s glaring at them,” Briar adds from next to me.
“Wouldn’t be the first time something he touched went up in flames,” I deadpan.
“Ouch, that was harsh,” Denver says.
Atlas wraps his arms around me from behind, chuckling in my hair.
“Sorry, I’m Team Tessa.”
“Yeah, and so is the rest of the world.” Denver has a point, but still, she’s my friend and I will stand with her in solidarity.
Even if I’m not one hundred percent sure what we’re standing for at the moment.
The animosity between them has escalated to an all-time high since coming back from training.
Tessa is focused, with her jaw set like she’s in the middle of a run for gold.
Across the tent, Drake gives a sharp laugh at something one of the judges says. Tessa doesn’t flinch, but I see the way her hand pauses above her creations for a second.
Yeah, she’s still not over whatever went down between them in Chile.
“I feel bad for Marcy, and her hand pies stuck between them,” Atlas muses.
The giant timer counts down from ten and we join in with the rest of the crowded tent.
Jude, who managed to become a judge despite living off protein bars and cold brew, is sweating through his “Don’t Kiss the Cook” apron as he walks up and down the tables, surveying the results.
Mrs. Elwood, the town librarian and a bake-off purist, scribbles notes on her clipboard.
And Chef Martín, from the wine bar inside the Timberline Peak Lodge, keeps muttering things like “crumb integrity” and “flavor architecture.” The man seems to think this is a Food Network finale, not a small-town bake-off.
Tessa stands with her arms crossed, watching them taste her tartlets with the confidence of an decorated Olympian.
Marcy leans against her table with a smear of flour on her face, making the whole thing look far too easy.
And Drake is mean-mugging the judges, looking like he’d rather a sinkhole open up and swallow him whole than have to accept the vintage ceramic dish that was allegedly the founder’s pie plate.
Mrs. Elwood takes a second bite of one of Tessa’s tartlets and my eyes flick to Atlas’s.
“That’s a good sign, right?” I whisper.
He sips his coffee. “Or she’s just hungry because she skipped breakfast to finish her crossword.”
Mrs. Elwood steps back and clears her throat. “Thank you all for your entries. It was a close race to claim first prize and the distinction that goes with it.”
The crowd quiets.
“In third place,” she continues, “for the bold decision to use boxed cupcake mix with his grandma’s frosting recipe—god rest her soul—Drake Holt.”
Light applause erupts from the audience and Drake turns to leave, obviously done with the attention.
Tessa winces.
“In second,” she says, ignoring the departure, “with beautiful execution and nearly perfect presentation—Tessa Kennedy.”
We all hoop and holler, making Tessa blush.
“And in first place,” Mrs. Elwood says, a little smile twitching at the corner of her mouth, “for balance, creativity, and a hand pie I will be thinking about until the end of my days . . . Marcy Jensen.”
“Oh my god,” Marcy breathes, hands to her cheeks. “I thought the crust was too thick!”
Mrs. Elwood treats her to a rare smile. “It had presence.”
Marcy blinks, then bursts into a startled laugh, already half running to accept the pie plate.
I clap along with everyone else, grinning as Atlas leans in and whispers, “Honestly? I liked the hand pie the best too.”
“Me too,” Denver says. “I had to fight a toddler for the last one. Worth it.”
Marcy stands in the center of the tent, cradling her pie plate—definitely a reproduction—with the reverence of someone holding a dish blessed by Julia Child.
Atlas leans close, lifting the brim of his hat to brush his lips across my temple.
I’d laughed when he came out wearing it this morning, not thinking he’d dress to match the theme of the day.
But he’s taking his role as a parade judge seriously.
I think the fact that he was asked to help healed something in him.
It gave him a belonging here beyond his parents, the clinic, or me.
Like maybe the town doesn’t care as much about his past as he does.
“I should probably get moving so I can make it to the judging table before the parade starts,” he says with a resigned exhale.
