Chapter 12 #2
After a few seconds, my phone buzzes with a text. I glance down to see it’s from Storee, just as Atlas pulls his phone out as well.
Storee: Sorry to do this to you, but Flo blew right through her pants, and I forgot to pack a spare set of clothes. Mom brain. She’s currently wrapped in a blanket on the bottom half. We have to head home. But have fun. It’s exciting to watch.
Crap.
Seriously?
What are the chances?
I let out a sigh just as Atlas pockets his phone.
“Assuming you just got the same text,” he says, seeming none too thrilled.
“Florence needs new pants?” I ask.
“Yup.”
“Pardon me,” an elderly man says on the stairs next to Atlas. “Are those seats taken? My wife and I’d love to sit down.”
“Oh, sure,” Atlas says as he scoots down the bleacher, sliding right next to me. “Do you need help? Want me to take your bag for you while you get settled?”
“That would be wonderful,” the shaky elderly man says as he hands Atlas what seems to be a small cooler. The man and his wife get settled, and then Atlas hands them their bag.
“You all set?” Atlas asks.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“I’m Atlas,” he says, introducing himself. “And this is Betty.”
What is happening?
Don’t introduce me.
The old man leans forward and waves. “Nice to meet you. I’m Frank, and this is my wife, Leslie. We drove up from Idaho Springs for the competition.”
“Oh, I love Idaho Springs,” Atlas says. “Beau Jo’s pizza is so good. That mountain pie with the honey to dip the crust in. So good.”
“Our favorite place to have a date,” Frank says. “Do you two go there often?”
“Oh, we’re not . . . we’re not together,” I say, waving my hand between Atlas and me.
“You’re not?” Frank asks with confusion. “Oh, I would have surely thought you were. Friends then.”
“Nah, more like enemies, Frank,” Atlas says with a gentle nudge of his shoulder. “Our friends had to leave, which left us here together, alone. What are the odds?”
Apparently, pretty high.
“Oh, what makes you enemies, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Atlas shifts his large body. “Oh, you know, just can’t seem to agree on the same things. Nothing too serious.”
Wait, what?
He’s not . . . he’s not going to throw me under the bus? Tell these strangers that I’m attempting to put together a rival farm next to his?
Given how I’ve interacted with him in the past, I would have assumed he would freely announce that to anyone.
I’m surprised he didn’t bring flyers with him to hand out to the people around us, stating what’s going on.
Asking for support. Maybe trying to rally some sort of backing on social media. Really getting the word out.
“Well, seems like you need to have more conversations.” Frank unzips his bag and hands us each a can of root beer. “Maybe this is something you can agree on.” He winks and then turns toward his wife, putting his arm around her and blocking us out.
“Pretty sure she prefers Pepsi,” Atlas says while rubbing his forehead.
“Huh?” Frank asks.
“Oh nothing. Thanks for the drink.”
Atlas then shifts in my direction with what little space we have and says, “I want to offer you this soda, but I fear what you might do with it. A two-liter bottle did damage, but a close-proximity chuck of an aluminum can very well might knock me out for good.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say, taking the can. “I wouldn’t do that in public.”
“Ah, so you only hurl soft beverages on your porch.”
“Correct.” I fumble with opening the can, probably because of my nerves. And to my surprise, he hands me his open can before gently taking mine. “Umm . . . thanks.”
“No problem,” he says softly and then takes a sip. “Can’t remember the last time I had a root beer. I was always a cream soda kind of guy growing up.”
“Pepsi girl,” I say.
“Really?” he says sarcastically. “Wow, that comes as a big shock to me.”
I hate that I chuckle, because I’m not supposed to be charmed by him, and yet in the coffee shop and here, he’s been able to make me smirk . . . even chuckle. God, what would Uncle Dwight say if he saw me talking to the enemy? He’d probably be as confused as I am and then disown me.
I take a sip of my drink and watch the people on the gym floor, running around, pulling ingredients from the “pantry,” and going back to their stations. It’s like watching Chopped but for baking . . . in a small-town Christmas competition.
“This gym is big,” I say awkwardly, really unsure of what else to say to fill the silence.
