Page 81 of Fool Me

His head lifts and his expression shifts from blank to tempestuous. “Not exactly.”

Curiosity gets the best of me and I join him at the front of the couch. Where I expect to find a pull-out bed, I find nothing but some dust bunnies the twins missed and the sad-looking metal frame that’s missing a mattress.

“Well, considering the twins were the last to use this space, I’m not surprised to find something amiss. Even so, I have questions.”

“So, I guess I’m not sleeping there.”

I laugh and his brows pull together.

“Looks like we’re having a slumber party.” He’s adorably confounded by this turn of events, so I add, “It’s not like we haven’t shared a bed before.”

The goosebumps on my arm from the cool breeze on my damp skin melt under the heated look he gives me as he drags his eyes over my body. “This is different—you know it, and I know it.”

The rough scrape of his voice is nearly my undoing. “Or is it exactly what it was always meant to be? I think that mattress being missing is divine intervention.”

“What are you saying?”

“To be very clear, even if that mattress hadn’t Houdini-ed, I wouldn’t want you to sleep on it. You belong in the bed, with me.” I make myself comfy on the edge of the bed, using the towel still clutched in my hand to soak up the water from the ends of my hair.

A breeze sweeps through the room making me shiver and Atlas’s jaw nearly comes unhinged. When I lift my arms to dry my roots, the drag of my light blue cotton top over my nipples registers. I bite my lip and glance down, already knowing what I’ll find.

Give me a trophy as the only participant in the Serra Brilhante first ever wet T-shirt contest because I’m the clear winner.

“Oops,” I mumble, not really sorry at all, because the starved look on Atlas’s face is bringing back a memory. One where he had me pinned to the couch and looked at me like I was the most enticing thing he’d ever seen.

He looks that way now, his eyes pinning me to the bed, making my body flush with heat from his intense gaze.

We’re both frozen in a stare off, each of us getting our fill. The desire to have him nearer is just as strong as the pull to drink him in. Atlas shirtless is a sight to behold. Last time, I wasn’t in the presence of mind to notice anything. He was simply a source of comfort.

Tonight, I’m committing every ridge and valley of his honed body to memory. I’d spent most of the summer looking at him as my partner in this ruse, but I’m sick of seeing him for anything less than the man he is—than what he could be, to me.

His hand flexes and releases at his side, making the veins on his forearms strain with each contraction. He shifts on his feet but doesn’t move from the spot, like he’s waiting for a formal invite.

Tossing the towel toward the empty hamper in the corner, I scoot up the bed, pulling back the covers and slipping my legs beneath the crisp sheets. Still, Atlas stands there, stoic and unmoving, like the statues at the Parthenon—just as devastatingly handsome as I imagine the Gods to be. “Come to bed.” My palm brushes a circle on the empty spot beside me.

In a moment of hesitation, his hand comes to the back of his neck, giving me a glimpse of that tattoo on his ribs. I still can’t make out what it is, and that’s a damn shame.

“You’re giving me a complex, Doc.”

CHAPTER

TWENTY-EIGHT

ATLAS

She’s fucking killing me and she’s enjoying every second as she pats the bed innocently, like I can’t see a mouthwatering outline of her tight nipples through her wet tank top.

I’m so twisted up by this woman. So much has happened between us in the last month that it feels like we’ve been playing this game for years. And now, she’s giving me that flirty smile, inviting me to lie next to her, and my body doesn’t know what the hell to do with that. It’s a war of wills between my head, my heart, and, well, the other head.

All of them want the same thing . . . her.

They might have differing opinions about how to go about that, but the end result is the same: us, together, in this bed, at the wedding tomorrow, and sure as hell when we get back to Timberline Peak. For the first time since we met, it feels like there’s nothing standing in the way of that.

Except me, and the fact that I’m still standing here like an idiot, looking at her instead of joining her in bed where she wants me. Victory tips her lips up in a smirk when I move, taking my place opposite her.

The bed, which looked plenty big earlier today, instantly feels undersized with her just a foot away. If she notices, she doesn’tlet on, instead shrinking the space as she props her head up on her hand and rolls to her side to face me.

Her fingers play idly with the sheet draped between us. It’s a simple nervous tick and I take some comfort in the fact that neither of us seems to know what to do or where to start.

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