“Yeah, I’m on medic duty for the Packhorse Parade. I have to take Echo and head to the first aid tent.”
“I’ll come find you after. We’ll do the Glow-in-the-Dark-Chairlift ride together like we planned.”
He pulls me back to him for a final goodbye kiss, and my stomach flutters. Knowing that this is real and that he’s mine hasn’t gotten old.
“Later, then,” I say, forcing the words out like I’m not desperate to stay in his orbit a little longer.
He steps back, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I’m going this way.”
Tessa steps off the stage, and I give her a squeeze. “Are you going to tell me why Drake was in the bake-off?”
“He lost a bet,” she says with a shrug.
The Packhorse Parade is peak Founder’s Day—nostalgia, chaos, and completely charming.
Horses, mules, and even a llama from Thistle & Thread are decked out in vintage trail gear as they trot past storefronts lined with families.
Kids already hopped up on sugar, clutch candy tossed from saddlebags in their fists, their sticky faces stretched in smiles.
Echo marches next to me like he owns the town as we walk the route, keeping an eye out for anything that needs our attention. When we near the park, where the parade ends, I lean against one of the picnic tables at Powderline Donuts and watch it all for a minute.
I can see the back of the judging tent for the Packhorse Parade in the distance and I’ll make my way down there soon, but Atlas still has to finish up his responsibilities, so I have time.
Echo whines at my feet, and I reach into my pocket to grab his bag of treats, rewarding his hard work on the parade route.
“So spoiled,” I tell him, patting his side.
I spent most of the route laughing, leaving my cheeks sore from smiling. But now, watching couples and families pose with their mules, something warmer spreads through my chest as I look on.
Next year, I want to enter with Atlas. And the year after that. And the one after that.
I can already see it clearly: Altas walking beside Muley, with ridiculous matching outfits that he only wore to make me smile.
Then, somewhere in the future, him beside me while our son or daughter rides Muley, and we all walk together.
A future that has nothing to do with our past—stitched together by us alone, overflowing with love and laughter and more adventures together.
It hits me hard and all at once, knocking me off-center. I’m not just falling for him. I want to build something with him. I want more days like today, like the Fourth of July, like the wedding and everything in between.
And suddenly, I can’t sit still.
I push off the picnic table, calling Echo to follow, my heart thudding faster than it should. I don’t know what I’m going to say, but I have to tell him.
About the parade next year—about all of it. That I love all of him, even the messy parts that come with Canyon-shaped shadows. That I want to fight those shadows together, because I can’t go back to a life without him.
I move through the crowd, dodging kids with balloon animals shaped like moose and people snapping pictures in front of the gazebo.
When I get to the judging tent, it’s empty. They must’ve handed out awards for the best costume already. If that’s the case, Atlas would’ve started walking back to find me. I turn and head toward the Sloped Spine to track him down.
Scanning the crowd as I walk, I smile at people, but don’t stop to talk. My body is buzzing with energy, and the longer I look, the louder it seems to get.
A brown, well-worn cowboy hat with a white band catches my eye in the sea of them.
My pace picks up, and Echo sticks to my side. Altas is standing with his back to me, under the General Store overhang, talking to someone.
Canyon stands in front of him, and Atlas has a hand on his brother’s shoulder.
A smile I’ve seen so many times stretches across Canyon’s lips.
It’s nothing like the one he gave me yesterday, it’s the fun one that made me trust him.
Canyon pulls him forward by his shoulder for a hug.
Altas is stiff, but his arms wrap around his brother for a second before easing him away, holding him by both biceps and continuing their conversation.
Watching this from a distance feels like an intrusion, and interrupting is not an option, even though I have a hundred questions rattling around in my head right now.
Slipping away, I duck into the narrow alley behind Peaks & Petals, and drop Echo at Sloane’s downtown apartment like we’d planned, so I don’t have to run him home before the night’s festivities. Then I text Atlas to meet me at Jude’s before our chairlift ride.
It will all be fine.