I Swear I Still Hate Him (Atlas Lawson) novel Chapter 167

Chapter 167

Emery’s POV

An emoji. Well, to be precise A freaking heart-eyes emoji.

Great.

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Because nothing says “I’m handling this like a mature adult” like my stepbrother reacting to my accidental lingerie photos like he just discovered dessert. Thinking was hurting my brain right now, so I did the only thing I could do.

I stopped thinking.

I let my thumbs move on their own like they were possessed by anic.

Me: This was an accident. Wrong chat. Please DELETE.

The message sent, and I swear my soul left my body and floated above me for a second like, Good luck down there.

I stared at the screen. Three dots appeared immediately. My stomach dropped. Was he literally sitting there waiting for me to respond? Of course he was. Because Atlas Lawson didn’t do anything halfway, not hockey, not flirting, not ruining my entire nervous system.

Atlas: An accident, huh.

I squeezed my eyes shut for half a second like I could undo time

Atlas: Collins… I opened my phone and forgot how to breathe.

My face went hot so fast it felt illegal. I pressed my free hand to my cheek like I could hold the blush in place.

Atlas: Next time warn me. I almost choked on my drink.

I made a noise somewhere between a squeak and a groan.

Me: ATLAS.

Just his name. All caps. Like that was going to stop the man.

It did not.

Atlas: Also… I’m keeping them.

My jaw dropped…wait did he just…I sat up so fast the blanket slid off my shoulder.

Me: YOU CAN’T JUST…

Before I could even finish the sentence, another message came in like he was enjoying my suffering.

Atlas: Sweet dreams Collins, and Thanks to you, I’m gonna get a good night’s sleep.

I froze. Like, actually froze, My eyes went wide. My mouth opend. No words came out. I just stared at the screen as if it might catch fire and save me. My face was definitely the shade of a tomato. Maybe a whole tomato farm. But you know what?

I’m not gonna care.

I’m not.

1/5

三

O

16:19 Mon, Mar 9

Chapter 167

M M

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I dropped my phone onto the bed like it offended me. Laid down like a dramatic corpse. Pulled the sheets up over my head like a child hiding from monsters. And I decided to go to bed. Like a mature, responsible twenty-nine-year-old woman.

Which I did.

For about one second.

Then I let out a muffled scream and started kicking my legs under the covers like I was having an exorcism.

Because what the hell?

What, The. Actual. hell?

I rolled onto my side, then onto my back, then onto my side again, like maybe if I spun enough, I’d land in a parallel universe where I didn’t send my stepbrother lingerie photos at 10 p.m. My face was still on fire. My heart wouldn’t calm down. My stomach felt like it was full of carbonated water and chaos. And the worst part?

Why the hell were the butterflies in my tummy throwing a whol damn party down there?

Like, excuse me, this is not romantic. This is a crisis.

But my body didn’t get the memo. My chest felt tight in that sweet, stupid way. My skin was buzzing. My brain kept replaying his texts like a broken record.

“I’m keeping them.”

“Too late.”

“Thanks to you, I’m gonna get a good night’s sleep.”

I buried my face in the pillow again and groaned.

“Oh my God,” I whispered, voice muffled. “I hate this man.”

But even as I said it, my stupid stomach fluttered again like it was applauding. And I knew, deep down, I wasn’t going to sleep. Not with my pride in pieces… And not with Atlas Lawson living rent-free in my head like he owned the place.

****

The next day went… suspiciously well. I had no shoot, which meant I was basically free for once. No call time. No heels. No Romano yelling “give me longing, baby!” every five seconds. Just me and my very unstructured day. I started it with cereal because that felt safe. Then, for reasons I still can’t explain, I convinced myself I could make pasta.

I could not.

What I made was a burnt, tragic little crime scene at the bottom of a pot. So I did what any self-respecting adult woman would do, I ordered takeout, ate it on the couch, and spent the rest of the afternoon buried in romance novels like my

life wasn’t a complete, mess.

Honestly? It was nice.

So nice that I almost forgot about the very embarrassing text exchange I had with Atlas. Almost. Actually, no-I deleted it from my brain. What text? Never happened. Didn’t exist. Fake news. But as the hours dragged on, curiosity started tapping me on the shoulder like an annoying little sibling. Then it starte poking harder. Then it won.

So now here I was, standing outside Atlas’s room, telling myself Which, for the record, did not make me a criminal. It made me.

Then I stopped.

2/5

was only curious. And maybe doing a little snooping. observant. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

O

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16:19 Mon, Mar 9

M M.

Chapter 167

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296 vouchers

“Wow,” I muttered under my breath.

His room was offensively clean. Like, insultingly clean. If there were a Guinness World Record for neatest man alive, Atlas would win and then alphabetize the certificate. The bed was made so perfectly I felt personally attacked. The pillows were fluffed. The blanket was smooth. Not one corner out of place. I stared at it for a second, suddenly very tempted to cannonball onto the middle just to see his face when he found out.

A smile tugged at my mouth as I pictured it, his jaw tightening, his eyes narrowing, that low “Emery…” like he was trying not to lose patience.

Cute…Annoyingly cute.

I moved farther into the room and headed toward the bookshelf by the wall. That man had arranged his books by color, except for the series, which he’d kept together. I leaned in, eyes scanning the titles.

Biography. Autobiography. Nonfiction. Fiction.

Naturally.

Because, of course, Atlas would organize his shelf like a tall, sexy librarian. You know the ones, shirtless with glasses and a loose the dangling off their bare chest, the ones you dream about and wish they could pin you over the shelves and fu…wait. My hand paused.

“No way.”

I pulled out one of my all-time favorite novels and held it up lik I’d uncovered state secrets. Then I spotted another. And another. And a freaking another.

I turned slowly, looking at the shelf like it had personally betrayed me. This was basically my bookshelf. Mine, if mine were cleaner and owned by a man with genes blessed by God and great shoulders.

I pressed my lips together, trying not to smile too hard…He has all my favorite books.

My stomach fluttered, and I shut that down immediately.

No.

Absolutely not. This meant nothing. Coincidence. That was all. I happened to have excellent taste. It wasn’t my fault Atlas apparently did too. Still… my fingers lingered on the spines a second longer before I slid them back in place.

Then something lower on the shelf caught my eye. I crouched and pulled them out.

Magazines… My magazines. My older features, too. Not just the recent ones. Some from the early days, before the bigger campaigns, before the polished shoots and the fame. I blinked a the stack in my hands.

“How the hell…” I whispered.

I sat back on my heels and flipped one open. There, on the first page, was my signature. I checked another one. Same thing. Every single one signed.

My cheeks warmed so fast I could feel it.

The butterflies? Oh, they were no longer behaving. They were throwing a full festival in my stomach with music and fireworks and no respect for my peace,

I stared at the pages for a second too long, then snapped them shut like they were dangerous,

“This means nothing,” I told the empty room.

3/5

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III

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