Page 45 of Fool Me

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 wearingyour 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.

CHAPTER

FOURTEEN

HARLOWE

“Does this make us ladies who lunch?” Aspen asks as she passes the tube of peanut butter to Sloane, who squeezes some on to the homemade tortillas Tessa made.

Tessa’s antsy, coming off a gold medal at Worlds in Switzerland and trying to settle into the slow, but no less demanding pace of summer training. At this point, I think she’s counting the minutes until she leaves in four weeks for Chile, where she can get some snow under her feet again.

But in the meantime, she works out, naps, and bakes. We benefit from the latter because she might be a professional athlete that consumes more calories than the average person, but she’s still just a girl with eyes bigger than her stomach and too much time on her hands.

“Dirtbag Divas eating trail-side bananas and peanut butter rolls was most definitely not what was in mind when that phrase was coined,” Sloane says, biting the top off her banana in one hand and chasing it with a bite of her tortilla.

“But can you really be sure about that?” I tease.

Sloane grew up on the east coast—Boston, if the accent she tries to hide is any sign. Not that she would confirm that. She’s incredibly tight-lipped about her past, but if you pay attention,you pick up on things. She only showed up with her car and what it could carry, but her jeans and jackets are all designer. Wherever she came from, she had money. Whether she still does is a mystery and, frankly, none of my business. As long as she’s happy and healthy, we let her keep her secrets.

“With about ninety-eight percent certainty.”

“If this isn’t what they meant, I don’t want the distinction,” Tessa says, tilting her face up to the sun where she leans against a boulder, her second peanut butter wrap and bag of cashews resting on her knee.

“How are things with Atlas?” Sloane asks, kicking her legs out in front of her and stretching them where she sits on a downed log.

I fill my mouth with a bite, my gaze glued to the twin lakes decorating the landscape of the valley below us. The food in my mouth becomes a thick paste as the nerves that were easier to ignore when we were breathing hard, hiking up this mountain, make themselves known.

Swallowing down the dry snack we packed for lunch proves hard and I duck my head and suck the water through the straw at my shoulder. What if they tell me this is a terrible idea? What if they’re mad because I didn’t tell them right away? I’ve let them think it’s real like the rest of the town for the last two weeks.

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