Page 51 of Fool Me

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.”

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