Page 31 of Fool Me

TEN

HARLOWE

Rock climbing uses muscles in a way that’s hard to replicate in the gym, and my body is letting me know it. My forearms and lats burn at just the thought of picking up my curling iron. And after the training session earlier today, the wedges I’m slipping on my feet might be the death of me considering my quads and calves are still Jell-O. But Atlas and I have reservations at The Game Room, the only steakhouse in Timberline Peak, and if there’s one thing that sounds better than a warm bath and a glass of wine, it’s food I don’t have to cook.

With one last look in the mirror, I smooth down the dress I bought in California last year while shopping with Vivi. It’s the first time I’ve found a reason to wear it since HarvestFest at her family’s vineyard, and I have to say it’s a damn shame I don’t get dressed up more.

The long white fabric has flowers the same shade of baby blue as Phantom. It’s long enough to flatter my tall, muscular frame, while cute and comfortable, too. Perfect for a first date.

It’s not lost on me that I never dressed up like this for my date’s brother. That would have required him to actually take me on a nice date. Our relationship was more Netflix and chill, or group outings with his friends.

There’s giddy excitement bubbling under my skin at the idea of being treated to an actual date, even if I plan to split the bill with the good doctor. This is an equitable fake relationship, after all.

Still, feeling important enough to show off is a welcome change. Altas could have suggested a drink at Jude’s or pizza at Gondoughla—a quick, cheap solution to being seen together—but he didn’t.

Echo jumps from his bed at the knock on my door and follows me through the small living room.

When I open the door, I’m greeted by Atlas, dragging a hand over the dark stubble peppering his square jaw. It’s alarming how he seems to get better looking each time I see him. Tonight, he’s wearing a plaid button up with rusty red tones that perfectly complement his sun-bronzed skin and the dark wash jeans hugging his thighs. I can see why he’s a fan of the earthy tones, they certainly do things for him—playing off his messy brown hair and amber eyes. The doctor looks rugged and right at home in Wyoming.

“Sorry, I’m late. My donkey was being a shithead about her dinner tonight.”

I’m sorry, what?

I stand there, dumbstruck and waiting for the punchline. “Oh! You’re serious. You actually have a donkey?”

Atlas’s gaze drips over me like sweet honey before his lips rub together and he says, “I onlykindof have a donkey.”

“Having a donkey feels like an all-or-nothing kind of situation.”

“It’s Ray’s donkey; she came with the house and the clinic. I take care of her because moving her to a beachside condo wasn’t an option, but I’m not sure we’re getting along well enough that she’d claim me . . . and, well, the feeling is mutual.”

“Oh!” I exclaim. I’d heard about Muley, but I hadn’t given much through to what happened to her when the prior vet relocated. “Another member of the ‘I Hate Canyon Kane Club’ and a reluctant donkey owner. You get more interesting every time I see you, Doc.” I step back, letting him into the living room of my tiny house.

“Let’s see if you still think that once you meet her.” His eyes sweep over every corner of the space, but not in the judgmental way that some people do. He seems almost . . . appreciative. “This place really fits you. It’s cozy, welcoming . . . cute.”

I pout.

He tilts his head to the side, his eyes finding the vinyl records hanging on my wall in place of art. “What? Was it the ‘cute’?”

“Kind of. Cute feels like a brush-off. It’s something people say when things are infantile or simple,” I explain.

“And you are neither.”

“No. I’m not.”

He steps toward the wall, studying the collection of records—the labels all different colors. “You know what I like about it? It’s unique, but it’s not just one thing. It’s varied . . . like you. The purple is feminine and bold. Looking around, I can tell the space is functional, but it’s still warm. It’s small, but it feels like home.”

“I’m hardly small at five-nine.” Yet, in my wedges, I’m still shorter than him—not something that happens to me often.

“Maybe not, but I happen to like that you’re taller. And I’ve seen those muscles; those aren’t just for show.” The back of his fingers brush a whisper of a touch over the curve of my bicep. “There’s more to you than meets the eye.”

I outwardly shiver and consider grabbing a cardigan as a cover, but Atlas holds my eyes, like he can see through all my bullshit. Most guys I’ve dated sulked when I wore something that made my height even more noticeable. I’ve been calledintimidating sometimes because of my body, and sometimes because of personality, but Atlas seems to embrace all of it.

“And just when I think I’ve got something about you figured out, you surprise me. Classic rock, not country or pop.” He points to the albums, dropping his hand and his gaze as he turns back toward the wall.

“My dad got me hooked on rock, same with my International Harvester Scout.”

The grin he shoots me over his shoulder would have me sweating right through that cardigan if I’d have grabbed it. “You’re not what I expected.”

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