Chapter 13 #2
I answer nervously, “Uh, the Honda, over there.”
Without another word, he pulls me toward my car and then brings me to the driver’s side before letting go of my hand. He glances over my shoulder, most likely looking for his brothers, and then I see him relax.
What was that about?
He drags his hand over his face and blows out a heavy breath. “I’m sorry. They’re idiots. I hope they didn’t say anything to offend you.”
“No . . . it was . . . it was fine.”
“Are you sure? Because I know how they can be. And Ansel held your hand longer—”
“Really, it’s fine,” I answer.
He nods and rests his hands on his hips. “Okay. You sure?”
“Positive.” I twist my hands together, unsure of what else to say as he stares down at me.
And I stare up at him.
Our eyes locked.
His chest falling up and down faster from his irritation.
My heart rapidly beating in my chest from the confusion I’m facing.
And then after a few seconds, he tugs on his hair and says, “Um, well, okay. I’ll let you go. Sorry about earlier and the yelling and the awkward conversation and just, fuck, everything. Sorry about everything.”
Thing I never expected to happen today: Atlas apologizing to me.
It doesn’t feel right, because in the grand scheme of things, did he really do anything wrong?
“You don’t need to apologize.” I thumb behind me. “I was a jerk back there too.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I was a bigger one. I made it weird by showing you a shirtless picture of myself.”
Wow, really going far back with the apology.
And to be honest, I didn’t mind the shirtless picture. I learned some things from that picture . . . so many things.
“It’s fine. The picture was fine.”
“It wasn’t,” he says.
“But it was.”
He looks me in the eyes. “Betty.”
“Atlas,” I say as his eyes don’t leave mine.
He wets his lips.
His hands fit into the front pockets of his jeans.
And as we stand there, staring at each other, a heavy tension starts to build between us.
My palms start to sweat, his gaze far too strong.
My brain fixates on just how attractive he is.
There is a slight curl to the ends of his chestnut brown hair.
It seems like he shaved, but it just grew right back into a thick scruff.
How he towers over me, his shoulders bulky with power, but he doesn’t have any resemblance of an intimidation factor.
Like he presents himself as someone not to mess with, but deep down, he’s just . . . he’s . . .
“Fuck,” he grumbles, looking away and then pulling on the back of his neck. He clears his throat, and when his gaze meets up with mine once more, he quietly says, “I . . . I feel all out of sorts around you.”
“What . . . what do you mean?” I ask.
He turns away, hands on his hips, truly looking like he’s in distress.
“I’m just . . . I’m having a hard time dealing with all this stuff.
” His eyes meet mine again. “I’m clearly not a fan of what you’re trying to do.
I think it’s wrong, I think it’s vindictive, and I don’t understand why you’re doing it, especially since you don’t really know me or my family, but .
. . Jesus Christ, Betty. I’m so fucking attracted to you that it’s . . . it’s fucking with my head.”
Oh.
That’s, um, that’s unexpected.
“And I don’t want my brothers near you, and I just sort of lost it back there, so I’m sorry.”
Doesn’t want his brothers near me?
Attracted to me?
Uh, that’s one way to catch me completely off guard.
Not sure how to really respond, I say, “It’s . . . it’s fine.”
“It’s not.” He blows out a frustrated breath. “Unlock your car.”
“Huh?”
“Just unlock your car.”
I reach for my keys in my purse and unlock my vehicle.
He opens the door for me and then gestures for me to get in. “Sorry that your day wasn’t what you expected.”
I take a seat in my car and say, “I’m . . . I’m sorry if I was rude back there.”
“You weren’t.”
But I was. “Your farm is—”
He shakes his head. “Don’t, okay? Just . . . let’s not go there.” Gripping the top of the door, he gently says, “Have a safe drive back.”
Then he shuts my door, leaving me alone in my car, feeling . . .
Confused.
Nervous.
Slightly turned on.
Flattered.
Guilty.
Pretty much a gauntlet of emotions.
Shaking the thoughts and feelings out of my head, I put the key in the ignition, turn it over, and when the car doesn’t start right away, I pause. Then I give it another turn. And another.
And another.
Noooo, not now.
I lean my head against the steering wheel just as there is a knock on my window, startling me. Of course, Atlas is standing there, hands in his pockets, so I open the door, and he asks, “Not starting?”
“No,” I answer. “Um, do you happen to know anyone I can call?”