“Yeah, a movie was actually filmed here, and they built an entire home inside the space. It was a big deal.”
“Really? When?”
“Back in the nineties. Some Christmas film. They did the inside stuff here and then filmed around town. Can’t remember the title though. I don’t think it was much of a hit.”
“Oh . . . interesting.”
I purse my lips, looking around, trying to picture a house being built inside this space. My brain can’t compute.
And after a few minutes of tense silence, silence that I can’t take, I ask, “Were you good at this? The fruitcake baking?”
“The first year, when I was helping Cole? No, but last year when I went at it on my own, I learned quickly what the judges liked, so I added pineapple to my fruitcake and used the base recipe that Storee has, and I ended up winning this round. The secret is mashed potatoes, and from the looks of it, no one paid attention last year.”
Mashed potatoes in fruitcake? Uh, that does not sound appetizing.
“Cole was part of the competition?” I ask, shocked. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would be a part of such a thing.
“Yeah, out of spite. That’s how he and Storee fell in love.”
“Oh right, Storee mentioned that. Said something about how you were the jolly helper or something.”
“Holly jolly sidekick,” he corrects. “Not all heroes wear capes, and let me tell you, in that tale, I was the hero wearing a pair of dog ears and shorts two sizes too small.”
“Wait? What?” I ask, turning toward him.
Smiling, he pulls his phone out of his pocket, and he pulls up his photos. It takes him a second, and then he flashes me a picture of him and Cole, both shirtless. Both dressed up.
Oh.
My.
God.
“We did a scene from The Grinch but then put a spin on it. Cole was the Grinch, and I was, appropriately, Max, his dog. Cole’s lederhosen were my idea.”
And what an idea.
I’ve seen my fair share of male bodies, but oh my God, Atlas is . . . He’s a giant. Enormous pecs positioned right above a full stack of abs, with such a deep V cut in his hips that I fear the shorts he’s wearing, even though small, might fall off.
And yes, those shorts are small. They’re so small that I can visually see just how big of a—gulp—package he has.
“That’s, uh . . . um, quite the outfit. I like the ears. Are those felt? Suede? If suede, they could shrink. Did you think about that? Shrinkage?”
I glance up at Atlas, who is beaming as he says, “Shrinkage in cold weather is always a concern, but I think I handled it well.”
“Oh God, I didn’t mean like . . . that kind of shrinkage.”
He chuckles.
“I meant fabric. Fabric on the ears, not the crotch. Wasn’t talking about the crotch area at all.”
“Neither was I.” He winks and then stuffs his phone away. “But if you want to go there, the shorts were incredibly uncomfortable, there was mild chafing, and afterward, I spent the day in pajama pants and nothing else, no underwear, just freeballing it.”
“Oh, nice.” I nod, unsure of how to react to such honesty other than begging my brain not to visualize it. “I like freeballing it. I mean . . . not that I have balls. Nope, I have a vagina.”
Oh my God, stop talking.
“Wow, you do? I have a penis,” he says. “What a small world. Although from the picture, you can tell there’s nothing small about my world . . . err, I mean, my . . . penis?”
I rub my forehead. Is this what happens when two rambling idiots decide to have small talk?
“So to sum it up, I have a penis, you have a vagina, and we’re aware of both things.”
“I think that is correct,” I say, looking for the emergency exit to throw myself out of.
Frank leans forward, joining in with a hand raised. “We have a penis and a vagina over here as well.”
Dear God in heaven.
Max
“So have you, uh . . . have you seen a Steller’s jay on the property yet?” My palms are sweating dangerously against the root beer’s metal sides, testing my grip strength. The last ten minutes have been torture.
Absolute torture.
Once we established the body parts we have—don’t get me started on that—for some reason, I asked if she had any moles. Because I told her I thought I had a mole on my thigh this morning, but it turned out to be some of the oatmeal I dropped while eating.
She told me she had no moles, but she has a birthmark on her inner thigh in the shape of a seahorse.
To which I replied, “Fascinating,” and then asked if it was a boy or a girl seahorse. She was unsure, so then I said maybe she’d show me sometime and I could be the judge. This caused her cheeks to flush, which made me think of what I said.
