I Swear I Still Hate Him (Atlas Lawson) novel Chapter 140

Chapter 140

Emery’s POV

Atlas wiped his face with his hand, blinking once, then he started laughing like he’d been waiting his whole life for that moment.

“S-stop laughing,” I choked, mortified, my cheeks burning so ho I was pretty sure my face was about to set off the smoke alarm.

“I’m joking, Em.” He tried to rein it in. He failed. “Gosh, you should’ve seen your face.”

I narrowed my eyes, offended and still dying inside. “Ha ha Hilarious.”

I shoved my chair back and stood, snatching a towel off the counter like I had business. Like I wasn’t just looking for somewhere to put my hands. I marched over to him. He stayed seated, still smiling, completely relaxed. Which was unfair. Because I was not relaxed. I was one heartbeat away from either creaming or kissing him, and I didn’t like that those were the only two options my body seemed interested in.

Without thinking, I stepped between his knees and started wiping his chest.

“Look at the mess you caused,” I muttered, scrubbing harder than necessary. “I should’ve poured the soup on your face too.”

He chuckled, the sound low in his throat. “You looked like you saw a ghost.”

“You don’t joke ab…”

The words died in my mouth. Because I realized where I was.

Between his legs.

Close enough I brushed his thighs…Close enough that his warmth was everywhere. My breath hitched. My hand froze mid- wipe. I lifted my gaze.

His gray eyes were already on mine, steady, quiet, unreadable in that way that made my stomach flip. He gave the smallest smile. Not teasing this time. Not playful. Something softer. Something that made my pulse stutter. And then his hands moved.

One slid over my wrist, gentle, but firm. Stopping me. The other came over my hand, covering it, guiding the towel in a slow, controlled motion against his chest like he was teaching me something. Like he had all the time in the world. Like he wasn’t also holding himself back.

My throat went dry. I swallowed, but it didn’t help.

How could a simple touch feel so intimate and hot?

“There,” Atlas said, voice quiet, rough around the edges. “All clean.”

I couldn’t move. I should’ve stepped away. I should’ve laughed. Made a joke. Broken the moment. But my legs felt glued to the floor, and my chest felt tight, and all I could think was that I wanted more. More of his hands. More of his voice. More of…

No.

I jerked back like the air had burned me, clearing my throat so hard it almost hurt.

“Thanks for the… um… hangover soup,” I said quickly, forcing words out. “It… really kicks in fast.”

Atlas’s smile stayed. But it didn’t reach his eyes. And the second saw that…saw the flicker of something like hurt, my own chest tightened.

“Yeah,” he said as he stood and grabbed the bowl, and started clearing the table like he needed something to do with his hands.

To escape.

I hated that I noticed.

“I… I can help,” I offered, already stepping toward the sink because standing still in that kitchen felt like standing too close to a fire.

“It’s fine,” he said, not looking at me.

Ouch.

The tension slid back into place like it had never left, tight, sharp familiar.

I swallowed. “I should get going.”

Atlas gave one small nod, still focused on the dishes like they were the most interesting thing he’d seen in ten years.

I turned toward the hallway, then stopped.

“Right. My dress.”

We ended up back in his room in awkward silence, like two people tiptoeing around a landmine. My emerald dress was draped over the chair where Atlas must have dropped it, after my drunk ass left it on the floor. I bent to pick the dress up…

“Wait.” Atlas’s voice stopped me.

I glanced over my shoulder.

He disappeared into his closet and came out holding a pair of gray sweatshorts. The kind that screamed comfortable and male and smells like him.

He held them out to me.

“Wear these,” he said. “You’ll be more comfortable. I’ll get your dress cleaned and bring it to you.”

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