“Yeah, I’ll shoot Kieran a text. He can come by and check it out.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and starts texting. And the irony is not lost on me how it’s so easy for someone like Atlas to text another person in town to help him out, whereas I have no ability to do that.
And once I start this project with Uncle Dwight, I won’t have that ability either—because everyone will be against us.
“He says he’s out on another trip right now and won’t be back for about an hour or so. Told me to send him a pic of the car, and he’ll come by a little later when he’s back in town. Does that work?”
“Um, sure. I should probably call for an Uber or something.”
The smallest of smirks plays on his lips. “Good luck. Not sure you’d be able to find one.” He stuffs his phone in his pocket. “Come with me. I’ll give you a ride back to your place.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that.”
“I’m headed that way anyway.” He nods. “Come on.”
“Um . . . okay.”
I grab my purse and get out of my car. He holds his hand out, and I take it, only for him to chuckle. “I was actually looking for your keys.”
“Oh my God,” I say, embarrassment washing over me. “Of course. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine. Simple mistake. Anyone could have made it.”
I hand him my keys, and he slips them under the driver’s seat and then shuts the door.
“You can take my hand now if you want.”
He holds his hand out, and it’s really tempting. Super tempting actually, because I remember how it felt when he held it, but I shake my head instead.
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?” He wiggles his eyebrows in a teasing way.
“Positive.”
“All right, then come this way.” He leads me toward a dark green truck, something that looks like it’s been restored and well taken care of over the years.
With tall tires and a boxier frame, it’s definitely something I could picture him in.
He walks over to the passenger side and opens the door for me.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say.
“I might not get along with you, but I’m still a gentleman . . . contrary to what your relative believes.”
It’s a low jab, but it seems to be a deserved one.
Once I’m in the truck, which took a hoist from me, I buckle up and wait for him to join. I take in the pristine interior. Clean, not a scrape or a scratch. Barely a speck of dirt. How does he keep it so clean working on a tree farm? I’d half expect the cab to be full of pine needles.
Though it does smell like a freshly cut tree, and if I were honest with myself, that’s the scent that Atlas carries around with him.
He gets in on his side, an easy step up for his size, buckles up, and then the truck roars to life. “You chilly?” he asks.
“A little,” I answer. So he turns on the heat for me and then twists the vents in my direction. “Thank you.”
Guilt consumes me.
Consumes me.
Because let’s review this. Minus the peeking-in-the-cabin thing, he’s been .
. . nice. He’s been cordial. He’s been helpful.
He’s been a little goofy. Maybe I’m missing something.
Or . . . he could be playing me. I don’t like to be that person, the cynic, because I like to think the glass is half-full all the time, but it’s hard not to consider the change of behavior as something strange.
But then there’s what he said moments ago too.
“I’m just . . . I’m having a hard time dealing with all this stuff.
I’m clearly not a fan of what you’re trying to do.
I think it’s wrong, I think it’s vindictive, and I don’t understand why you’re doing it, especially since you don’t really know me or my family, but .
. . Jesus Christ, Betty. I’m so fucking attracted to you that it’s . . . it’s fucking with my head.”
Ugh, I don’t know. He’s attracted to me? All six foot four of striking manliness attracted to, well, me? I’m not exactly unattractive, but I could imagine a man as good-looking as Atlas doesn’t have to look far for a woman to fall at his feet. Why am I thinking about this?
“Everything okay over there?” he asks as he pulls out onto the road.
“Oh yeah. Just thinking.”
“I know. You were muttering to yourself.”
“Oh my God, was I?”
He smirks and makes a right-hand turn. “Yeah, you were.”
“Did you hear what I was saying?”
“No, but were you thinking about me?”
“What? No, never. Why would I do that?”
He shrugs. “Just seemed like you were reflecting, but I could be wrong. Am I wrong?”
“I think you’re wrong.”
“Then I’m wrong.”
“Great, you’re wrong.” I nod, even though he’s right.
After a few seconds, he asks, “Then what were you thinking about?”
Crap.
Think of something quick.
Something that would make sense.
And something that would completely throw him off.
“Squirrels,” I answer. That’s the first thing that came to mind? He’s going to ask why.
“Squirrels?” he asks. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever thought about squirrels so hard that I started muttering. I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”
And there it is.
Saw it coming.
Here we go with the rambling.
“They’re . . . uh . . . they’re big bulkers.”
“That’s what you were thinking about? You were thinking about how they’re big bulkers.”
Make it make sense, Betty.