Then I backtracked and told her I didn’t want to peek in her pants. She said she didn’t want me peeking in her pants, and then Frank patted me on the shoulder and asked if I needed a lifesaver, because I was drowning.
When Storee set up this plan, I thought it would be easy. She gave Florence her favorite thing in the world, applesauce, which of course always makes her blow out her diaper. She purposely forgot the second outfit so Betty had to sit next to me. She set it up. Now I’m just crashing and burning.
For a second there, when I was showing her a shirtless picture of myself and I saw the way she took me all in, I thought I was wooing her successfully. I was giving her all the woo, but boy, did that quickly fail.
When I give Storee the recap, I’ll tell her Betty stared at my pecs and leave it at that. Can’t let her think a poop explosion went to waste.
“What is a Steller’s jay?” she asks.
“A bird that has a black head but a bright blue body. They’re really pretty.” Like your eyes. But I will not be saying that. Keep that to yourself, man.
“Oh, uh . . . no. I haven’t explored the property much.”
“You haven’t?” I ask, my brows turning down.
“Just a little with Uncle Dwight, but I’ve stayed pretty set in the cottage.”
“But don’t you think if you’re going to build this amazing farm, you should know more about the property?”
Don’t worry. I see where I’m going wrong here, picking a fight that I should not be picking.
But who says they’re going to put another person out of business without even knowing the land they’re planning to use? Makes no sense to me.
“The snow is a little much at the moment,” she says.
“Aren’t you from Colorado?”
“Yes, but I grew up in Fort Collins, where we don’t get as much snow as you get here up in the mountains. Do you ever leave Kringletown, or are you permanently fixed here, looking to break into innocent people’s cottages?”
My expression falls. Through a clenched jaw, I say, “I was not breaking in. I was merely taking a gander.”
“With a crowbar.”
Steadily, I reply, “Because of the murderous bears. How many times am I going to have to say that?”
“For life,” she answers. “For life.”
“Seems like a harsh punishment for a misunderstanding.”
“That was not a misunderstanding. That was you being a creep.”
“I wasn’t trying to be a creep,” I reply, exasperated.
“Uh-huh, and what if I was naked when you were peeking in?”
“You weren’t.”
“But what if I was?” she asks, turning toward me.
Rolling my eyes, because what-ifs never pan out well, I say, “I would’ve enjoyed the show,” before I can stop myself.
Her expression morphs into disgust. “Excuse me?”
Oh shit.
“Umm . . . what?” I ask, blinking.
“You said you would have enjoyed the show.”
Time to backpedal.
“What show?”
“The naked show.”
“Not sure what naked show you’re talking about,” I say, playing dumb.
“My naked show.”
“Are you inviting me to watch a naked show you’re putting on? Isn’t that a little brazen?”
Her brow contorts. “What? No. I wouldn’t want you seeing me naked.”
“Then why are you inviting me to see your show? And for the record, I wouldn’t want to see it either.”
Now she frowns, because that was an insult.
Uh . . . time to backpedal some more.
“I mean . . . I would want to see you naked, but only if you were offering to let me see you naked. I wouldn’t want to see it if you didn’t want me to see it. But if you were showing me out of free will, like you wanted me to see everything, I’d look.”
“You would look?” she asks.
“Yeah, I would look. Up and down. Take it all in. Every last inch.” My mouth goes dry. “But because you want me to.”
“I don’t want you to.”
“Great, because I don’t want to,” I say. “Unless you want me to . . .”
“What is even happening right now? I’m not going to be naked in front of you.”
“Great, because I wasn’t going to show you my nakedness either.”
“Ew, I don’t want to see you naked.”
Ew?
Ew??
Well, that’s fucking insulting.
She would be so lucky to see me naked.
“I have it on good authority that I have quite the body,” I say, chin lifted.
“Doesn’t mean I want to see it naked.”
“Why not? I see it naked every day, and I think to myself, Wow, I’m lucky.”
“You’re deranged.”
I clear my throat and look away, mumbling, “Yeah, well, you’re not much better.”