Page 59 of Fool Me

He misses his family. Maybe not his brother, but his parents . . . this community. He wants friends here—one of my best friend’s husband’s—and if I fuck this up by catching feelings for my fake boyfriend, we’re both going to lose.

I’ve already got one Kane brother in town I’m trying to avoid. There’s about a zero percent chance we can make this work with both our pasts, and I don’t need to spend my days dodging him, especially if he and Denver rekindle their friendship. It’ll make things so fucking awkward. Both of us will be the adults we are and pretend it doesn’t bother us, but the dynamic will change no matter how hard we try to be cool.

This fake relationship is all we can have, and I need to remember that.

Gingerly, I wash my face careful to keep my bandage dry. It’s really just a quick rinse to get the grime off. Any serious maintenance will have to wait until my gash has had time to start healing.

We have two more weeks until we go to California together for Vivienne’s wedding and by the time we get back I should be almost through with the interview process. One more month, maybe a little longer, and we can amicably split on good terms.

It’s fine. I can handle this.

And I’m almost convinced that’s true as I rinse my face. Then there’s a knock at the door.

“You okay in there?”

I sigh and I’m right back at square one, because he cares enough to check. I really am just a girl who wants to be taken care of by a man whowantsto be there.

“Almost done. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Take your time. I need about five more minutes to finish up.”

After rinsing my body, I step out of the shower and reach for my towel. I sit on the toilet to dry off because, honestly, bending just makes my head pound.

“Shit,” I mutter when I scoop my clothes off the ground, only now realizing that I don’t have anything to change into and Atlas is right outside this door. There’s no avoiding him.

Slowly, I pull open the door, peeking out. He’s leaning against my counter, facing the door as he scrolls his phone.

Unlike the other day when I spilled ice cream on my shorts, I don’t ask him to turn around, and he doesn’t move a muscle. My pep talk in the shower vanishes into thin air with his heated stare lighting up every inch of my skin.

“I forgot to grab clothes. So . . . I’m just going to go do that.” Only, my feet don’t move. I’m too frozen by watching him watch me, stuck to the floor of my kitchen as his jaw flexes, and his hands find the counter behind him, knuckles blanching like he’s holding on to the island for dear life.

“Harlowe.” My name drags from his throat. It’s a croak filled with so much pained restraint that I tighten my hold on the towel before I take the first step toward the stairs leading to the loft. Taking the stairs as quickly as I can, I drop to the end of my bed, my heart pounding wildly.

There’s no door, no privacy. He could move ten feet to the left and see everything. Part of me wants him to take things out of my hands and push us over this line we’re straddling.

I lie back on my bed, letting go of my towel. With my eyes closed, it’s too easy to imagine him standing at the end of mybed when I open them. A breeze from the window I left open earlier caresses my sensitive skin, making my nipples tighten to twin peaks, because, in the fantasy playing out behind my closed eyelids, it’s his warm breath. I count backwards from three in my head, letting myself enjoy the possibility.

Three . . . Two . . . One . . .

Clinking of metal just below me lurches me back to reality and I open my eyes.

Alone.

I sit up, leaving my towel on the bed and pull open the drawer under my bed a little angrily, almost taking my toenail off in the process.

Am I really mad at him for not invading my space, for not steamrolling my boundaries? No, I’m mad at myself for wanting him like this and believing in the possibility when I know how stupid it is.

Grabbing a comfy pair of underwear, cotton shorts, and a crop top, I get dressed before heading back downstairs. Once again, I’m assaulted by the audacity of my own desires when I find Atas plating our meals. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’d spent time here before with how at home he looks in my space. Other than his large frame taking up what feels like all the available space in the kitchen, it’s just as easy to imagine as the fantasy from the loft.

The warm smell of ginger wraps around me and I sink down on a stool, less apprehensive, less frustrated. Because how can I be when he’s . . . him.

“That smells like heaven.”

“Did you doubt me?” He sets both plates down and takes the stool next to me.

“Honestly, yes.” Canyon and I only ever ate take-out together. And even after months of being together, sleepoverswere nonexistent. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he survived on toaster strudels and grilled cheese alone.

“Let me guess. He didn’t cook.”

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